Hellcats: Anthology

by Kate Pickford

  “Yes, sir.” The demon hurried out of the room.

  Azazel turned back to the soul, currently hanging upside down from one of the Inquisition’s more creative inventions. He stabbed a paw at the equation. “What is this?”

  “I, well, it’s upside down…”

  “I can call the demon back in and get him to turn you inside out, if you think that would help.”

  “Er, no, no no, thank you, um…Good God.”

  Azazel rolled his eyes. You could take the soul out of the human, but you couldn’t take the human out of the soul.

  “It’s, well, it’s revolutionary. You see, when Einstein, may the Devil take him…”

  Azazel couldn’t be bothered to tell him Einstein was in a different department altogether and definitely hadn’t been taken by the Morningstar. He could be bothered, however, to make this crepulous waste of breath focus.

  Words shrivelled in the soul’s throat as Azazel’s claws extended. The soul blinked and an eyelash drifted to the floor.

  “I’m on a schedule,” Azazel ground out.

  “It’s a formula for almost unlimited power generation using solar rays and mushrooms.”

  Now it was Azazel’s turn to blink. “Mushrooms?”

  The soul started to nod, then thought better of it.

  “Huh.”

  Angela wasn’t just a soul. She held the key to revolutionising the world, changing its path. Changing its people.

  She was a lynchpin. Saving her could make Earth a brighter place. Less desperation. Less sin.

  Safer for the innocent. Fewer desperate souls tipping over into the darkness. Far more challenging for a Fallen Angel with a quota to fill.

  Probably more Dreamies, too.

  And art and music and all that good stuff.

  Decision made, Azazel’s wings extended once more and he teleported back inside the warehouse. A handy fact about Hell-portals—they could go anywhere. Belial’s lattice trick only worked on Earth to Earth teleportation.

  Seconds had passed, but Timothy was trying to control his expression. He was happy, relaxed, confident.

  Too confident. Azazel saw the cards, including those which hadn’t yet been turned over. Belial had cheated, of course, but that wouldn’t make a difference. Just as the last card was about to be turned, Azazel nudged it, just a couple of points.

  Enough to make Timothy a winner.

  Enough to free him of Roth and get him and Angela out of here before the consequences struck.

  Azazel’s eyes blazed like fire opals in the darkness.

  Punish the wicked. Protect the innocent. And all in the face of one of the most powerful Fallen Angels, who was almost certainly nursing a grudge over that business in Gomorrah.

  Now, this was a challenge worthy of Azazel’s feline self.

  He allowed himself a moment of smug satisfaction. Satisfaction which curdled in his throat as Timothy’s cards changed in the same moment. Belial had veiled them, well enough that even Azazel had barely been able to tell. Not that he could have done anything about it.

  Timothy’s face turned green, his jaw slack. He’d been so sure he’d won. Of course he had. Belial had wanted him to bet his daughter, knowing it would crush him to lose her so directly to his gambling addiction. He would now deem Timothy another soul deserving of Hell, and another nail in Roth’s eternal coffin.

  The creature himself appeared beside Azazel. “Came to see how it’s done, Zazzle?”

  “We do not entrap the innocent,” bit out Azazel, his fangs extending.

  “Of course we do,” said Belial. “That’s what they’re there for. Besides, if they were truly innocent, we wouldn’t be able to entrap them. Either way, they end up in Hell, feeding our power.”

  “We are not here to feed our power,” said Azazel, his claws growing longer and thicker, punching through the concrete floor.

  Belial looked down at him and shook his head. “You just don’t get it, do you? We’re not angels anymore, Azazel. We’re demons. We were cast out of our Father’s house. All we have is our power, and now even the Morningstar has walked away from his eternal task. Who is going to ensure all our demons continue to survive? Who will make sure the darkness prevails?”

  “Why should the darkness prevail?” Azazel asked. “We are here to punish the wicked, not reward them.”

  Belial snorted. “The law of unintended consequences, my old friend. They think they’re being rewarded for their wicked ways, but when we finally drag them home, they’ll find out the truth.”

  Azazel could see he wasn’t getting through but he had to try. They’d been brothers once, albeit a very, very long time ago. “What about all the innocents they corrupt while you encourage their evil ways?”

  Belial’s lip curled like Ahab’s arm, beckoning his followers to Hell. “There are no innocents, Azazel. It was a lie told to us by our Father, like all the other lies. There are only degrees of evil, and they all belong in Hell.”

  Azazel could have told him evil was a scale, not a binary concept. He could have told him it wasn’t their job to judge where innocence became evil, that it hadn’t been since that ill-advised incident in a garden, so very long ago.

  He could have said a lot of things, all of them true.

  All of them pointless.

  He sighed. “Do you remember Gomorrah?”

  Belial’s eyes narrowed. “I remember.”

  “You said you’d kill me.”

  “I said I remember,” snarled Belial, his voice deep and hard as coal.

  “Now’s your chance,” said Azazel, as he exploded into a pillar of fire, slashing burning claws across Belial’s face. In the single moment of time it took Belial to realise what was happening, Azazel wrapped a veil around Timothy and Angela and punched a hole through Belial’s lattice, dumping them on the pavement outside.

  “Run!” He hissed at them, then snarled as Belial’s fist slammed into his face.

  Grit and wasps filled the air, burning up in tiny moving pyres as Belial’s anger filled the room, battling his fellow Fallen’s fury. Azazel saw Mezrael moving in from the side and whipped him sideways with one flick of his tail, now several feet longer, and a lot thicker, than before. A flaming spar fell from the ceiling, pinning him to the floor. He gasped and clawed futilely at the hardened steel, held in place with Azazel’s adamantine will.

  Azazel aimed a second makeshift spear at Belial, who batted it aside as if it were a toothpick.

  “How disappointing,” he grated, metal grinding, like diamonds on glass. “I swore then that I’d take your wings, banish you to Hell where you belong, you pointless, weakling bag of piss and nostalgia.”

  “I take exception to that,” said Azazel, gasping as Belial’s power skated over his side, scoring away fur and skin and flesh. “Nostalgia absolutely has its place, even in Hell. Don’t you remember the good old days, when we had that jukebox which only played Simply Red’s Greatest Hits, no matter which button you pressed?”

  Belial didn’t bother answering in words. Instead he sent a tsunami of metal and gravel and hornets towards Azazel, who twisted in mid-air, wings flickering as he desperately tried to avoid the onslaught.

  He could teleport away. He knew that. Open a portal to Hell and leave this behind.

  The problem was Roth. Timothy and Angela wouldn’t be safe from him until he was dead and suffering the agonies of the thrice-damned down below.

  And Belial. This fight had been a long time coming. It was time to end this foolishness. Azazel had no intention of losing his Earth privileges, but with Lucifer gone from Hell, he had no backup. If he wanted to retain said privileges, he was going to have to fight for them, and after what he’d seen and heard today, he was in the mood for a scrap.

  The biggest problem, of course, was that Belial was attacking him with things which weren’t necessarily flammable, which was very inconvenient. Frankly, it bordered on rude.

  Superheated metal was still damn dangerous, even to a Fallen Angel, par
ticularly when the one wielding it infused everything with his own rotten power, making it far more than mere metal. Azazel was running out of ways to twist as he struggled to avoid Belial’s murderous onslaught. Just as he figured out how one wave was falling, another came at him from the side. He flung fire around him, flames and burning plasma arcing through the air.

  Eventually his luck ran out and he was knocked to the floor. Belial’s scorched foot pressing down on his belly, one blackened hand wrapped around his wings. He lifted Azazel by his wings, and brought him close to his face.

  “You always were one of the weakest,” Belial muttered. “Morningstar’s favourite, too. He may be free to wander Earth, acting like he never Fell at all, but you, little brother, will stay below. For all eternity.”

  “Good speech,” gasped Azazel as Belial’s other hand tightened around his shoulders. He could feel the pressure on his wings. This jealous piece of crap was going to rip them right off and send him back to hell now. Belial’s own wings extended into the air just inches away, dull and black and oily.

  “I’ve been practicing,” said Belial. “I’ve wanted to say that to you for millennia.”

  Azazel nodded. “There is just one thing,” he said, trying not to wince as his wings stretched in Belial’s grip.

  “What?” Belial sounded bored, barely even listening.

  “Without wings, you won’t be able to come up here either.”

  Belial frowned, confused. “I have wings.”

  Azazel grinned through flayed gums. “Think again.”

  Another benefit of the feline form no one ever really thought about until they got into a situation like this. The ability to twist like a tornado in a teacup.

  Azazel’s lower body spun around, his hind legs whipping through the air, claws extending into talons which sliced through Belial’s dark wings like an archangel’s sword.

  The archdemon’s roar of pain and fury shattered the beams supporting the roof of the warehouse. As the ceiling wavered and collapsed, Azazel extended his front claws and stabbed them right through Belial’s chest.

  “You’re not going back to Hell,” he hissed. “You don’t deserve immortality. You don’t deserve anything, and that’s exactly what you’re going to get.”

  A scream to his left signalled Roth’s demise,, and he felt that warm curl of satisfaction as Roth’s friends and bodyguards succumbed soon after. Hell had an excellent accounting system when it came to who brought in what.

  “How’s my quota looking now, tipwad?”

  As eighty tons of steel and glass crashed down on them, Azazel had the satisfaction of seeing Belial’s flesh disintegrate around his claws, collapsing into oily ash. Denied the possibility of returning to Hell by Azazel’s grip on his immortal heart, the greasy black substance that used to be Belial scattered across the warehouse floor before evaporating into nothing.

  He immolated the heart, then smiled. Punish the wicked. Protect the innocent. With Roth’s death, the other almost-but-not-quite crushed girls he’d seen at the earlier poker game would also be freed, as would any poor innocents his friends had controlled. Mission accomplished.

  And then a beam landed on his head and everything went dark.

  Sunlight shone warm and bright on Azazel’s eyelids, but everything hurt and he didn’t feel like waking up just yet.

  “Come on, lazybones. I’ve got somewhere to be, you know.”

  Azazel frowned. He knew that voice. He also knew there was no way he could possibly be hearing it. That voice would never be kind to him, and for all it sounded impatient, underneath was a definite tone of…kindness.

  “Azazel, I swear, if you don’t wake up now, I’m taking these wings back.”

  Azazel’s eyes popped open. “Can’t ha’ my ‘ings,” he slurred, then coughed. Immortality conferred a lot of benefits, but demonic rage inflicted very real damage, and Belial’s had been spectacular.

  “Well, tough. I’ve got orders. Not everyone gets to just walk away and make up their own rules, you know.”

  Azazel blinked. “What the…” He focused on the pale face in front of him, then closed his eyes again. “You owe me eighteen shekels.”

  A lot of people thought angels couldn’t get angry. They were wrong. Who did they think wielded the wrath of God?

  Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “Wings, Azazel. Wings.”

  “I already have wings. Tell you what. Come downstairs and I’ll let you buy me a drink.”

  Gabriel made a wordless noise of frustration and stepped back. “Fine. Figure them out yourself. And try to be discreet. Your new boss has rules.”

  His own glowing white wings fluttered briefly, and then he disappeared.

  Azazel rolled his eyes. Angels. So dramatic. He stretched experimentally, wincing at the discomfort. It wasn’t as bad as it had been, though. He looked up at the ceiling, noting the pattern of blue and red stars. Unusual colour choice, but—

  Sound from below drew his attention, and he frowned. Looked around again.

  This was definitely not a collapsed warehouse.

  It looked more like…a teenage girl’s bedroom?

  He hopped down off the bed, catching himself with his wings as he realised his balance wasn’t the best right now. Something fluttered against his back, and he looked over his shoulder, then fell over in shock.

  “What the…Gabriel!!”

  Azazel’s black bat wings had gone. In their place were...stubs. Tiny, fluffy, white, stubs.

  “GABRIEL!!!”

  The archangel reappeared. “No need to shout.”

  He looked insufferably smug. Azazel glared at him. “What in the thirteen circles of Hell happened to my wings?”

  “They were trashed when the warehouse collapsed. I was told to get you replacements. Something to do with sacrifice and forgiveness and all that crap.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous! I punished the wicked. Protected the innocent. I want to go back to Hell!”

  Gabriel arched a perfect eyebrow. “Really?”

  His voice dropped with disbelief.

  “Fine,” snapped Azazel. “I want the option to go back to Hell. It’s my home. It’s…”

  “Cut the crap, Azazel. At this rate, you’ll drown in it. You’ve got new wings. Be grateful. You’d have been trapped in Hell forever if His Grace hadn’t stepped in.”

  Azazel sighed. This was not how he’d seen things going at all. Angels had a lot more rules to follow. Even worse, they had ethics.

  “Oh, one more thing,” said Gabriel, snapping his fingers and not even trying to hide his grin. “You’ll notice they’re on the small side. You’ll be stuck here until they grow in. Consider this placement your probationary period.”

  He disappeared in a cloud of smugness before Azazel could even figure out what he meant.

  “You still owe me eighteen shekels!” he yelled at empty air.

  He looked around the room. There was a litter tray, which he’d die before using. A comfortable bed. A large window. Posters. Dolls.

  He shuddered. When some bright spark came up with the idea for Chucky, Azazel had been on the approval committee. Dolls were definitely demonic.

  He teleported to the ground floor.

  At least, he meant to. Instead, nothing happened.

  “Oh, for crying out loud. Come on, let’s go.” He flicked his new, albeit embarrassingly small, wings for good measure.

  Nothing.

  Flick.

  Nothing.

  Flickflickflick.

  Nothing.

  Then he groaned. That’s what Gabriel meant. So, no teleporting for a while.

  “Dear God,” he muttered. “I’ll let Gabriel off for the eighteen shekels if you let me teleport.”

  Nothing.

  Oh well, it was worth a try.

  The door was ajar and he slipped out and down the stairs. He took a moment to get his bearings, then followed voices to the kitchen.

  “Do you think he likes salmon?” A young female’s voice
. It sounded like Angela.

  “I don’t know, sweetie. Why don’t you give him some and see what happens?” Timothy seemed like a reasonable man. But why was Azazel in their house?

  “I just want him to be happy here. I mean, after he helped us.”

  “You do remember you can’t go around just telling folks we got saved by a telepathic cat, right?”

  Angela, for it was definitely her, rolled her eyes at her father. Azazel jumped up on the counter, vaguely aware that there was hardly any pain now.

  “Hey, kitty!” Angela reached out to him, offering him her hand to sniff. It smelled of smoked salmon and Azazel licked it. She giggled. “I think he likes salmon.”

  “Salmon. Tuna. Steak. Medium rare, of course. Whatever you’ve got going, really.”

  Silence fell like a ton of pillows, thick and heavy.

  “Daddy.”

  “Yes, honey.”

  “Did…you heard him talk, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Azazel stared at them both, only just realising they were staring right back. “You heard me?”

  That was a first.

  Angela nodded. Her father was frozen at the stove, bacon smoking in the pan.

  “Careful, Timothy,” said Azazel. “That’s going to burn.”

  “Oh, cr—bother!” Timothy concentrated on rescuing the bacon and shortly afterwards dished up two plates of crispy bacon and fluffy scrambled eggs. He and Angela looked at each other, then at Azazel.

  “I could eat,” he admitted, and a minute later they were all tucking in, Azazel eating from a brand new bowl with ‘Fluffy’ written on it.

  That was going.

  Just as soon as he finished eating.

  While he digested, he decided this wasn’t the worst angel placement ever. Timothy had got the bacon just right.

  Angela took him upstairs with her after breakfast, promising to fill him in on everything that had happened since the warehouse collapsed. She sat cross-legged in the centre of the bed and started talking.

  No doubt it was all very important stuff. Things he should know to put all this in context and help him figure out how best to protect these two, and how to cope with everyday life without being able to teleport. He was also pretty sure the angels’ rule book was longer than his tail.