by SM Reine
But for how long? Laila wondered. It was only a matter of time, she knew, until Zarel returned with the might and wrath of Hell.
Michael shook his head, his lance tapping against the ruins as he walked, as if it were a staff. “That’s why I lead this army, not you. Your mind is full of stupid ideas.”
Volkfair growled, and Laila patted him, soothing the wolf. “How long do you really think you can hold onto Jerusalem, Michael?” She stepped over a fallen column. “Zarel is already mustering an army to drive you out. For twenty-seven years, you and your brother have been slugging it out, and neither one of you is close to winning this world. If you want to win Earth, I must take over Hell, then retreat its armies. That was the deal, remember? You help me usurp Beelzebub, I retreat into Hell and give you Earth.” She bared her fangs and her halo ignited. “It’s time to take the battle to Beelzebub’s home front. To hit him where he hurts. I must carve out a chunk of Hell and start claiming territory there, not just here on Earth.”
Two sparrows alighted on Michael, then fled when they saw Laila. The archangel watched them fly away. “You visited Hell once, as I recall. The hellfire boiled your angel blood, nearly killing you. The place is toxic to anyone from Heaven, even to half-angels like you. We might as well invade a sea of acid.”
Laila smiled. “Hellfire can be extinguished. Holy water can put it out. I plan to extinguish all hellfire when I take over.”
“There aren’t enough buckets in the world to carry enough holy water into Hell,” Michael said.
“I don’t need buckets. I’m going to dump an entire lake on them.”
Michael sighed. “Laila, have you been hitting the bottle lately?”
“Well, yes, but that’s beside the point. Look, Michael. Hell is nine circles, right? Limbo, the first circle, is just ten miles under the surface of the world. It’s only about thirty miles long, another thirty wide. I’ve been there, Michael. It’s a small circle, really just a portal into what lies below, but it can be enough. If I take over Limbo, I’ll have a foothold in Hell, and then we can really get the ball rolling.”
Michael stopped walking and sat on a fallen column. He rubbed his neck. “Where in your crazy plan does this lake of yours come in?”
She drew Haloflame, which hung over her back, and gave it a few whistling swings. “The Sea of Galilee. Jesus walked upon the water there, they say. The whole bloody lake is holy water. We carve a tunnel from the lakebed down into Limbo, and drain a cubic mile of holy water onto the bastards. That should put out the hellfire long enough to invade and take the place. It won’t harm the rest of Hell, but if we can take Limbo, well....” She grinned. “Beelzebub would be pissed.”
“Laila,” Michael said, “this is reality. Your idea is fantasy. To drain a lake of holy water onto Limbo would mean digging a sloping tunnel that’s over twenty miles long and at least a hundred yards wide. Even if you had a thousand construction workers, it would take years.”
She sheathed her blade. “Oh, I think we can dig this tunnel in a day or two.”
“Not with a million shovels. If you had God himself digging, you wouldn’t get it done in two days.”
She smiled crookedly. “I don’t need God. I just need an old friend who owes me a favor.” She spread her wings. “Muster a few divisions, Michael, as many as you can spare. I’m going to need them. I invade Hell in two days.”
With that she took off, flying north, the smile never leaving her lips.
14
Zarel flew over her army, surveying the troops. She had gathered them in the desert upon a rocky field, rows and rows of demons, glinting red under the cruel sun. Zarel herself burned as a second sun, surveying the shades, these troops of claws, fangs, horns, drooling grins. Five divisions she had gathered among the dunes, fifty thousand shades, a force greater than the world had seen in years. Five archdemons commanded the divisions, beasts the size of whales, their eyes and mouths dripping lava.
Zarel licked her lips, grinning as she circled over the army. I’m coming to kill you, Laila, she thought. Twice she had almost killed the young half-breed. Nothing would stop her this time. With fifty thousand troops, she could overtake Jerusalem and kill Laila, maybe even kill Michael. Then this world will be ours. Then Beelzebub will have no more use for Bat El, and I can kill that girl too.
Flames rose from Zarel’s mouth when she thought of the angel, Gabriel’s daughter. She clenched her teeth and shut her eyes, fiery tears just stinging at them. Why does Beelzebub hurt me so? Why can’t he love me the way I love him?
“I love you, Beelzebub,” Zarel whispered as she flew. “I love you so much. Why can’t I have your love for my own? Why must I share you?”
She remembered their wedding in Hell. They had wed in the Ninth Circle, the deepest and hottest pit of Hell, in a tower of polished jet. All the fallen angels who still lived had been there. Moloch, the ruler of Limbo, had given them goblets of lava to drink, sealing the bond between them. It had been a strange day, Zarel remembered. Lucifer’s grave had still been fresh, and Laila had just escaped into exile, the armies of Heaven and Hell hot in pursuit, scouring the world for the girl. Battles raged above ground, and the guests exchanged uneasy looks throughout the ceremony.
“He still loves the half-breed,” Mammon, the fallen angel of greed, whispered to Moloch that morning. Zarel overheard, but pretended not to, facing a wall to hide her tears. Beelzebub loves me, she told herself. And if he does not, he will learn to.
She walked through the Ninth Circle that day, lost in her thoughts, gazing upon the rivers of lava and the columns of hellfire. Bred in the Ninth Circle was she, where all the greatest archdemons were forged—daughter of Angor, a great demon, a rising power in Hell.
When she had been a child, fallen angels whispered around her that some day, she might grow to become a bride to Lucifer. “Some day,” they would tell Angor, “your daughter will be queen.” All her childhood, Zarel believed them, believed she’d grow up to marry Lucifer, and hated the thought. Lucifer frightened her. His eyes were always wroth, his grin always cruel. One day, the King of Hell had visited their home to speak with Angor. Zarel cowered in the corner that day, but emerged when her father commanded her to come forth, to serve wine to Lucifer, to curtsy before him.
Zarel served Lucifer the wine, but did not curtsy, more because fear paralyzed her than any show of defiance. Angor wanted to beat her, but Lucifer only laughed and caressed her flaming hair. “Sweet, demonic child,” he said and kissed her scaly cheek.
That night, Zarel dreamed that she was married to Lucifer, forced to serve him wine, to endure his caresses and kisses. That nightmare haunted her for years. She had always thought that Beelzebub, Lucifer’s lieutenant, was far more handsome. The fallen angel—brother to Michael—often visited their home to speak with Angor, and always brought her presents: glowing firegems, blades of rippled steel, or animal skulls filigreed in gold. He had always been her favorite among the fallen angels.
“I’ve always loved you,” she whispered, watching the fifty thousand demons below in the desert. “I’ve loved you all my life.”
How she had rejoiced when Beelzebub killed Lucifer and proposed to her! Blinded with joy she had been. Let the fallen angels whisper that he still loved Laila. Let them whisper that she was only a consolation prize. Beelzebub would learn to love her like he loved Laila, Zarel told herself over and over.
He had made love to her the night after they married, in flame and passion and screams that made his fortress tremble. The next morning, he was gone to Earth to fight his war, to fight against his brother Michael. They rarely spent nights together since.
“Do you love me?” she asked him countless times, and he said he did, and she believed him, could see the love in his eyes. When they made love, he loved her, she knew. He confessed his love over and over in bed, when she ignited the flames within him. So why did he cheat on her? Why did he seek pleasures so often with other women?
“That is just his way,
” Moloch once said to her when she came to him for consolation, tears on her cheeks. “You can’t change him, Zarel. He is thousands of years old and set in his ways.”
“I thought I could change him,” she said to Moloch in his fortress in Limbo, the First Circle of Hell. “I thought he would be only mine.”
Moloch, dressed as always in his black cape and scale armor, had poured her more wine. “Back when we were in Heaven, Beelzebub wouldn’t let anyone tame him, not his older brother, not God. He and Lucifer were the wild ones among us. Do you know, even in his angel days, Beelzebub couldn’t curb his appetite. He’d sneak down to Earth with Lucifer, sometimes with Michael and Gabriel too, and go chasing human girls. God, he loved the human women. I lost count early of how many he knew.” Moloch shook his head, his long black hair swaying. “He does love you, Zarel, but he is Beelzebub, and Beelzebub he will remain. My advice to you is to bear it and not try to change him. Be grateful that he loves you, that he made you his queen, and stand by him. There is nothing else you can do.”
But there was something she could do, Zarel knew. She could hunt down her husband’s paramours and kill them. One day, not long after they married, Zarel learned of a human girl, only sixteen years old, who Beelzebub had found on Earth and impregnated. The girl was one of the few humans left in those years, a survivor who lived in a hovel somewhere in Europe. Zarel had heard demons who served with Beelzebub speak of the girl, and she left Hell, found the girl, and clawed out her throat.
I’ll do the same to you, Laila, Zarel swore as the demon army hissed and howled below. And she knew that Beelzebub was sleeping with Bat El too. She could see it in her husband’s eyes. I’ll kill both sisters. Soon enough, there will be no humans or angels left in this world. Then Beelzebub will finally be just mine.
+ + +
Laila flew over the Holy Land, out of Jerusalem, heading north over the wooded Carmel Mountains. Thin clouds covered the sky, veiling the sun, and the air was cold up here. Laila’s cloak did little for warmth in the sky, and she found herself wanting a hot campfire, a fresh kill, and Volkfair by her side.
Why did I ever get involved in this war? As she flew, Laila reached over her back and caressed Haloflame’s hilt. Because she was so powerful, many assumed that she loved to fight, that she was a bloodthirsty warrior, a terror. Nobody knows that all I really want is some peace, a nice fire, maybe a good book if I can find one.
Laila regretted flying. She should have walked, or maybe found an old car she could repair and drive. That way she could have brought her wolf. She missed him. Soon she could see the Sea of Galilee ahead, where Angor waited, and Laila suddenly feared to see him.
I’m tired of facing demons and angels. I’m sick of it all. I just want to drink and sleep. It had been too long since she’d drunk herself unconscious. During training with Michael, she had no time to think, to feel anything but weariness, and now, her training complete, the old anguish crept back in. I’m scared to invade Hell, she realized. She was scared to see Angor again, scared that Zarel was hunting her, scared that Bat El was in danger, maybe dead. Why do I always have to be so afraid?
There was a town by the lake, Laila remembered, long abandoned by humans, a place where she sometimes camped when wandering the north. During her exile, she had spent many days wandering these northern hills, miles from Jerusalem. When she spotted the ancient town, a heap of ruins that dated back to biblical times, finally destroyed in Armageddon, Laila began to descend. I’ll face Angor soon. First I need a drink.
She landed in the hilly town between stone houses. Silent, her sword over her back, she wandered down the cobbled alley. Between the buildings, she could see the rest of the ghost town sprawled over the hills, a mix of ancient buildings and newer structures, some toppled, others burned by old fire. Few humans lived here, she knew, only a handful of survivors who locked themselves indoors most of the time. Stray cats and dogs raced across the weedy streets as she walked, fleeing her.
The cobbled alleys were so narrow, the roofs of the ancient houses almost touched. Hundreds of these streets snaked over the hills, an undulating landscape of broken cobbles, crooked homes, ancient temples, and wild pines. Several goats wandered the town, and Laila even glimpsed a skinny human child flee down a street and disappear through a doorway. The town was silent, the only sound the birds and goats. In the distance beyond the hills, Laila glimpsed columns of fire and smoke; armies of angels and demons warred there.
Finally Laila found the old house where she had once spent a month, nursing a wound demons had given her in the forests. She had been nineteen, maybe twenty, wandering the Holy Land in cloak and hood, fleeing Heaven and Hell. She stepped into the old house now, the memories strong. Things had been so different back then. She had been more frightened during those years, weaker in body and spirit. I’m so much harder now, so much darker.
Laila smiled as she entered the shadowy, dusty house. The place was just as she had left it. It was a small home, only a single story with three plain rooms, the brick walls old and crumbly. Her chest of drawers was still there, covered with dust and cobwebs, and when Laila opened it, she found a bottle of whiskey, a survivor of her old stash. Her smile sad, she uncorked the bottle and drank. Still good.
Her power generator was still there, as she had hoped, plugged into an old record player. Buried under more dust and cobwebs, Laila unearthed her record collection, surprised that it took her so long to return here. She dusted off an old record of The Who and placed the needle on her favorite track, “Call Me Lightning”. With a few squeaks and squeals, the record player began to play, and Laila sat down and leaned against the wall.
“It’s a happy song,” she said aloud, just to hear a voice. She was so used to speaking to Volkfair, that even with him away, she found herself needing to speak aloud. She pretended that her wolf was there to hear. “I don’t think people would imagine I like a happy song, but I do. It makes me happy.”
She took a swig of her drink and shut her eyes. Soon the bottle was empty and her head spinning, and she kept playing the same song. “Call me lightning,” she sang in the shadowy room. “Call me lightning. I’m like lightning, Volkfair. I’m fast. I’m fast. I can hurt people. I don’t want to. I don’t want to go to Hell. Volkfair, do you hear me?”
She smashed the empty bottle against the wall and rummaged for more booze, but found none. “Dum dum dum, call me lightning.” Nobody answered, and Laila curled up on the floor, accidentally kicking over the record player. The music died, and she slept.
She slept through the night, sprawled across the floor, like in the old days when she’d sleep in caves, burrows, abandoned houses, and fields, passed out with an empty bottle at her side. When she woke up, her head ached, and her stomach felt queasy. The floor was dark where she had drooled onto it. She looked aside at the smashed bottle, and the smell of alcohol made her stagger outside and retch into the bushes. She straightened, groggy, and winced in the morning light.
“Man, my head hurts,” she muttered. Why did she have to drink the entire bottle in one sitting? Her stomach still roiling, she tested flapping her right wing, then her left. I can’t face Angor now, hung over, groggy, with that song still stuck in my head. Yet Laila dared not tarry longer. Every day that she dallied, Hell grew stronger. Their spies reported that Zarel was mustering an army in the south, and Laila knew that army was meant for one purpose: to kill her. But I have a few surprises up my sleeve. Killing me won’t be so easy, Zarel.
A rooster called atop a roof ahead, but the thought of breakfast made Laila’s stomach churn again, as did the thought of flying. Instead, Laila set out to walk to the lake, Haloflame strapped over her back. She took slow steps, rubbing her temples, heading down the hills toward the water. The lake glistened in the valley below, deep blue, fringed by treed beaches. For thousands of years, the humans worshipped at this lake, where they said Jesus walked, where the River Jordan flowed. A lake of Holy Water, Laila knew. A lake that could extinguish hellfir
e. This better work.
She could not see Angor from here, and she wondered if he hid underwater, or if he had betrayed her and fled. “I told you to wait for me at the lake,” she muttered. If he had escaped, Laila swore that she’d hunt him down, chop off his tail and wings, and—once she conquered Hell—demote him to the firepits.
Soon Laila walked alongside the banks of the lake, trees and rushes rustling around her. Thousands of birds flocked here, and Laila glimpsed orange and red fish in the water. Just as she was reflecting how the animals multiplied as the humans vanished, Laila noticed a human girl standing by the water, leaning against a eucalyptus. Eighteen or nineteen years old, the girl wore only tattered underclothes, revealing a bruised, muddy body that had maintained an attractive curviness in an era when most humans were skin and bones.
“Well, what are you then?” the girl asked when she saw Laila, her eyes widening, a smile curling the corners of her lips. Her face was squat and square, attractive in its own unique way, with green eyes, full lips, and wavy hair that fell to her shoulders.
“I’m half-demon, half-angel,” Laila replied, surprised that the girl did not recognize her. She thought that everyone on Earth knew of her. If for no other reason, Laila instantly liked the girl.
“My, my,” the girl said, eyes widening even further, sparkling with what looked like delight mixed with surprise. “Would you like a trick, then? Loaf of bread gets you an hour. Give me salted meat or fruit, and I’m yours all morning.”
Laila blew out her breath. “Just because I wear big boots and carry a sword doesn’t mean I roll that way.”
The girl shrugged. “Would you like to go for a swim, then? I hate swimming alone. There’s a great demon in the lake. But I won’t be scared to swim with you, and I could use a good bath.”
