by Marie Sexton
“I’ll get it, okay? I’m going back again tonight. And I’m telling you, this is it. I found the mother lode.”
Baphomet shook his head. “You should quit searching for the one, and just fill the quota. Land a handful of everyday, pedestrian souls, and get back in the black.”
The thought of a pedestrian soul had never been less appealing. “No way, man. I can’t give up on this one. This is the soul to end all souls. The fucking sweetest, purest thing I’ve ever felt. He’s perfect.”
“You’re such a sap.”
“I’m not being a sap. I’m being realistic. This soul is my ticket. I won’t have to harvest again for the rest of the year. I’ll get a promotion. I’ll be King of the Department. I’ll— I’ll—break the record!” He paused, thinking. “Hey, who holds the current soul record anyway?”
“Baphomet.”
“You mean you?”
“No, dumbass. The other Baphomet.”
Abaddon frowned, thinking. “The guy with the red hair?”
“No, the other one.”
“The one with the beard?”
“No, the other other one.”
Abaddon scratched his head. “The short guy?”
“No! The other other other one.”
“I can’t think of any other Baphomets.”
Baphomet sighed, looking over his shoulder again to make sure no managers were in sight. He leaned closer. “The one with the great big mole.” He touched the side of his nose to clarify.
“Oh! Mole Baphomet! I know who you mean now.” He frowned again. “That guy holds the record? Who’d he bag?”
“Tom Brady. 2001. Right before that game against the Jets. That’s why Drew Bledsoe got hurt.”
“I knew that guy was too good to be true!”
“Baphomet landed Belichick at the same time, but that dude has the soul of a shriveled prune. It was Brady who sealed the deal.” He signaled to the eighteen-inch stack of papers in Abaddon’s inbox. “You’d know, if you kept up with the memos.”
Abaddon rolled his eyes. “That’ll be the day.”
“Beelzebub’s balls, Abaddon! You never take anything seriously!”
“Beelzebub hates it when you use that curse.”
“So what? Beelzebub’s a self-righteous twat.”
Abaddon blinked, confused. “Wait. Which Beelzebub are we talking about?”
“All of them!” Baphomet perched on the edge of Abaddon’s desk, trying to shuffle the papers in his hand into some semblance of order. “You need to start taking this job seriously. You’ve been slacking off for a decade now, barely making your quotas, always getting the work done late. You have to—”
“I know, I know.” It was true Abaddon’s heart had never really been in the soul acquisition game. It’d always turned his stomach a bit. Then again, he’d never found a soul like Seth’s. “Look, I just need this one, okay? After that, I’ll… Well, I’ll try to keep up.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll wait until the last minute again, just like you always do.” Baphomet pointed his finger at Abaddon’s nose. “If you’re not careful, you’ll be bumped down to directing traffic in the Fields of Asphodel. That’s where all the cars that used leaded gasoline went, you know.”
Abaddon waved him off, sitting up in his chair to lean closer. “Listen, I’m telling you, this soul is so pure it has to get me tenured, at the very least. I just have to come up with a gamble I can win.”
“Yeah, good luck with that.” Baphomet glanced down the aisle between the cubicles and jumped to his feet. “You heard me, you miserable swine!” he said to Abaddon, raising his voice so whatever manager he’d spotted was bound to hear him. “I hope a pox eats your innards, you pathetic fool!”
Abaddon didn’t bother to play his part in the farce. Once he had Seth’s soul, he wouldn’t need to worry about managers any longer.
Chapter Four
Cock Blocked by Darth Vader
Abaddon spent his next few days in the office, catching up on paperwork. Baphomet harangued him constantly, insisting he should be out reaping souls. He had a point, but pedestrian souls had never appealed to Abaddon. And now, having tasted Seth’s sweetness, he couldn’t stand the thought of settling for less. Besides, once he bagged Seth, he’d be set. Why waste his time on a dozen pro athletes when Seth alone would fill his quota and then some?
To that end, Abaddon attended the revival every single evening.
Revivals had always amused him, and the Rainbow Revival was no exception. Zed scowled at him constantly, and each and every night, the Rainbow Revival members seemed to keep one eye on Seth, and yet nothing ever happened. What in the world were they waiting for? Did Seth occasionally burst into flames, or start speaking in tongues, like some of the more extreme Pentecostals? Maybe he had a history of seizures, or of collapsing into fits of the giggles. Abaddon was intrigued by the possibilities, but the strange behavior of the hipster evangelists remained a mystery.
There was no mystery, though, behind Abaddon’s inability to speak with Seth again. Zed watched the boy like a hawk, escorting him to and from his trailer. At the revivals, he stood at the edge of the stage, near the right-hand set of stairs, only a few yards from where Seth played, watching the proceedings like a care-worn shepherd. As soon as the revival ended, he rushed Seth out the back entrance of the enormous tent. Abaddon tried following them, but with most of the revival-goers headed in the opposite direction, Abaddon was like a fish swimming upstream.
He was being cock blocked by a guy in a boubou. It pissed him off to no end. His only consolation was that Seth was irritated by it as well. Abaddon sensed the boy’s impatience whenever Zed approached. He watched from a distance one evening as they argued outside Seth’s trailer.
“I’m not a child!” he heard Seth say. “And I don’t need a chaperone!”
He couldn’t hear Zed’s reply, but after another minute of quiet complaints, Seth relented and went inside. Soon, the sound of his violin drifted from the trailer, tiptoeing through the night, caressing Abaddon’s senses, teasing him with possibilities. It was as if Seth knew he was there and was playing just for him. Abaddon’s mouth watered and his groin tingled as he thought how glorious it would feel to claim Seth’s soul for himself. It was almost as if Seth were issuing an invitation, but Zed stood just outside the trailer’s door, staring toward the woods where Abaddon hid.
Abaddon debated simply manifesting inside Seth’s trailer, but that seemed rude, even by devil standards. Besides, popping into existence was bound to startle Seth, and if he made any noise at all, Zed would come barreling in, bringing the wrath of the entire revival down on Abaddon’s head. Local law enforcement might even get involved, and getting arrested was such a hassle. Sure, he could just disappear into the abyss, but then there’d be manhunts and news reports and APBs…
The paperwork alone would take a week, and Seth probably wouldn’t give him the time of day afterwards.
No. Better to bide his time.
But after two full hours, Seth’s trailer had gone dark and silent, and Zed was still standing guard. Abaddon eventually conceded defeat and returned to Hell. After all, paperwork still waited. He was more behind on his work than ever.
On the fifth night of the revival, his luck finally changed.
He arrived at the tent earlier than he had on previous nights. As usual, Zed escorted Seth to the tent. Even somebody without supernatural senses might have picked up on Seth’s anger based on the set of his jaw and the darkness in his eyes, but to Abaddon, that suppressed rage was like hickory syrup on Seth’s cotton-candy soul. It gave his essence a thick, almost smoky flavor that sent shivers up Abaddon’s spine.
No matter where he sat in the congregation, he could have sworn Seth’s blind eyes found him every time. Seth smiled in his direction, biting his lip and turning away self-consciously. He’d playe
d guitar the previous two nights, but this time, he returned to his place behind the keyboards. He wore jeans and a plain black T-shirt, with a rainbow scarf around his neck. Abaddon took a seat at the front of the house, directly in front of Seth. Zed glowered at him, and Abaddon raised his hand in a jaunty wave and had to suppress a childish giggle at the stain of fury that climbed Zed’s dark cheeks.
The tent filled quickly and the revival kicked into gear. Thaddeus and Reverend Bob worked the crowd. The choir sang praises. Twenty minutes into the revival, Abaddon was the only member of the audience still sitting. The rest danced and waved their hands in the air, shouting “hallelujah!” and “praise Jesus!” on cue. The tent seemed to swell and vibrate with their fervor. So many souls he might claim, but none that called to him as Seth’s did.
Seth’s playing was perfect, as always. But tonight, Abaddon detected a hollowness to it. Seth wasn’t smiling as easily as usual. The chords from his electric keyboard felt flat and lifeless against Abaddon’s senses, resounding more with loneliness than with joy.
He was unhappy. That much was clear.
Abaddon smiled. Now, he had something to work with. Seth’s resentment of Zed’s helicopter parenting was just the spark he’d been waiting for. He needed only to fan it a bit, make an offer that played on Seth’s anger and gave it a way to blaze free. He’d let that fury burn over him like a wildfire, and when it was done, Seth would belong to him.
Or so he hoped, at any rate.
An hour later, the tent had devolved into borderline chaos. Congregants danced and sang. The collection plate went past him again and again. Reverend Bob pounded his tambourine and Thaddeus preached, waving his bible in the air. The choir had spread across the stage, waving their arms, singing the most rocking version of “Bosom of Abraham” Abaddon had ever heard.
Abaddon waited, biding his time, hoping that tonight, he’d be close enough to catch Seth before Zed could stop him.
A woman to his left cried out in religious ecstasy, somehow making herself heard over the din. She shook her arms, jerking her body in controlled convulsions, babbling nonsensically in a language that didn’t exist. The crowd circled around her, cheering her on, some of them simply enjoying the spectacle, some wanting to be closer to her as she was stirred to passion by God’s invisible touch.
Abaddon shook his head in amusement. He’d seen hundreds of people do the “speaking in tongues” routine. He’d been to revivals where half the attendees collapsed and writhed across the floor like slices of bacon in a pan, but until now, the Rainbow Revival had been low on such theatrics.
“Let’s give her some room, now!” Thaddeus cried, holding his arms wide. “The Lord’s touch is a powerful thing. Brother Zed, help our devout sister to a chair. She’ll need to rest after such divine inspiration.”
Zed scowled, but did as instructed, abandoning his post at the foot of the stairs.
Abaddon saw his chance, and he took it.
Nobody even noticed as he left his seat and climbed the flight of steps on the right end of the stage. Nobody gave him a second glance as he squeezed past the choir and made his way to Seth and the keyboards. Seth’s fingers were fast on the ivories, but his heart wasn’t in it. Abaddon stepped up behind him, so close he could have touched him, savoring the sweetness that lingered in the air. Even tainted with anger and sadness, Seth’s soul made his mouth water.
“Not bad, kid. But I think you’re holding back.”
Seth didn’t miss a beat, but his head whipped toward Abaddon, a pleased smile spreading across his face. “I knew you were here.”
Abaddon tested the organ on Seth’s left, adjusting the volume and drawbars a bit. “Mind if I jump in?”
The glow of Seth’s soul seemed to pulse, growing warmer, like the heat from a campfire against Abaddon’s skin. He bit his lower lip, glancing sideways at Abaddon without missing a note. “Go right ahead.”
It only took Abaddon a minute to get a feel for the song. Seth was keeping the melody simple, allowing Abaddon a chance to figure out the chords. Abaddon nudged him with his elbow. “Is that all you’ve got?”
Seth laughed. His amusement at being challenged again was the sweetest aphrodisiac Abaddon had ever known. “Are we talking about another contest, old man?”
“‘Old man’? What’d I do to deserve that?”
“What are we playing for this time?”
“Your mortal soul.”
“And if I win?”
“Name it.”
“You owe me ice cream.”
“Is that it?”
Seth laughed. “That’s it. Now see if you can keep up.”
And with that, he left “simple” behind and shifted into a rambunctious rendition of “Lead Me To That Rock”, giving it a strong, bluesy, southern kick. His drummer followed easily, but the guitar and bass players both stumbled with the sudden transition. The choir picked it up fast, raising their hands to the sky as they sang out the first verse.
From the ends of the Earth
From the ends of the Earth
Will I cry unto thee
The crowd joined in. The notes from Seth’s keyboard took on a new flavor, echoing through Abaddon’s soul senses, brightening the entire tent. The congregation felt it, whether they knew it or not. Seth’s joy was contagious, and Thaddeus gave up preaching, letting the fervor take hold.
Lead me to that rock
Lead me to that rock
That is higher than I
After that, Seth amped them into “Daddy Sang Bass”, losing his guitarist in the process. The young man didn’t seem upset, though. He laughed, as if he was used to being smoked by Seth during the heavy improvisation. He traded his guitar for a bottle of water out of a cooler hidden behind the drum set and sat back to watch the show.
The bassist and drummer fared a bit better. The choir followed enthusiastically as Seth transitioned into “Can’t Nobody Do Me Like Jesus”, the title of which always brought sinful images to Abaddon’s mind and made him chuckle. And finally, Seth drove them into a rip-roaring, ragtime rendition of “Jesus, Hold My Hand”.
The tent shook. The noise was deafening. Seth laughed at Abaddon constantly, calling key changes to him once or twice when Abaddon missed them, and Abaddon tripped along, his forearms burning, tapping into every ounce of his Hell-given musical talent, but he’d never win. He knew the basics, but he’d couldn’t jam on Seth’s level. Seth gave him just enough time after each change to catch onto his rhythm—just enough time to match him—before kicking his own part in the song into heavy ornamentation. Abaddon wasn’t competing with Seth. He was playing backup, supplying the rhythm to underscore Seth’s true talent, but somehow, it suited him.
The pace was frantic, Seth’s smile and laugh truly glorious, and Abaddon found himself laughing too, loving the wonder of the moment, as caught up in the excitement as the congregants, but his infatuation had nothing to do with God and salvation and everything to do with the angelic muse at his side. It was the most fun he’d had in years.
Zed stood at the foot of the stage like some biblical pillar of rage and Abaddon found himself laughing more, hoping the moment went on forever.
It didn’t though.
“Last time!” Seth called over his shoulder toward the choir and the drummer.
They shifted keys, driving toward the finale, building to a crescendo, and when it finally ended, the crowd cheered. The choir collapsed to their seats, fanning themselves and wiping sweat from their brows. Thaddeus stepped forward again, his arms in the air as he prepared to give the final segment of his sermon.
And Seth…
Seth turned to Abaddon and threw his arms around his neck, laughing in delight. “That was amazing!”
All of Seth’s energy slammed into Abaddon like a fist in the gut, knocking him backward. He fell into the keyboards, almost toppling over, gasp
ing for oxygen, and Seth grabbed at him, trying to steady him. His sudden concern only made things worse. A second surge slammed into Abaddon’s senses. It was like wandering too far into the surf and getting smacked in the face with a wave. Abaddon reeled. He had to force himself to breathe and finally found his balance with one hand gripping the keyboard and the other arm tight around Seth’s waist. His legs felt like rubber.
Other parts of him felt entirely too solid.
“Are you okay?”
Seth spoke into his ear, not wanting to disrupt the service, and Abaddon pulled away a bit, trying to put an inch of distance between them, trying to make his knees work. His hands shook. He forced himself to let go of Seth. He didn’t have to force himself to smile though. He could still feel the jubilant energy their music had stirred between them.
“I’m fine.”
“We make a great team! You almost kept up.”
Abaddon laughed. “I think it’s safe to say your soul still belongs to God.” And as he said it, he felt the tiniest hint of relief.
And with that relief came a bit of shame.
He wanted Seth’s soul. He hungered for the satisfaction that would come when he devoured it and delivered it through the abyss. But looking into Seth’s smiling face, he felt the first hint of doubt. Abaddon had claimed a lot of souls over the years, most with a myriad of secret sins. Greed, jealousy, ambition. Those were the key to many a devil’s success. Yet Seth had none of those things, and Abaddon knew the euphoric exhilaration he felt upon claiming Seth’s soul would be matched only by the guilt he felt afterward.
Seth leaned toward him again. “I can’t believe Zed let you get this close.”
Abaddon laughed, trying to shake off his discomfort, and glanced over at the big, black foreman. He could have sworn he saw the rage of Heaven in the man’s eyes. “I have no doubt he’d tear me limb from limb right now, if he could.”
Seth smiled, the fingers of his left hand slipping easily into Abaddon’s. The calluses on his fingertips from guitar and fiddle strings tickled across Abaddon’s palm.
