by Paula Guran
The angel dropped its wing. In the mirror, eyes shone like light on waves.
The angel made bail – Greyling never found out how – and vanished. The paperwork was useless: there was no name, no address, only an elegant sigil the angel had consented to scrawl as its signature, before being processed as a John Doe and put in an empty cell. Marching past the holding tank, Greyling had heard the howls and hoots of the day’s catch, seen fingers reaching out grubby-greedy for the frail-looking wings.
The victim called a few days later. Greyling never spoke to him, but there was a message left on his desk: the stolen things had been returned, anonymously. The case was closed, no need to look further, except he was still finding feathers on the back seat of his car a week later.
And other places. They drifted into his path. Once into his coffee: a small tuft floating on its oily black surface. He fished it out and looked skyward, where there was nothing but clouds and wires.
He lulled himself to sleep at home with windows cracked, just enough to let the sounds in, and when he woke he found feathers clinging to the windowsills. Pigeons, he told himself. He took one between his fingers, turning it. The shaft was pearly white; the barbs shimmered like silver. Pigeons. Like hell.
He didn’t catch the angel watching him until after a week of night shifts. Coming home in the light, that’s what did it – hard to miss that stretch of wings, perched like a gargoyle on a cornice across the street. It looked fresh from the sky, sun-washed and brilliant.
Greyling shut the curtains with a hard tug. If he – if it came here, landed on his narrow balcony, he’d have every right to shoot it. He still had his old .38 revolver, kept it oiled and loaded.
There was a rustling – wings scraping his windowsill. No time to get his old .38. His new service revolver would have to do. Wings mounted over his fireplace.
What happens to men that kill angels?
Instead of shooting, he opened the curtains, opened the window. The angel came in.
“You’ve been following me,” Greyling said.
“Will you take me into custody?”
It almost sounded like a joke; Greyling smiled. “Why are you here?”
The angel reached for him, long perfect fingers outstretched. Greyling sidestepped the possibility of touch.
“Please.”
“What the hell do I have that you could want?”
The angel shook long downy hair. “I have to show you. Please.”
“Show me what?”
“There is something gone wrong. Jason Greyling, will you not let me show you?”
Every word sounded like a prayer from that mouth, sweet as a bell. If he had to be charmed, at least it took this creature. He stepped forward, mouth gone dry.
“You have to see.”
The angel’s wings were massive around him, and silver-edged, wavering between their form and their function. Here, where he could touch them, they were as strong as a swan’s wing; they could break limbs. Where angels lived, they were as strong as the laws of physics.
Between those wings the world shook, and he saw: the whole of his life, like a sphere in his hand. Where it began, and where it ended. How on a perfect summer day, with laughter and the scent of frying onions in the air, he thought, It will never be better than this, how he went to the roof with his old .38 cradled in his hands and took a last long look at the sky, waiting for wings.
He stepped out of the white parabola. “And you don’t come.”
The angel’s perfect mouth turned down, a sculpture of despair. “You were never further away from me.”
Greyling laughed. “It’s your fault, isn’t it? That’s why you’re here. How did it end without you? Sixty, seventy, with my liver shot? Huh? Or in a cheap home. And that would have been better?”
“You have to live.”
“For how long?”
“For your lifetime.”
Angels’ wingtips sliced through time; their colorless eyes saw the whole of things. A stolen guitar, a feather in a cup of coffee: what consequences things had. And even angels made mistakes. He had become a ragged edge, a loose thread; he smiled. He wasn’t being fair, not at all. But then, what was?
“Then you’ll have to keep watching me.”
He took a desk job; it was that, or get used to a new partner. He could have, he supposed, but didn’t want to. Didn’t want to settle for second best. So he made a home behind his big metal slab, stamping paperwork. It didn’t matter. He was too tired for ambition.
A week after the angel left – two wingbeats, and into the air, from the railing of his balcony – he went to visit Mayer’s grave. He liked it: simple, another tombstone in a neat row under the shade of an ash tree. He didn’t stay long; he went home, went on with his life.
Some days he finds feathers floating around him, like a memory of snow, and smiles.
Maybe one day, when it’s summer and the sky is blue-gorgeous and shaky with heat, he’ll go up to the roof. And he’ll wait for wings.
Only Kids Are Afraid of the Dark
George R. R. Martin
A pair of nefarious adventurers stir up the supernatural evil of Saagael, Prince of Demons and Lord of Darkness, and eternal darkness soon rules the world. Never fear, a mystic avenger will save the world . . . and the virgin sacrifice tied to the altar. What compilation of demonic stories would be complete without a bit of devilishly sensational fiction? George R. R. Martin wrote this story while still a teenager; adapted to comic form for fanzine Star-Studded Comics #10, “Only Kids Are Afraid of the Dark” made Martin’s name in comic fandom. The author later went on to other claims to fame, but even as a kid, he could curdle your blood.
Through the silent, shifting shadows
Grotesque forms go drifting by;
Phantom shapes prowl o’er the darkness;
Great winged hellions stalk the sky.
In the ghostly, ghastly grayness
Soul-less horrors make their home.
Know they well this land of evil –
Corlos is the world they roam.
– found in a Central European cavern,
once the temple of a dark sect; author unknown
Darkness. Everywhere there was darkness. Grim, foreboding, omnipresent; it hung over the plain like a great stifling mantle. No moonlight sifted down; no stars shone from above; only night, sinister and eternal, and the swirling, choking gray mists that shifted and stirred with every movement. Something screeched in the distance, but its form could not be seen. The mists and the shadows cloaked all.
But no. One object was visible. In the middle of the plain, rising to challenge the grim black mountains in the distance, a smooth, needle-like tower thrust up into the dead sky. Miles it rose up to where the crackling crimson lightnings played eternally on the polished black rock. A dull scarlet light gleamed from the lone tower window, one single isle in a sea of night.
In the swirling mists below, things stirred uneasily, and the rustles of strange movements and scramblings broke the deathly silence. The unholy denizens of Corlos were uneasy, for when the light shone in the tower, it meant that its owner was at home. And even demons can know fear.
High in the summit of the black tower, a grim entity looked out of the single window at the yawning darkness of the plains and cursed them solemnly. Raging, the being turned from the swirling mist of the eternal night toward the well-lighted interior of its citadel. A whimper broke the silence. Chained helplessly to the marble wall, a hideous shape twisted in vain against its bonds. The entity was displeased. Raising one hand, it unleashed a bolt of black power toward the straining horror on the wall.
A shriek of agony cut the endless night, and the bonds went limp. The chained demon was gone. No sound disturbed the solitude of the tower or its grim occupant. The entity rested on a great batlike throne carved from some glowing black rock. It stared across the room and out the window, at the half-seen somethings churning through the dark clouds.
At last the
being cried aloud, and its shout echoed and re-echoed down the miles and miles of the sinister tower. Even in the black pit of the dungeons far below it was heard, and the demons imprisoned there shuddered in expectation of even greater agony, for the cry was the epitome of rage.
A bolt of black power shot from an upraised fist into the night. Something screamed outside, and an unseen shape fell writhing from the skies. The entity snarled.
“Feeble sport. There is better to be had in the realm of mortals, where once I reigned, and where I would roam once more, to hunt again for human souls! When will the commandment be fulfilled, and the sacrifice be made that will release me from this eternal exile?”
Thunder rumbled through the darkness. Crimson lightnings played among the black mountains. And the denizens of Corlos cringed in fear. Saagael, Prince of Demons, Lord of Corlos, King of the Netherworld, was angry and restless once more. And when the Lord of Darkness was displeased, his subjects were sent scrambling in terror through the mists.
For long ages the great temple had lain hidden by sand and jungle, alone and deserted. The dust of centuries had gathered on its floor, and the silence of eons brooded in the grim, dark recesses. Dark and evil it was, so generations of natives declared it taboo, and it stood alone through the ages.
But now, after timeless solitude, the great black doors carved with their hideous and forgotten symbols creaked open once more. Footsteps stirred the dust of three thousand years, and echoes disturbed the silence of the dark places. Slowly, nervously, with cautious glances into the darkness, two men sneaked into the ancient temple.
They were dirty men, unwashed and unshaven, and their faces were masks of greed and brutality. Their clothes were in rags, and they each carried long, keen knives next to their empty, useless revolvers. They were hunted men, coming to the temple with blood on their hands and fear in their hearts.
The larger of the two, the tall, lean one called Jasper, surveyed the dark, empty temple with a cold and cynical eye. It was a grim place, even by his standards. Darkness prevailed everywhere, in spite of the burning jungle sun outside, for the few windows there were had been stained a deep purple hue through which little light could pass. The rest was stone, a grim ebony stone carved centuries ago. There were strange, hideous murals on the walls, and the air was dank and stale with the smell of death. Of the furnishings, all had long decayed into dust save the huge black altar at the far end of the room. Once there had been stairs leading to a higher level, but they were gone now, rotted into nothingness.
Jasper unslung his knapsack from his back and turned to his short, fat companion. “Guess this is it, Willie,” he said, his voice a low guttural rumble. “Here’s where we spend the night.”
Willie’s eyes moved nervously in their sockets, and his tongue flicked over dry lips. “I don’t like it,” he said. “This place gives me th’ creeps. It’s too dark and spooky. And lookit them things on the walls.” He pointed toward one of the more bizarre of the murals.
Jasper laughed, a snarling, bitter, cruel laugh from deep in his throat. “We got to stay some place, and the natives will kill us if they find us out in the open. They know we’ve got those sacred rubies of theirs. C’mon, Willie, there’s nothing wrong with this joint, and the natives are scared to come near it. So it’s a little dark . . . big deal. Only kids are afraid of the dark.”
“Yeah, I . . . I guess yer right,” Willie said hesitantly. Removing his knapsack, he squatted down in the dust next to Jasper and began removing the makings of a meal. Jasper went back out into the jungle and returned minutes later, his arms laden with wood. A small fire was started, and the two squatted in silence and hastily consumed their small meal. Afterward they sat around the fire and spoke in whispers of what they would do in civilization with the sudden wealth they had come upon.
Time passed, slowly but inexorably. Outside, the sun sank behind the mountains in the west. Night came to the jungle.
The temple’s interior was even more foreboding by night. The creeping darkness that spread from the walls put a dampener on conversation. Yawning, Jasper spread his sleeping bag out on the dust-covered floor and stretched out. He looked up at Willie. “I’m gonna call it a day,” he said. “How about you?”
Willie nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Guess so.” He hesitated. “But not on the floor. All that dust . . . could be bugs . . . spiders, mebbe. Nightcrawlers. I ain’t gonna be bit all night in my sleep.”
Jasper frowned. “Where, then? Ain’t no furniture left in the place.”
Willie’s hard dark eyes traveled around the room, searching. “There,” he exclaimed. “That thing looks wide enough to hold me. And the bugs won’t be able to get at me up there.”
Jasper shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said. He turned over and soon was asleep. Willie waddled over to the great carven rock, spread his sleeping bag open on it, and clambered up noisily. He stretched out and closed his eyes, shuddering as he beheld the carving on the ceiling. Within minutes his stout frame was heaving regularly, and he was snoring.
Across the length of the dark room Jasper stirred, sat up, and peered through the gloom at his sleeping companion. Thoughts were running feverishly through his head. The natives were hot on their trail, and one man could move much faster than two, especially if the second was a fat, slow cow like Willie. And then there were the rubies gleaming wealth, greater than any he had ever dreamed of. They could be his, all his.
Silently Jasper rose, and crept wolflike through the blackness toward Willie. His hand went to his waist, and extracted a slim, gleaming knife. Reaching the dais, he stood a moment and looked down on his comrade. Willie heaved and tossed in his sleep. The thought of those gleaming red rubies in Willie’s knapsack ran again through Jasper’s brain. The blade flashed up, then down.
The fat one groaned once, briefly, and blood was spilled on the ancient sacrificial altar.
Outside, lightning flashed from a clear sky, and thunder rumbled ominously over the hills. The darkness inside the temple seemed to deepen, and a low, howling noise filled the room. Probably the wind whistling through the ancient steeple, thought Jasper, as he fumbled for the jewels in Willie’s knapsack. But it was strange how the wind seemed to be whispering a word, lowly and beckoningly. “Saagael,” it seemed to call softly. “Saaaaagael . . .”
The noise grew, from a whisper to a shout to a roar, until it filled the ancient temple. Jasper looked around in annoyance. He could not understand what was going on. Above the altar, a large crack appeared, and beyond it mist swirled and things moved. Darkness flowed from the crack, darkness blacker and denser and colder than anything Jasper had ever witnessed. Swirling, shifting, it gathered itself into a pocket of absolute black in one corner of the room. It seemed to grow, to change shape, to harden, and to coalesce.
And quickly it was gone. In its place stood something vaguely humanoid; a large, powerful frame clad in garments of a soft, dark grey. It wore a belt and a cape, leathery things made from the hide of some unholy creature never before seen on earth. A hood of the cape covered its head, and underneath it only blackness stared out, marked by two pits of final night darker and deeper than the rest. A great batlike clasp of some dark, glowing rock fastened the cape in place.
Jasper’s voice was a whisper. “W-w-who are you?”
A low, hollow, haunting laughter filled the recesses of the temple and spread out through the night. “I? I am War, and Plague, and Blood. I am Death, and Darkness, and Fear.” The laughter again. “I am Saagael, Prince of Demons, Lord of Darkness, King of Corlos, unquestioned Sovereign of the Netherworld. I am Saagael, he whom your ancestors called the Soul-Destroyer. And you have called me.”
Jasper’s eyes were wide with fear, and the rubies, forgotten, lay in the dust. The apparition had raised a hand, and blackness and night gathered around it. Evil power coursed through the air. Then, for Jasper, there was only darkness, final and eternal.
Halfway around the world, a spectral figure in gold and green sti
ffened suddenly in mid-flight, its body growing tense and alert. Across the death-white features spread a look of intense concern, as the fathomless phantom-mind once again became in tune with the very essence of its being. Doctor Weird recognized the strange sensations; they were telling him of the presence of a supernatural evil somewhere on the earth. All he had to do was to follow the eerie emanations drawing him like a magnet to the source of the abominable activities.
With the speed of thought, the spectral figure flashed away toward the east, led swiftly and unwaveringly to the source of evil; mountains, valleys, rivers, woodlands zipped under him with eye-blurring speed. Great seacoast cities appeared on the horizon, their skyscrapers leaning on the heavens. Then they, too, vanished behind him, and angry, rolling waves moved below. In a wink a continent had been spanned; in another an ocean was crossed. Earthly limits of speed and matter are of no consequence to a spirit; and suddenly it was night.
Thick, clutching jungles appeared below the Golden Ghost, their foliage all the more sinister by night. There was a patch of desert, a great roaring river, more desert. Then the jungle again. Human settlements popped up and vanished in the blink of an eye. The night parted in front of the streaking figure.
Doctor Weird stopped. Huge and ominous, the ancient temple appeared suddenly in front of him, its great walls hiding grim and evil secrets. He approached cautiously. There was an aura of intense evil here, and the darkness clung to the temple thicker and denser than to the jungle around it.
Slowly and warily the Astral Avenger approached a huge black wall. His substance seemed to waver and fade as he passed effortlessly through it into the blackened inside.
Doctor Weird shuddered as he beheld the interior of that dread sanctum; it was horribly familiar to him now. The dark, hideous murals, the row on row of felted, ebony benches, and the huge statue that stared down from above the altar marked this unclean place as a temple of a long-forgotten sect; those who had worshipped one of the black deities that lurk Beyond. The earth had been cleaner when the last such had died out.
