by C. F. Waller
“Vile mortal,” Phoebe screams, raising the spear over his unconscious form. “You will not touch me.”
Before she can bring the spear down her midsection glows bright yellow. There is a moment where a confused look crosses her face, but it’s fleeting. As if ignited from inside, red and blue flames flick out of her mouth and nose. In this confused state, she falls over in a pile of glowing ash. Possibly Arron’s love was more mutual than I previously thought. On the steps, Rahnee tries to turn the gun back on Rhea, but it’s too late. She is caught by the throat and driven into the door, her feet a foot off the ground. When she tries to raise the shotgun with one hand Rhea bats it away, sending it spinning across the floor in front of the long table.
As I watch the gun skid past, the key rolls out of Arron’s hand and falls between my feet. He’s groggy, moaning and covering his nose with his other hand, but the key was not lost in the burned remains of Phoebe. I pause, unsure if picking it up is the correct move for me at this point. On the steps, Rhea holds Rahnee to the door by the throat. One wing has burned down to a grotesque stump. Like a chicken wing, it sticks up past her shoulder and hooks in a right angle, but the rest is gone. The glorious plumage has been devoured by Hellfire, whatever that is. The good wing, if we can call it that, will soon be a match. Dirty grey feathers glow red as they fall away.
“Not flying anywhere now,” Rahnee gasps, struggling to pry the hand from around her neck. “Not so pretty now.”
“You went to hell once,” Rhea barks in her captive’s face. “Lucifer himself could not stand you in his presence and returned you like rotten fruit.”
“I guarantee he will prefer you,” she croaks and coughs. “Hideous wingless Angel.”
“Is there some strategic advantage to your mockery?” she tilts her head, then traces the tip of the sword down the front of Rahnee’s jacket, cutting the buttons free.
It is a forgone conclusion that Miss Ben-Ahron is about to be murdered in horrific fashion. While this is an unavoidable truth for all of us, there is one thing that bothers me. Jennifer should not have to watch. Snatching the key, I rush across the hall behind Rhea. I stumble several times, focusing on Jennifer and not the likelihood Rhea will turn around. Jenn is waiting, hand out for the key when I arrive. She takes it, fumbling with the lock on her wrist.
Behind me Rhea has cut open the front of Rahnee’s shirt displaying the pasty white skin around her bellybutton.
“Got it,” Jenn shouts, tossing the shackle down.
At the door Rhea drives the sword through her victim, then steps back leaving her pinned to the door. The hilt of the sword is inches from her impaled victims skin, meaning the better part was driven through the thick wood. Rahnee spits at her drawing only amusement.
“You should not have come back,” Rhea taunts. “Run along back to hell and burn with your friends. I’ll not be seeing you anytime soon.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Rahnee laughs, spitting blood at her tormentor. “They have prepared a place for you as well.”
“Unlikely.”
Having had her fill, Rhea wraps her hand around Rahnee’s throat and crushes it. I turn to shade Jennifer’s view, but she’s gone. Rhea pulls the sword out of the door, dropping the corpse awkwardly. The Queen slowly turns in my direction, her green eyes blazing. It would appear my time has come. I was almost last. She takes a step in my general direction, but is then struck from behind by an object thrown by Arron. She cranes her neck to scowl at him, then glances down to see Phoebe’s head rolling to a stop at her feet.
“You,” she snarls. “Your father’s previous attempt to burn me aside, your time has now come.”
I hesitate to watch her tear into Arron, who while we have disagreed on several key points, I have grown fond of. Rhea moves towards him but he’s looking past her. What is he looking at?
“Dorian Faust,” Rhea calls out, invoking the name of Arron’s father. “May you look up from hell and see my handiwork.”
“Edward move,” Jennifer’s high pitched voice cries out. “Get out of the way.”
Rushing at me, down the length of the long table, Jennifer carries the shotgun in both hands. Rhea pauses as she passes close by. She watches perplexed as the gun toting young girl makes no attempt to shoot her.
“You can wound me, but you can never strike me down with that pathetic toy,” she complains.
“I know,” Jennifer exhales, passing me and leveling the shotgun at the Iron Maiden. “I can’t beat you, none of us can.”
“Then why—,” Rhea begins but her voice trails off, a horrified look coming over her face. “No.”
“Because the enemy of my enemy,” Jenn recites, lifting the gun to her small shoulder. “Is my friend.”
The gun fires, the molten shell colliding with the huge padlock. It holds strong, but the fire sticks to it like jelly. Slowly it melts, falling to the floor in a cloud of yellow embers.
“Bullseye.” Jenn coughs, the black smoke from the blast swirling around her head. “That should level the playing field.”
The lid of the Iron Maiden bursts outward, coming off the hinges, nearly missing Jenn. What emerges isn’t man or angel, but a block of stone. Square blocks hinged as if they were arms and legs fly past me, the heavy stone feet crushing the tiles every time they contact the marble.
“What have you done girl,” the Queen gulps, bringing the sword up in front of her.
She tries to brace herself, but the man of stone runs right through her, driving her into the marble floor. Once on top, he pummels her with blows from granite fists. Rhea raises the sword over her head with both hands and tries to impale the creature through the eye, but the blade breaks off and clatters to the tiles. Somehow, she survives a flurry of bone crushing blows. As the punches land, gold and silver glitter swarm about repairing any damage inflicted. Lifting one leg to her chin, she scissors her opponent across the head and turns the tables, winding up on top. With both hands, she tries to choke the monster, but there is barley a neck. As quickly as she escapes, a stone hand catches her by the throat and flips her back underneath. His arm rises up and prepares to crush her skull, but freezes midway down. The torches flicker and blow out as a chilly wind circles the hall like a choreographed wave at a sporting event. We all stand in darkness for over a minute awaiting whatever comes next.
“Let’s not ruin our new attraction,” a squeaky voice calls out from thin air. “We seek not to destroy, but capture.”
The wind reverses its course and the light returns to the hall. Pacing around the frozen monster of stone is an odd little man in a bowler hat. He wears a purple pinstripe suit, golden accents shimmering in the fire light. Black shoes with pointed toes a foot-long drag through the dust of crushed marble. Rhea, who is held tight by a stone hand, is not frozen and turns her head to look upon the new addition to the battle. Who the heck is this guy? Has God made an appearance?
“No,” he remarks as if my query was voiced aloud. “I am not,” he pauses, then points his pipe at the ceiling, rolling his eyes.
“Then who,” Rhea chokes out, the marble fist still around her throat.
“I represent a deity with an underground address,” he chuckles, then waves the pipe at her. “Time for you to go. You have several pressing engagements.”
“I what—?” Rhea complains
Under her, the floor turns to jelly, then liquid. A tide pool of sorts begins to spin as if a toilet was being flushed. Both she and the stone man are dragged to the center, her muffled screams sending a chill up my spine. Her right hand clings to the edge of the molten pool for a moment, then the marble under her fingers cracks. She shrieks, but loses her grip when it breaks off and she disappears. The swirling of the liquid marble slows and as it does, hardens. It’s doesn’t reform smooth as before, but wavy, like the surface of water. To what end have they fallen.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The odd man in the purple suit scans the room and points his pipe taking a head count.
“Arron Faust, Jennifer Faust and Edward Grey, all three still breathing,” he mutters. “Better than expected. He will be pleased.”
“You have me at a disadvantage,” I remark, moving closer for a better look. “You would be?”
“Balthazar, personal assistant to,” he relates, then pauses to point his pipe down.
Arron meets me in the center where Jenn awaits. Our new friend, or savior, although that word stings just from thinking it, paces around the room studying the carnage. He pauses to tap the pointed toe of his shoe on Phoebe’s head, causing it to roll one unburned eye up.
“Really didn’t care for this one,” he mutters, poking it again so the eye turns away from him. “Although she was pretty to look at.”
His inflection is comical, bordering on demented. There is a shuffling noise behind us, drawing my attention off Mr. Balthazar. Zerk is crawling out from under the tablecloth and tries to escape out the left corridor. I doubt there is a way out to fresh air in any direction, but the front, but he’s off and running. He freezes before getting away, frozen mid-step.
“I’ll be with you in just a moment,” Balthazar remarks, his pipe pointed at Zerk like a magic wand.
“So what happens to us?” Jenn demands.
“Nothing, your presence offends the Almighty,” Balthazar recites, taking a puff off his pipe. “Go about your lives. Please continue your blasphemous existence.”
“That’s it, just go home?” Jenn shrugs.
“We have no agreement that binds us.”
“What about the Queen?” I inquire. “Where have you taken her?”
“All that you need to know is that she won’t be trying to kill you any longer.”
“So you say, but where is she?” Jenn presses.
To this, he simply looks down and nods at his shoes. Didn’t he say his goal was to capture, not destroy?
“You took her to hell as a prisoner?” I ask.
“No,” he snaps, waving his pipe at me. “An attraction. Never before has one of the Lords Angels travelled to Hades. She will be a source of great amusement for all to see.”
“Fallen Angel is more like it,” Arron grunts.
“We make no such petty distinctions below.”
“Why would God allow that?” Jenn frowns.
“God does not rule here,” he lectures, waving his pipe and turning a complete circle in a wildly theatrical way. “He rules the heavens, while Lucifer rules the earth.”
“Until his son’s return,” Jennifer contends.
“Point for the lady.”
“I need to read the bible more,” Arron sighs, rubbing the knot on his head.
While this exchange is interesting, I am left pondering father Michaels words.
“Did you have a deal with Rahnee?” I ask, nodding in her corpse’s direction. “You put the Hellfire inside her. You must have had an agreement, allowing her to return.”
“They didn’t allow anything,” Jenn proclaims. “I brought her—.”
“Do not be so vain young lady,” Balthazar snaps. “No one leaves without my master opening the door.”
“So there was a deal?” Arron butts in.
To this he nods and coughs, putting a hand over his mouth as reddish pipe smoke comes out his nose.
“And the terms?” I demand.
“It’s really none of your concern,” he huffs, but sees all eyes staring back. “Fine, she agreed to incapacitate the Angel in a way that would allow her capture.”
“So you got what you wanted?” Jenn exclaims. “Now bring her back.”
Balthazar taps his pipe on the front of his jacket, strolling over to the steps where Rahnee lays, her chest eviscerated from Rhea’s blade. He begins to speak several times, raising his pipe, then dropping it.
“What’s the problem?” Arron complains.
“Our deal merely stated that she be allowed to stay once the task was completed. There was no agreement concerning her death and subsequent return to hell.”
“She’s in hell?” Jenn cries out.
“My girl, where else might she expect to spend eternity?” he groans and pauses. “Candyland?”
“Wait,” Arron remarks. “If she’s allowed to stay just send her back. No harm, no foul.”
“Yeah,” Jenn cries in agreement. “Give her back.”
“Two problems with that,” Balthazar explains, holding up two fingers. “One, as you can see there is a rather large hole in the woman.”
“And the second?” Jenn scowls, arms crossed over her chest.
“The second is that resurrection does not fall under my job description. Only the Son can perform that little trick and I doubt he is going to make an appearance for your dear departed mother.”
If Rahnee and devil had a deal, then Gods not likely to help out. Not to mention he lost a perfectly good fallen angel. Helen had described her as one of his chosen.
“But you’d let her go?” Jenn asks.
“Maybe,” he mutters, removing a gold pocket watch from his vest and checking the time. “I cannot speak empirically as the Dark One can be a stickler where souls are concerned. I would not like to speak out of turn, but I believe he’s very fond of your mother.”
“But you could inquire on our behalf?” I suggest.
Jenn kneels next to her mother, putting a hand on her forehead to close the eye lids. Balthazar frowns and wanders away from our group muttering to himself. This muttering continues until its clear a conversation is taking place. It’s as if he has an unseen Bluetooth ear piece and is chatting with the Devil.
Arron joins Jenn and the two of them share a moment. Poor Arron never even got to talk to her, which is regrettable. At least Jenn got to spend some time with her, although the argument I overhead at the cottage did not seem a loving exchange. A pile of ash sits next to Helens gun on the tile. Has Helen returned to the shelf on high? I am lost in thoughts of Helen and her decision to lay down arms when Balthazar exhales loudly and turns back to the group.
“He will not stop her from leaving, but doubts she can be raised a second time.”
“That’s fine. We can handle it, but I ‘m going to need him,” Jenn hops up confidently, pointing at the frozen Zerk.
Balthazar taps the mouthpiece of his pipe on his chin and frowns. I had forgotten about Zerk, who I presume to be the last clay statue still roaming the earth. I would imagine Rahnee burned the rest.
“We had rather hoped to torment him in a way unpleasing to the Almighty,” he scowls.
“What I have planned for him will be unpleasing to everyone,” she snorts, pacing across the hall to retrieve him.
“Jenn, a moment,” I beg, patting her shoulder as she passes.
“Yeah, what now?” she sighs, turning and walking backwards.
“Forgive my saying so, but your mother was not fully resurrected the last time. Her color was off, she was sweating formaldehyde or Hellfire, I don’t know which,” I remind her. “She confided in me that everything tasted like gasoline and she had no inclination to eat nor sleep.”
“What’s your point?”
“If that is the best that,” I pause and look past her to Zerk.
“The words you’re looking for are,” Balthazar interrupts and then pauses. “Sometimes dead is better.”
“Not exactly those words, but yes.”
Jenn stops and looks frustrated, exhaling loudly. Before she can fire a rebuttal, Balthazar speaks.
“In the spirit of full disclosure. Her condition was less a failure of the young lady’s and more a safety precaution on our part.”
“Safety precaution?” Arron balks.
“We were unsure she would actively pursue the Angel,” he admits. “Had we allowed her to go without a leash so to speak, she might have not completed her end of the bargain.”
“So she’ll be fine this time?” I offer hopefully, recalling Rahnee’s comment regarding her pain being akin to a parole’s ankle monitor.
“Impossible to say,” he sigh
s, wandering over to Arron and gazing down on the hole in her stomach. “Possibly she’s been through enough.”
“But she’s in hell right now?” Jenn barks, hands on hips.
“Yes, but it’s not like the movies my dear.”
“What’s it like?” I inquire.
“Ever been to New York?”
“Bad enough,” she scowls, turning and grabbing Zerk by the arm.
He doesn’t budge and Arron goes to help, but even with two he stays put. Amused for the moment, Balthazar eventually waves his pipe and releases his hold on Zerk. He remains frozen mid-step, but now rolls like the harp on casters, although the wheels are unseen. Once he’s at the foot of the stairs Jenn jumps at him with both hands and topples him over. His eyes still move, scanning Rahnee’s face wide-eyed.
“Your mother and I played blackjack with this guy once,” Arron points out. “Bastard tried to kill us on more than one occasion.”
“Then he’s got this coming,” Jenn smirks.
I am thinking that no one has this coming, but in her position, I might feel the same. If this goes as before, she will have visual access to his memories and see the blackjack table. I pray for it to be a happy family picture show and not a macabre serial-killers-eye-view. As Jenn unbuttons the cuff on his dress shirt and gets ahold of Zerk’s arm, Balthazar creeps closer.
“This is of interest to you?” I whisper.
“Unlike you, I have never seen a person ripped from the gates of hell and restored to life.”
“A bit dramatic,” Arron complains, stepping back at Jenn’s instruction.
“Spoken like a man who’s never truly considered the afterlife,” Balthazar frowns.
Jenn looks up at us annoyed. Once everyone is quiet she latches onto Zerk’s arm. The familiar popping sound precedes the flickering lights. When Rahnee gasps for breath, blood pours down her chin and she coughs and spits. The skin on her stomach begins to knit a repair, but I turn and walk away, preferring to leave some things unseen. I move to the middle of the long table and stare down at the hole left in the wood by the knife.
I recall sitting here with Rhea and stabbing Annie’s brother. It seems like a very long time ago, but in truth, only several days have passed. Balthazar can be heard muttering something unrepeatable as he watches the dead return to the living. I eventually sit on the table top and watch as Rahnee regains consciousness. Arron and Jenn kneel beside her and I wonder to myself. Can they ever get the sight of her dead body out of their minds? Will Jenn always see the mold speckled corpse in the coffin? Will Arron struggle to erase the images from his dreams? He of course, has seen his true love die twice.
