by SM Reine
He kept shaking his brother, slashing at him with claws, until he realized that blood soaked his sleeves, covered his hands, splashed against him. He stared, horrified, at his bloody claws and let his brother go. Raphael slumped to the floor, soaked in blood, dead.
Beelzebub stared in shock. Terror filled him. Glancing around, he knelt by Raphael’s body, clutched it, shook it.
“Raphael,” he whispered. He tasted tears of blood on his lips. “Baby brother. I didn’t mean it. Are you okay? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
Yet Raphael would not move. He was dead, Beelzebub knew, and that enraged him again. How dare his brother do this to him? Hurt him like this? I’m glad he died. I’m glad I killed him. He always opposed me, him and Michael. The two of them always hated me.
The rage blinded Beelzebub. He howled and splintered Raphael’s staff between his claws. He slammed at the alley wall, crushing it, stones cascading. Flapping his wings, he rose from the alley, besmeared in blood, wreathed in flame, howling in rage.
“Michael!” he shouted. “Where are you, Michael? You’re next! You’re next, brother. This world will be mine. Heaven will be mine!”
He flew over Jerusalem, mad with rage and horror, blasts of godlight flowing around him, columns of fire blazing, shells exploding. As he flew, he kept shouting Michael’s name. Raphael’s blood stained his clothes and hands.
Godlight burst ahead, and Michael rose in a pillar of sunrays, swan wings glinting, halo alight. He shone with more light than the seraphs, light that would normally burn Beelzebub’s eyes, but today he felt no pain. Michael, archangel, Lord of God’s Hosts, raised his lance and stared at Beelzebub above the battlefield.
“Beelzebub!” Michael cried over the din, voice stern, echoing, accusing.
“I am here,” he replied.
“What have you done, brother?”
Beelzebub laughed, holding out his hands, stained with Raphael’s blood. “Do you recognize this? It is archangel blood. I did what I should have done five thousand years ago. I’ve come to kill those who oppose me, who betrayed me, who banished me. Yes, Michael. I killed Raphael. I killed our baby brother. And now I’ll kill you.”
His tears painted the world in blood, and his rage burned more than the fire and light. He lunged toward Michael, swinging his sword.
16
Laila marched at the head of her army, wings unfurled, halo flaming, staring up from under her eyebrows, her blade slung over her back. Dust rose from under her boots, staining her pants, and the wind moaned through her hair. She held a handgun stuffed into each boot, just in case, and a string of grenades along her belt. Michael might not believe in guns, but Michael isn’t here now.
Behind Laila snaked her troops, tens of thousands of angels moving over the fields, dust clouding around them. Clouds veiled the sun and ash blew in the cold wind, dulling the gleam of angel wings and armor. Only their eyes glinted like beaten gold, almost demonic as they marched to war. Here were no angels of harps and psalms; these were angels of wrath and retribution, a hammer of God. These bastards are as mean as demons. Laila let a crooked smile find her lips, peeling back from her fangs. She couldn’t wait to meet Moloch again. I bring some friends this time.
They could have flown, but Laila ordered all troops remain aground until the invasion, to make their movements harder to track. Beelzebub would soon learn of this invasion, if he hadn’t already. This one will be a race against the clock, she knew. We’ll have to take the place, and fortify it, before Beelzebub crashes the party. A drizzle began to fall, softening the earth and dousing the dust, pattering against armor. The army seemed strangely silent as it marched. Their banners blew, thudding in the wind, their colors deep in the veiled light.
Soon they reached the lake, or what was left of it. The last of the water was draining into Angor’s tunnel, leaving a muddy bowl like a damp crater. Briefly, Laila wondered about Kayleigh. Would the girl stay by her tree, even with the water gone? I’ll block Angor’s tunnel once we’re done, Laila decided, and let rainwater refill the lake. When this war ends, and I hand the world over to Michael, I might never be able to visit here again, but I’d like Kayleigh to keep her lake. The girl was like her, like Volkfair, a lone wolf. Laila would look after her.
The army surrounded the emptied lake, an endless flock of swan wings. They polished their blades, drank wine for fortification, and banged spears against shields. Laila flapped her wings and rose into the sky, wreathed in flame, tendrils of fire licking her feet.
“We take Limbo today!” she shouted, so loud the whole army could hear. Her halo crackled and she snarled. “Today we kill Moloch.”
Puddles, aquatic plants, sunken boats, and bodies of fish covered the muddy lakebed. The last of the water soon disappeared, flowing down a tunnel in the center of the bowl, flowing into Hell. Laila swooped, encased in fire, and shot into the tunnel. With a cry that shook the world, her army took flight, swooped down, and flowed into the tunnel behind her.
The tunnel was dark, muddy, stinking of demon. Laila saw the marks of Angor’s claws, like great drills, etched into the walls. The tunnel was unsteady, Laila knew. It could collapse any moment, trapping her here between Earth and Hell, ending her quest, destroying Heaven’s army and probably letting Hell win this war. If that happens, so be it. It’s not a bad place to die, here underground. No one would have to worry about burying me, and no jackals would tug at my bones.
Yet as Laila moved down the tunnel, her army snaking behind, the walls stood. Angor was good at what he did. The archdemon lived to dig, and he had made them a worthy passage to Limbo. The tunnel coiled down like a screw, muddy, fish flapping across its floor. Water weeds tangled around Laila’s boots.
“Cozy down here,” spoke a voice behind her, and Laila looked over her shoulder to see Nathaniel. The light of her halo reflected in his chain mail.
“Stinks of fish,” she said.
“Limbo’s gonna stink worse.” Nathaniel fingered the blade of his spear. “Gonna stink of demon blood and guts.”
And some of angels too, Laila thought, remembering her time in Limbo twelve years ago. She would recognize Moloch’s fortress when she saw it again, she knew, and she had never forgotten Moloch’s face. She caressed her own blade. Remember what Michael taught you. You can use this blade. Michael forged it in Heaven to kill demons. You are strong, Laila. Soon Moloch will know this too.
Laila lost track of time as she led her army down the tunnel. In the darkness, her thoughts found no distraction to banish them, and she wondered about Bat El. Laila’s parents were dead, and Bat El was her only family. If she died here underground, Laila would only regret not seeing Bat El again. That realization made her snort. Are you getting soft, Laila? she asked herself. Why are you suddenly loving your sister? You grew up on Earth, Laila. Bat El grew up in Heaven. You barely know her.
Laila sighed. Things were different since she returned from exile. Bat El no longer lived pampered in Heaven, but was captive to Beelzebub. Is it jealousy I feel? Laila wondered. Do I still love Beelzebub? No, that was not it, at least not the sum of it. Laila lowered her head. Bat El used to care for me when I was a child, sending me letters from Heaven, toys I never played with, clothes she sewed for me, her younger, freakish sister. You’ve always looked out for me, Bat El, loved me when nobody else would. I’m going to look after you now. I’m going to save you from Beelzebub. That is, she thought, if Bat El even wanted to be saved. Beelzebub could be the charmer. Laila knew that all too well.
So lost in her thoughts was Laila, she barely noticed that the tunnel had become hotter, the air steamy. Soon the steam curled around her boots and matted her hair against her brow. “We’re close,” she said to Nathaniel. The wingless lieutenant nodded, spear in hand.
As she kept walking, a distant ruckus came from below. Laila focused her hearing. She thought she made out hammers, demon shouts, chanting. Hell. The sound grew louder, and soon all her troops heard. “Get to the tar!” came a high-pitched scream from below
. “Light the fire, I don’t care how wet you are, scum.” Boom. Crackle. Thud. “Demons, man your posts! Where’s my fire, damn it?” The shrieks were loud and shrill enough to shatter glass, and Laila fought the urge to cover her ears.
She drew her blade. Haloflame glimmered red in the light of her flaming halo. She looked over her shoulder, fangs bared. “Angels!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. “We go to Hell!”
They shouted back, and Laila ran down the tunnel, sword drawn, eyes aflame, screaming. She burst out of the tunnel into Hell, wreathed in flame and light.
+ + +
Bat El paced the fort’s main hall, demons surrounding her. The shades had orders not to harm her, but they gave her hungry stares, maws drooling, lusting after her. Whether they fantasized of raping her or eating her, Bat El did not know. Perhaps both. She tried to ignore them. Beelzebub will be back soon.
Or would he? Bat El had seen Michael fight and knew that the archangel could harm Beelzebub, perhaps the only one who could, aside from Laila. Why am I so worried about Beelzebub? I should want Michael to kill the devil. We came to this world to kill the devil, after all.
Bat El sighed. She did not know. So many things were different now than when this war began. Twenty-seven years ago, when the armies of Heaven and Hell first met on the mountain of Megido, Bat El had been just a girl. Things had been so simple then. God was good, Lucifer was bad. Angels were righteous, demons—monstrous. Yet it was Beelzebub now who ruled Hell, not Lucifer, and Laila—her younger sister whom she loved—was filled with demon blood. Bat El was older now. She had talked to angels who destroyed sinners, who burned the world, who cursed and drank and whored the way only demons should. I wish I could be a girl again. I wish I never met Beelzebub. Only she did not truly mean that, and it filled her with guilt.
A growl tore through her thoughts. A great black wolf burst through the windows, and Bat El screamed.
Volkfair!
The wolf she had healed leapt from demon to demon, biting. The shades shrieked and clawed, but Volkfair tore them apart like rag dolls.
“Don’t hurt him!” Bat El said, grabbed a spear from the wall, and began lashing at the demons. Soon the bodies of her captors littered the floor, blood dripping. Volkfair stood before her, panting, eyes pleading. He tugged at her tunic with bloody teeth.
More demons were clacking downstairs into the hall. Bat El leapt out the window, Volkfair at her side.
“You remembered me,” she said, tears in her eyes. Demons were flowing out of the fort behind. Bat El ran, Laila’s wolf at her side.
+ + +
“Return to your banishment,” Michael demanded, voice booming. His wings spread wide under the veiled sky, and his lance blazed. The battle for Jerusalem raged below, shells bursting, walls tumbling, demons and angels cutting one another down. “Don’t make me kill you like you killed our brother.”
Beelzebub smiled, his wings flapping, Raphael’s blood staining his hands. “We end things today,” he called over the booming battle below. “I killed one brother today, and now I kill the other. This war ends.”
He shot forward, drawing his sword, swiping the blade at Michael. Floating over the crumbling city, Michael raised his lance, blocking Beelzebub’s blow. Sword and lance shot out again, clanging, raising sparks. Hellfire and godlight burst and clashed, sizzling red and gold.
Beelzebub laughed as he fought, drunk on blood and rage and horror, heart still pounding with guilt. Michael fought with narrowed eyes, face stern.
“I bedded that girl of yours, that Bat El,” Beelzebub called out, half smirking, half snarling. He saw the pain in Michael’s eyes, just a hint, and his smirk grew. Michael loves the girl, he knew. He could see it. “She’s mine now, Michael. Gabriel’s daughter is with Hell’s camp. Your war is over.”
“Not while Laila is—”
Beelzebub’s sword sliced into Michael’s wing, cutting off his voice. Three white feathers fell from the sky, and Michael winced. Beelzebub barked a laugh. Michael’s lance thrust, banging into Beelzebub’s breastplate, denting it, knocking the breath out of him. His smile gone now, Beelzebub swung his sword again. He had never dueled with his brother before. The archangel was good. Beelzebub had never fought his better. He snarled, baring his fangs, and let his blade sing.
Sword and lance danced for a long time over the city. The devil and the archangel seemed to fight in a fireball of godlight and hellfire, ablaze over the ruins, and they kept fighting into darkness. The demons and angels watched below, cheering for their masters, brandishing their spears and claws.
Beelzebub was tired. He knew Michael was tired too. They’d been slugging it out for too long, for twenty-seven years here on this burned world. Yet Beelzebub would not lower his blade. Not until I slice off Michael’s head, or until he does the same to me. He growled, summoning all the fire within him for strength. You and God banished me from Heaven. I’m going to take that world from you, and then God will be the banished one.
A flash of godlight below caught his eye. Beelzebub faltered for a split second. Bat El! Bat El stood below, watching him duel, godlight glinting in her golden hair.
“Bat El,” Beelzebub whispered. He had to get her out of here. His demons would be killing every angel they found, they—
Michael’s lance slammed into his shoulder, cutting through Beelzebub’s armor to pierce his flesh. Beelzebub screamed, blood filling his shirt. Damn it, forget about Bat El now, concentrate—
Michael’s lance flew again, hitting the same spot, knocking Beelzebub into a spin. He tumbled through the sky, gritted his teeth, spread his wings, swung his sword. Yet he had lost his momentum, was a second behind the dance now. Michael’s fist slammed into Beelzebub’s face, and the fallen angel saw blinding light, and he fell from the sky.
The wind rushed around him, and he hit a cobbled street, cracking the stones. Pain burst. Michael swooped down upon him before Beelzebub could find his breath, and the lance tore into his thigh.
“Damn you, Michael!” Beelzebub screamed.
Michael placed his foot upon Beelzebub’s chest, pinning him down. The wind ruffled Michael’s burgundy cape and his wings spread wide. His halo and golden hair glowed. “You said we end this war today,” Michael said, eyes red, moist. “So be it, brother. I never wanted to fight you. I wanted to stop you from your mad war against my lord, but you would not listen. I love you, my brother, but you leave me no choice.”
As Beelzebub lay bloodied below, Michael raised his lance above Beelzebub’s neck. So it ends now, Beelzebub thought. Goodbye, Bat El. I love you.
“No!” came a sob from behind. Swan wings fluttered, and the hands of an angel grabbed Michael’s lance, staying his blow. Weeping, Bat El, daughter of Gabriel, half-sister of Laila, spread herself over Beelzebub, protecting him with her body.
“Please, Michael,” she wept, “don’t kill him. I love him.”
Michael reached down to pull her away, but Bat El had given the demons time enough to arrive. Shades swarmed over Michael, covering him with claws and leathery wings. As Michael hacked at them, Bat El helped Beelzebub up, and they took flight. He held onto her as they flew, leaving the city behind for the angels. His blood flowed and he felt close to death by the time they reached the fort. His head spun, and Bat El lay him in bed, and kissed him, weeping. Darkness overcame Beelzebub, lord of Hell, and he slept.
+ + +
Bat El lay on the bed by Beelzebub, running her hand through his dark curls as he slept. She had changed his clothes and bandaged his wounds, and fed him water and honey. Michael’s lance had driven deep into his shoulder and thigh, and his lip was bloody and swollen. As he slept, Bat El watched his wounds heal, smaller by the hour. A fallen angel was he, and no wounds would slow him down for long. Soon he would be up and back to his wars. Bat El found herself wishing he could sleep as long as possible, if only for the silence in this room, the brief respite from violence.
She sighed. I might as well look into getting my swan wi
ngs replaced with bat ones, she thought. How could she have done this?
“I came down to this world full of godlight and holy conviction,” she whispered to the sleeping Beelzebub. “Look what you did to me.”
Will God banish her from Heaven now? Could she ever return home? More than she cared about going home, Bat El worried for her own heart, worried whether evil was consuming her goodness, whether she had any goodness left within her at all. In this war, she had taken a stand against Heaven, had defended the devil. Armageddon could have ended in that battlefield. Michael could have slain his brother and ended the war, ushering in an era of peace, bringing light and godliness to the world. Yet now... what would happen now? To Earth, to her own soul?
Is this how Laila feels? she wondered. Is this how it feels to have both Heaven and Hell warring within you? For the first time, Bat El thought she could understand her sister, and knew why Laila had fled this war for so long. The true war between Heaven and Hell had always been fought within Laila’s heart, as it was now being fought within Bat El.
She stepped toward the window and looked out into the night. Through a clearing between the ash in the sky, she glimpsed a single star, soon veiled. Heaven was up there, she knew, and tears ran down Bat El’s face. She missed Heaven. She missed the old days, playing with her friends with rag balls, praying in the temples, wearing white dresses and placing ribbons in her hair. Those days would never return, she knew with a chill and lowered her head. She hated that she had ever come to Earth, ever thought she could do good here. This world instilled nothing but sin within her, and if her father ever saw her again, she knew the archangel would not recognize her.
“I’m sorry, dad,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Michael. I’m sorry, God. I know I don’t deserve forgiveness, and I don’t ask for any. I’m just sorry.”
Beelzebub’s voice came from the bed, weak. “I forgive you.”
She turned and looked down upon him. He still seemed pale, but slowly color was returning to him. “I never needed your forgiveness,” she said to him. “I don’t need forgiveness from the devil.”
