Mother's P.O.V
I love my daughters with all my heart, but some days I could snap their ankles like breadsticks. I don't care if they're the children I supposedly cherish—they test my patience like it's a competitive sport. Especially July. That girl loses her temper around family more than anyone, and she has a child on the way. My husband always says, "More children means fewer problems," which is exactly why he's banned from giving advice.
A ringing echoes in my head—the special kind that means he's calling for me. I'm one of the few wives he truly cares for, since the others tend to be wannabe Queens of Chaos who think a spark of divinity makes them interesting.
I dig into my robes and pull out the mask he made for me—ugly thing, but sentimental. He and I were caught once in a dark-romance kind of trap…but that book is for later. I watch June hauling her sisters, and I know January will be fine. The girl feeds on pain—literal global suffering—and yet refuses to use her powers for my chaotic deeds. A disappointment, really. This part of her story is going to start unhinged anyway, full of gore and questionable decisions.
I, meanwhile, hold the powers of a true Faith Storyteller, as my youngest—September—likes to call it. She devours knowledge until her brain nearly rots. I call her my little Book Zombie. She hates it, which only makes it funnier.
I look down the hallway of our lovely home and clap twice. Servants hurry in to clean the mess. Then I feel something slimy on my shoes—oh look, my husband's arms again. Before I can protest, he drags me through a slug portal. Not deadly, but deeply annoying.
Passing through the slug always hits the same: you start with every negative emotion you've ever had—failure, embarrassment, that one time you trusted a mortal—then it flips and gives you joy, success, warmth. At the end you laugh, cry rainbow tears, taste cotton candy, and briefly feel yourself die inside or outside. Hard to tell with that man. His emotions are all over the place, but at least he called me for a reason.
Probably because our cultists keep ending up in Heaven again.
That only happened once before, when a god wanted to piss off all our bosses. They called themselves The Guest—and I hear they're in business now. Something about hunting, or haunting, or sunting. Whatever it is, it's loud.
Enough about The Guest, because here comes my husband in the human form he met me in. Ugh. If he's dressed like that, this meeting will be long. I remove my mask and kiss him anyway. The kiss makes me laugh manically, and I give him a playful punch to reset him.
He was never handsome in this human form—he picked the appearance of a lost soul who gave up on personal hygiene. But souls with hidden admissions make excellent husbands. I choose mine based on vibes and aesthetic—they attract followers. We accept anyone: any plane, any race, any soul. Everyone is welcome in the Cult of All.
Unless this new religion keeps stealing my people. Then I will welcome none.
My husband gives me a sad look, like a pug who misplaced its hatred. "We're going to Hell and back," he mutters. "We have to work with The Guest."
I throw my hands up. "ARE YOU KIDDING ME? THE GUEST WHO SPEAKS NO EVIL, SEES NO EVIL, HEARS NO EVIL—THAT GUEST? THE ONE WHOSE NAME IS LITERALLY NOTHING?"
He traps me in his arms—and several other arms. Because of course. At the same time, the last visitor walks into the room: two of The Guest's workers. One is a woman in full 90s rocker gear; the other is a handsome skeleton man dressed like a leather-daddy straight out of a supernatural YMCA. Those two are always in costume. Always.
The Guest waves at us. My husband sits me down in a chair before I start swinging.
My daughters would have a field day with The Guest. They are nothing but— "That's rude," The Guest says aloud. "I can read minds, you know." I shut the bitch out of my head immediately. Rocker Girl rolls her eyes; Leather Skeleton laughs.
The Guest claps their hands. "We've got a problem. One of my heavy hitters was attacked by the same cult stealing your members. We arrested a batch of your 'followers' not long ago."
My husband sighs. Facepalms. Hard. We remember that incident. A rogue group acted under false rules—claimed they were following my doctrine—and tried to pick a fight with The Guest's Houses. It almost caused a cosmic war. January and some woman named Nightingale eventually captured them. They were under fake orders.
Rocker Girl's phone begins ringing, and suddenly all our devices ring too. We answer to a hologram of her.
"Hi! Cherry Pie here—yes, that's my real name. I've got hologram powers. Great for paperwork. I need to present something." She projects an image of a slime monster in three different colors and starts listing protocols.
Let's just say… this is going to involve my daughter September. And this part might be a spoiler.