Astaroth hugged me from behind, his chest feeling like a heated obsidian wall against my back. "This is exactly why you're the Queen of Portagry, my woman..." he whispered, his dark voice sending shivers down my spine. "Exposing masks is your specialty."
I looked back at the never-ending line of souls. "Next! And please, someone, tell me you're not going to cry. My makeup is literally one sob away from a disaster!"
I slammed my scepter onto the marble floor after sending that last "good boy" traitor to the Eternal Waiting Room.
"NEXT!" I shouted, my voice dripping with curiosity.
Out of the grey mist stepped an old man wearing tattered slippers and a stained cardigan. He was huffing and puffing, looking so grumpy that even the gloomy air of Portagry seemed cheerful next to him.
"What are you staring at, you brat?" the old man snapped at me.
