I never planned to write my debut about the Devil.
The characters who filled my short stories would be appalled: Annie, who blew kisses to her little brother during his difficult first day of school; Curley, a mail-carrying hedgehog whose uniform mishap helped him learn the freedom of flexibility; Freddy, who discovered his superpower of helping others. These gentle souls would look askance at my young adult protagonist, a teenage boy trained to burn those claimed by Lucifer, and wonder how I had strayed so far from my usual path. After all, my characters were meant to be kind and sweet, not lurking in the shadows with matches in their hands.
Let me rephrase: These were the types of characters I believed I was supposed to
