“Abigail?” called a voice. “Is that you?”
“M-Mom?!” Abigail called back. Her cheeks had grown pale, and her eyes were wide as dinner plates. “Wh-what are you doing up this early?”
“Oh, I had a late night at the brothel, dear,” the voice replied. “I was planning to make myself something to eat and head to bed, actually. But what are you doing here? Don’t you have work, today? You didn’t get fired, did you, dear?” The owner of the voice came into view with that question, stepping out of what I assumed to be the kitchen and peering curiously at us. She had long, wavy brown hair cascading down to her waist and pitch black eyes. She was well endowed, much more so than Abigail, with breasts you could bury your face in. Probably a D-36, about, if I had to guess? Her ass was pretty big, too, more than big enough to fill the average person’s palms. She was wearing a backless red halter top, and a black skirt. She looked to be in her late twenties, or maybe early thirties, but judging by her conversation with Abigail I doubted that either was actually the case. Judging by the black leathery wings that stretched out behind her, she was a lesser succubus like Abigail. That meant her lifespan was almost as long as… Well, mine, I supposed.
“I didn’t get fired, Mom,” Abigail promised, scowling a little. “I… I got told the queen didn’t need me today. And then I ran into my friend Eena, who’d. Been uh. Begging me for lessons on how to cook. So we came back here to make some porridge, and-”
“Porridge?” Abigail’s mother asked. “You’re going to teach your friend how to cook porridge? I can’t imagine she doesn’t know at least *that* – wouldn’t you be better off teaching her something like your onion soup?”
“We’re going to start with porridge, mom,” Abigail insisted. “Trust me, Eena will have a hard enough time with that.”
“Really now?” The mother’s eyes were on me, now. Just like when her daughter stared, her eyes seemed to see straight into my soul. “You can’t even cook porridge?”
“I’m afraid not, Mrs…?”
“Bevola,” she told me with a smile. “Just Bevola. I don’t have anything so fancy as a last name, I’m afraid. And I’m not married, besides.”
“Bevola, then,” I said, wondering whether I should drop into a curtsy. It was technically a big deal for the queen to even so much as lower her head, but I was pretending to be a commoner right then. She might think me rude if I didn’t… Then again, the disguise had mostly been for the sake of getting through the city. It was probably best to at least let my host know of my true identity. “I fear I must apologize, though, for a small deception. You see, I’m actually-”
“Very hungry!” Abigail interrupted, digging her nails lightly into my palm. “She’s incredibly hungry, and she’s been trying to hide it ‘cause… You know. Rude, much? But I guess I’ve kept her waiting long enough. Porridge time, right *Eena?*”
“…Yes.” I nodded, slowly, understanding what she wanted from me. I could even guess why she wanted it. Meeting that rabbit girl had driven home how people saw me. Including Abigail, no matter how much I wished that wasn’t the case.
“I will make delicious porridge,” I vowed, turning my attention back to Bevola. “So may I ask that you please wait for sustenance until you can consume it alongside us?”
“My, someone’s quite the flirt,” Bevola teased, letting out a high pitched giggle. “And such formal language, too. Did you pick that up working as a maid? Or perhaps my girl made friends with the daughter of a general, or some such?”
“Today I am simply Eena,” I replied, sidestepping the question with a small smile. “A simple girl, with a simple wish: to learn how to cook. Since your daughter is being kind enough to teach me, the least I can do is feed you after, yes?”
“Well don’t go burning the porridge, in that case, you hear?” Bevola responded. “I’m hoping to eat something delicious, today, after that little speech of yours.”
“You have my word.” I bowed my head, ever so slightly, trying to strike a balance between who I was and who I was pretending to be. “Now – I believe the kitchen is this way?” I started walking toward the room Bevola had left behind. Abigail, still holding my hand, had little choice but to follow. Once we were in the kitchen, however, I grabbed her wrist and forcefully took my hand from hers. It had started to feel rather less like the hand of friendship, and more like a parent’s grip of restraint on a wild child.
“So this is where the magic happens?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. It was indeed the kitchen we had entered, so far as I could tell. There were cupboards and cabinets on one wall, alongside counters and drawers. A basin was set into the counter. It had a drain, but no faucet, leading me to wonder where the water was coming from. There was a metal contraption in the corner that I assumed to be the stove. It was a square thing, standing on four thin legs, with a flat top and a door in front.
“Magic?” Her brow wrinkled in confusion. “It’s. Where we do the cooking? I mean, I guess you’re technically doing magic right now, but usually it’s more about. Like. Chopping and heating things?”
“…Of course. How silly of me.” I didn’t feel like explaining the saying, so I simply let it go. “You said you would teach me how to make porridge, yes?”
“That’s right,” Abigail confirmed, opening one of the cupboards and pulling out a large iron pot. “It’s pretty simple, actually.” She moved to open a drawer, pulling out a long metal ladle. “You really need only one ingredient.”
“One?” I asked, honestly confused. Oats, of course, were the main ingredient of porridge. Water, however, was undoubtedly essential as well. I still wasn’t sure where she was going to get it, either.
“All you need to do is take a pot, like this one…” Abigail placed the black pot on the stovetop, and smacked it lightly with the spoon. “Then you grab some oats…” She moved to a cabinet, pulling out a big burlap sack. It seemed to be something of a struggle for her to lift, so I bent down and casually picked it up.
“How much do I add?” I questioned her, moving over to the pot.
“For three people? About four cups should be more than enough. …Though I guess you don’t know how much a cup is, just eying it, huh?”
I rolled my eyes. “I think I can manage…” And in went the oats. It wasn’t a precise measurement, of course, but it seemed close enough. “Now what? You said that was the only ingredient, yes? You can’t mean to say that you simply cook it like this…?”
“It’ll burn in an instant if you try,” Abigail promised me, a faint smile on her lips. “I meant it’s the only ingredient you need to have on hand. We conjure the water.” Saying so, Abigail held the palm of her hand out toward the pot. In response, a ball of water appeared, growing steadily bigger. When she had what I thought was close to a cup’s worth, she let the water drop into the pot, where it landed with a resounding splash.
“There,” Abigail said, with a smug smile on her lips, “…We’re gonna need to do that about nine more times, but since there’s really only so much water in the air it takes a bit of time to gather it all.”
Gather water from the air? Was she referring to moisture in the atmosphere? It was true that you’d find a bit of it, there, but the tower didn’t feel particularly humid so I couldn’t imagine there was too much of it. If I waited for her to make another nine cups like that, it was going to take a while… Then what if I used a different method?
“May I try filling it?” I asked her, stepping forward. I dropped the illusion I was wearing without asking for her response; I could always put it back.
“Huh? Uh. Sure. But it’ll still take a bit – like I said, there’s only so much water in the air…”
“Yes, that’s true,” I admitted, unperturbed. It was indeed a fact that one would find only so much moisture in the local atmosphere. But why did I have to restrict myself to what was local? Letting my power flow out of the room, and into the apartment as a whole, I drew water toward myself. Slowly, a ball of it began to form, growing bigger and bigger. When it was the required size, I let it drop into the container with a loud *splash*.
“How did you…?”
“Demon queen secret,” I replied, trying not to laugh. I’d really only used brute force to solve the problem, in the end, but I saw no reason to clue Abigail in on a feat she wouldn’t be able to repeat.
“Right… The Rite of Insight. I guess it really did give you the wisdom of your ancestors, didn’t it?” Abigail nodded to herself, seeming convinced. “Alright, well. Now that we have the water, we just need to set the fire…” She opened the door I’d noticed on the stove, revealing an empty space where wood would no doubt go. “There’s wood under that cabinet,” she said, indicating one near me. “Can you get some for me?”
“Of course,” I readily agreed, bending down to the cupboard and peering inside. There were four logs inside, and I grabbed the smallest one. “Though… wouldn’t it be better to simply create a magical flame for the duration of your cooking? It wouldn’t burn wood, and you would have better control of the temperature.”
“Most people don’t have enough magic power to cook an entire meal with it, Eena,” Abigail pointed out, sounding exasperated. “I don’t think I’d even be able to keep up an illusion spell like you were, earlier. And you should conserve whatever you have left for the road back.” She reached for the wood, as she spoke, but I pulled it back and tossed it back into the cupboard.
“Nonsense,” I told her. “I’m sure wood is expensive – and you are not giving my magic capacity the credit it is due, besides. Tell me when to stop growing the flame.”
I pictured an ember, floating in the space beneath the stove, and it appeared. Then, ignoring Abigail’s slackjaw stare, I began to slowly increase the size of the flames.
“Th-that’s enough!” Abigail called, quickly, once I had a ball of flame about twice the size of my fist. “That’s more than enough. Do you think you can keep it up for five minutes, or so? We need to let it boil, and then reduce the heat.”
“No problem,” I promised her, stepping closer to the pot so that I could peer inside. “I’m fairly certain I could keep this up for days.” Indeed, despite the last hour’s constant expenditure of magic, I couldn’t say I felt much of a dent in my magic power. I was either recovering my magic faster than I was using it, or I simply had an unimaginably large capacity. It was quite possibly a bit of both.
“Is everything going alright in there?” came Bevola’s familiar voice.
“M-Mom! We’re fine! Don’t come in!” Abigail called back. She sounded a touch panicked.
“Don’t come in? Now you’ve really got me curious,” Bevola teased. I could hear her footsteps coming closer. “You wouldn’t happen to be preparing something special for your old mother, would you dear?”
“I told you! I’m just teaching D-Eena how to make porridge!” Abigail insisted. “W-we haven’t even gotten it to a boil yet, so there’s no point in you coming in! Just take a nap or something!”
“I’ll nap when I want to, dear,” Bevola said, entering the kitchen. She walked up to the stove, standing besides me and peering curiously at the open door. “Why, you haven’t even put the wood in yet, have you?” she accused, frowning. “And you’re talking about bringing it to a boil… What’s wrong with you?” She moved over to the cupboard, pulling out a small log and carrying it back to the stove. This she dropped inside, and lit with a spell of her own. “There. Now it should start cooking properly,” she declared, closing the oven door.
“Honestly, my dear,” she added. Looking at me, “you should have had me teach you instead.”
“Maybe you can teach me my next recipe,” I said, with a faint smile on my lips. I had of course dropped the fire spell in order to restore the illusion from before.
“You drop by sometime when Abigail isn’t here, and I just might,” Bevola promised, trudging back out of the kitchen. “Now get along you two! I look forward to the food you cook.”
“A-Alright mom,” Abigail agreed. She waited until her mother had left the kitchen before sneaking a glance at me. “Thanks. For the quick thinking.”
“It’s hardly a problem,” I replied, cooly. “Though with the wood already burning, I’m afraid there’s not much I can do to put it out other than drenching it with water. If you’re alright with it, I’ll simply concentrate on managing the size of the fire.”
“That’s fine.”
I gave a small nod, and opened the door to the stove again so that I could focus on managing the flames. For a few moments, other than the sound of the crackling fire, the room was silent.
“….Your mother doesn’t like me, does she?” I phrased it as a question, but I was fairly certain I was right.
“Huh?” Abigail blinked, surprised. “No, she likes you fine. I mean, she’s been practically flirting with you since you got here, y’know?”
“The real me,” I corrected. “She does not like Queen Devilla. Does she?”
“Oh.” There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, during which Abigail looked at everything in the room except me. Then her eyes met mine and she spoke. “My other mother was a soldier, in your mom’s army. She died when I was a baby – fighting in the war.”
“And your mother blames me?”
“No. But…” Abigail let out a long, slow sigh. “She does think you’ve wasted mother’s sacrifice.”
“I see,” So that’s how it was. I couldn’t precisely say that Bevola was wrong. It was almost certainly my fault that demonkind hadn’t made any progress since the last war.
Without anything to say, on either side, an uncomfortable silence settled on the room. I did nothing but stare at the fire, keeping it controlled, while Abigail nervously poked the toe of one foot at the floor and glanced over her shoulder occasionally to see if her mother was coming back.
“Alright,” Abigail said, at last. “The water’s started to boil, so you should lower the heat down to about a fifth of where it’s at right now, and then start stirring the porridge.”
“You want *me* to be the one stirring it?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. It wasn’t as if I particularly minded; I simply thought that I’d tease her a little, to lighten the mood.
“Hey, you wanted to learn how to cook , right? You put in the oats, and most of the water, plus you’re controlling the flame. If you do the stirring, I’ll be willing to publicly state that you know how to make porridge.”
“And what would the tower think if they found that their powerful and bratty queen knew how to cook a commoner’s meal?” I demanded, placing my hands on my hips.
“Maybe that you’re not such a brat after all?” Abigail suggested. “Maybe they’ll even realize you’re… sort of… Not terrible to be around. Sometimes.”
“…My. Such words of praise, from my loyal maid. Careful or I’ll start to think you’re after a raise.” I held out a hand for the ladle, as I spoke, and Abigail handed it over with a blush on her cheeks.
Silence reigned again. The only difference from before was the clanking noise occasionally made by the ladle when it hit the pot. Despite that, I found the silence somehow more comfortable than before.
“I… never said ‘thank you.’ Did I?” Abigail asked, after a few minutes.
“For what?” I asked back, honestly confused. “You are the one who provided both the lesson and the ingredients. If anyone should be thanking you, it should surely be me.”
“No. I mean… When you stood up for me. I didn’t expect you to get so angry on my behalf – so…I guess it didn’t occur to me to say something. But I should have. Thank you.”
“…I simply did as I desired, in the end,” I confessed. “I did not consider how it would make you feel, having me threaten someone like that. In the end, I simply acted selfishly. Like the bratty queen I am.”
“That’s not true,” Abigail insisted, shaking her head rapidly back and forth. The movement sent her blonde hair whipping back and forth, and I paused a moment in my stirring to watch the spectacle, unable to resist a small smile.
“I’ve never had anyone but Mom stand up for me like that,” Abigail continued. “I don’t exactly like it when she does it, and I’m not sure you doing it was any better, but… Still. It’s nice to know you care.”
I didn’t respond, simply stirring the pot. The oats soaked up more and more liquid as I did so, until the porridge was thick enough to make stirring difficult. With that, Abigail declared breakfast a success, and withdrew three bowls from a cupboard and some spoons from a drawer. I doused my flames with a splash of water, recast my illusion spell, and filled each of the bowls. Carrying two of them to the dining room table, I placed them on opposing sides of the table.
“Mom!” Abigail called, sitting down herself. “Mom! Food’s done!”
“My, you’re done fast.” There was a loud yawn, and Bevola emerged from another room at the back of the house. She had put on a white nightgown, at some point. A backless one, of course, to make up for her wings. “Perhaps I should have napped instead of checking on you…”
“It’s just basic porridge,” Abigail warned, “so you’ll probably want some sugar, but I’m pretty sure she cooked it right.”
“How rude,” I complained, looking for the sugar myself. I was a little surprised that commoners could afford any of the stuff, but perhaps it wasn’t as expensive here as it was in most fantasy settings. “I assure you, Bevola, that it’s quite well made. Your daughter even helped me with it.”
Abigail took advantage of my conversation to grab the sugar first. It was in a very small bowl, with a lid that had a notch in it, fitted over a small, ceramic spoon. Abigail used the spoon to scoop up a bit of sugar into her bowl, stirring it up with one of the spoon’s she’d taken from the cupboard. Bringing a bite of porridge up to her lips, she blew on it twice before taking her first bite.
“It’s good!” she declared.
“Well, if it has my daughter’s seal of approval…” Bevola took an even smaller scoop of sugar than her daughter, mixing it in and taking a bite of her own. “Hmm! Not bad at all. You did well, Eena.”
“You give me too much praise,” I protested, taking the sugar bowl for myself. Since the others had only used a small amount of sugar, I assumed it wasn’t *that* cheap, and used a similar amount. The porridge was… bland. But passable. I had officially learned to cook my first meal and, with hunger as its main spice, I was quick to eat it all.
“Someone’s certainly a hungry woman!” Bevola laughed, taking another bite of her own porridge. She was perhaps half done, with Abigail only slightly ahead. I really had finished quite quickly.
“A growing girl needs to eat,” was my excuse. I was thankful that my painted on illusion didn’t allow for things like blushes to show.
“And which part of you is still growing, exactly?” Abigail wanted to know.
“…Perhaps these?” I suggested, indicating my tits. I had heard that they could keep growing into one’s twenties, so it wasn’t a falsehood. More importantly, however, it brought a glare from the relatively flat chested Abigail.
Bevola laughed from across the table, apparently amused by my joke. Well, she was almost as well endowed as me. Otherwise I never would have made the jab in her presence.
“My tits might be small,” Abigail muttered, “but they’re more sensitive than any of yours!”
If I had been offered something to drink, I would have spat it out in shock. Was that any way to talk in front of one’s mother?
“Aye,” agreed Bevola, apparently seeing nothing wrong with it. “You’re like Jazma, to hear you tell it.”
Jazma. That must have been Abigail’s other mother. The one who’s sacrifice I had wasted, alongside so many others. The one Abigail would never get to know.
“So,” Bevola continued, her pure black eyes turning to Devilla, “you never did tell me how you know little miss sensitive here. I’m going to start thinking you really are a general’s daughter, if you don’t correct me quick.” Her voice was teasing, but her expression was serious. It seemed that it was normal in any world for mothers to worry about their daughters.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Abigail protested, instantly moving to deny the area. “Eena is just-”
“The queen,” I interrupted, pushing my chair back and standing upright.
Abigail stared at me, eyes wide and mouth wider. “Y-Yeah, we both work for the-”
“My name is Devilla Satanne,” I declared, dropping my illusion. My eyes met Bevola’s unblinking black gaze, and though I did not break eye contact I did slightly lower my head. “I know you will likely not believe it, but I do apologize for deceiving you.”
Bevola made no response. It felt like there was a lump in my throat, but I forced myself to keep speaking. “I understand that I am not welcome in your house. I’ll find another kitchen to cook in. Thank you for the meal.” With my piece said, I turned to leave.
“Wait.” I had half expected Abigail to call out to me. I had already decided to ignore her, if she did. But it was Bevola who called out to me, and I couldn’t hide my surprise.
“…Yes?” I turned back toward her. Would she yell at me, for wasting her wife’s sacrifice? If so, I would accept it; I probably should have been prepared for that from the start.
“Why did you tell me the truth?”
The question she asked was unexpected, though perhaps it shouldn’t have been. From the way Bevola’s black eyes were searching mine, I didn’t think she’d be satisfied with anything less than the truth. I couldn’t give her the full story, unfortunately, but I hoped part of it would do.
“I didn’t want Abigail to keep lying to you. Not for my sake, at least.”
“And why not?” Bevola pressed, her eyes narrowing. It felt like I was pinned beneath her gaze. I knew that I was stronger than her, yet the mere idea of resisting her seemed somehow futile.
“…Because I am someone who will never see her parents again,” I explained, at last. I didn’t know my parents at all, as Devilla. I had lost them too young to even understand what that pain meant. As Jacob I’d had parents who loved me, though. Parents I’d left behind, who I would never see again. I felt both Devilla’s irrational anger at the world for making her grow up without parents and Jacob’s grief at forever losing access to those he loved. Thus, I felt that I understood far better than most just how important parental relationships could be. “I did not wish to watch Abigail strain her relationship with you; not for the sake of teaching me how to cook.”
“Mom,” Abigail started, but stopped when Bevola lifted a hand.
“You’re a lot different than I expected, Queen Devilla,” Bevola admitted. “That doesn’t mean I like you, or anything. You’ve got a long way to go for *that*. But…”
I realized that I was holding my breath. I didn’t let it go, though. Not even as the moment stretched on. Not until Bevola finally spoke again.
“…But. I can’t say it would be a bad thing for my daughter to get close to you. It might even do her some good, one day, knowing the queen.”
“Then does that mean you’re fine with her still being my maid?” I asked, relief washing over me. My legs felt like they were made of jelly, and only my royal pride kept me from collapsing to the floor. I hadn’t realized how terrified I’d been of losing Abigail entirely over this.
“Your maid?” Bevola laughed. “That was never in question. I don’t tell my girl where she can or can’t work. No – what I’m saying is that you can keep using my kitchen. But no more lies!”
“No more lies,” I promised, willingly. “…Though I won’t say the same about secrets.”
“Well duh, dear. Every lady deserves a few of those, don’t you think?”
I could only smile in response. After all, how I *became* a lady was one of the secrets I intended to keep.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/l0gzoo/demon_queened_chapter_2_part_2_fiction_gender