I Knocked Up Satan: S Daughter A Demonic Romantic

Her name was Lilith—or "Lil" for short, which should have been my first red flag. She had eyes like twin voids and a smile that promised eternal damnation in the best possible way. When she walked into the dive bar, the jukebox switched from Johnny Cash to Bauhaus on its own. The neon sign above the pool table flickered and spelled out DIE for a solid three seconds before going back to BEER .

A pause. Somewhere, a billion damned souls screamed in harmony.

I was a nobody. A bass player in a band that couldn't get a gig at a funeral. But that night, she slid into the booth across from me, her shadow moving a full second after she did, and whispered, "You look like a guy who's never been afraid of the dark."

Two drinks later, the dark wasn't so scary. Four drinks later, her tail—yes, tail —was wrapped around my calf under the table. I figured it was a costume. A very committed goth thing. I Knocked Up Satan S Daughter A Demonic Romantic

"You knocked up my daughter," he said. Not a question. A death sentence.

You know what? It's not all bad. Her dowry is a small principality in the Seventh Circle, and she makes a mean grilled cheese. Plus, when we tell our kid the story of how they were conceived, it'll beat the hell out of "we met at a grocery store."

Panic is not a strong enough word. Have you ever tried to have "the talk" with the Prince of Darkness? He doesn't have a phone number. He has a hotline you dial with your own blood. When I finally got through—after sacrificing a goat and a perfectly good slice of pepperoni pizza—his voice didn't boom. It slithered. Like snakes on a linoleum floor. Her name was Lilith—or "Lil" for short, which

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go build a crib that doubles as a summoning circle. The instructions are in Aramaic.

I wouldn't trade it for anything.

"Bring me the baby shower registry by Friday," he growled. "And it better not have any of that pastel, woodland-creature nonsense. I want black lace, obsidian rattles, and a onesie that says 'Daddy's Little Apollyon.'" The neon sign above the pool table flickered

It started, as most catastrophes do, with cheap tequila and a full moon the color of a fresh bruise.

"I—sir—Mr. Morningstar—it was consensual?"

The Horns of a Dilemma

So here I am. Thirty-two years old. Unemployed. About to become the father of the Antichrist's half-sibling. Lilith is currently in the other room, eating pickles dipped in Nutella, crying because she saw a commercial for a puppy. Her halo—which she swears she stole from a cherub in a bar fight—keeps flickering on and off.

Love is blind. Demonic romance is just blind, deaf, and armed with a flamethrower.