Of Heaven and Hell

by Anthology

  “Sad story.”

  James ignored Devin’s comment as if he had not even heard it. “My great-grandfather breathed his last breath in his arms, and something inside him snapped. He did what people do, cried and screamed out threats and promises, if only he could get his husband back.”

  “How did that work out?” Devin asked, feeling that familiar prickle building inside of his skin once more.

  “That depends on who you ask,” James said, “because something answered his prayers.”

  “What? An angel came from on-high?” Devin sounded amused by the idea.

  “Right idea, but wrong direction. He didn’t even take the time to think about what he was offered.” James gave Devin a wry grin. “He was a little impetuous... sold his soul to the Devil to get his husband back from the dead.”

  Devin laughed, his tone mocking. “The Devil doesn’t exist.”

  “He doesn’t? Then what explains you?”

  Devin cocked his head to the side, studying James’ unflappable demeanor before allowing his eyes to shift, bright and sharp as obsidian. “Are you saying you want a direct line to the man downstairs?” Devin asked with amusement. “I have got connections.”

  “No, nothing like that.” James shook his head. “I’ve already got what I want.”

  “And what is that?”

  “You.”

  “You think you’ve got a pet demon on a leash? Your dick is not that much of a lure, pretty boy.”

  “Lured you here,” James said, his jaw tight, still staying that measured distance from the door. “So it worked well enough.”

  James continued with his story as Devin crossed his arms over his chest, looking smug. “So my great-grandfather’s husband went to Hell and you know what happens there? Souls get twisted and turned inside out until there is nothing human left. That is how demons are born, from the corruption of a human soul.”

  “How did your great-grandfather take that revelation?” Devin asked with a sharp smile.

  “It took him years of research and a little spiritual intervention before he figured it out. Once he knew God was a failed hope, he raised his family with one mission—to find his husband and free him... or destroy him if it couldn’t be done.”

  “Family? So he switched teams after that great sacrifice?”

  James just gave him a look that Devin responded to with a wicked grin. “So what do you want me to do?” Devin cocked his head to the side. “Find this guy? Save him from eternal hellfire?”

  “No, I already found him,” James told him.

  It took a second for Devin to process this information. His black eyes crinkled with mirth and he laughed, tilting his head back until the sound rang through the room. “Me? You want to kill me?”

  “Well, to be honest, we don’t know how to kill you. There was a story of a spear—the Lance of Longinus—but we haven’t been able to beg, borrow, or steal it. We have looked everywhere... and when I say that, I mean from the tips of Heaven to the bowels of Hell. Great-grandpa was nothing if not determined, from what I’ve heard. It’s gone, apparently, if it existed at all. All we can do is exorcise you and send you back, and that kind of defeats the purpose. It took too fucking long to find you. We don’t know how to save you, either.”

  James’ gaze slid up to meet Devin’s, and he added with a subtle smirk, “Though we’re not so sure saving is firmly on the menu anymore. The last family vote was tied.”

  In less than a blink, Devin surged across the room, eyes glittering with menace. He stopped short at the door, James still several inches beyond the jamb.

  He could go no farther.

  Devin pressed forward, unable to cross the threshold to wrap his hands around James’ throat as he wished.

  “What did you do?” he hissed, breath coming faster.

  “We’ve had time to rebuild.” James gestured toward the room. “The walls, ceiling and floor are actually lined with two sheets of shatterproof glass, an iron devil’s trap sandwiched between them.” James slapped the wall outside of the door, the sound echoing slightly. “And inside? The paint was mixed with salt and silver flakes. This is your new home, Uncle Devin, until we know what to do with you.”

  James paused, his mouth twisting into a grimace. “You know they trained us to call you that? Uncle Devin, like the power of a name would remind us what this was all about. You might not be blood, but you were still family. Goodmans first, no matter what.” James studied Devin from under half-closed lids, his eyes glittering darkly. “I wonder what we’re supposed to call you now that we’ve caught you?”

  Devin’s face rippled with fury and the demon pressed against its fleshy confines to escape, but nothing happened. He glanced back at James, wariness edging his features as he paced restlessly back and forth. “What did you do?” Devin asked again, scratching at his arms and leaving bloody tracks along his skin. “I can’t get out.”

  “You’re mine, remember? Marked and owned.”

  Devin forced himself forward until he lay pressed flat against the invisible barrier that now kept him bound, James just beyond his reach. “You cannot keep me forever. I will get out.”

  “No, you won’t. You are a demon, so that body will stay alive as long as you’re in it, and I made sure you can’t leave that human suit anymore. I hope it’s comfy.”

  Devin just stared at him, black eyes empty of everything but malice as he met James’ gaze. “Let. Me. Go.”

  James sauntered forward, his eyes glittering sharply the closer he got to the door, the power leaking from the activated trap pulsing over his skin. He stopped, merely an inch away from Devin, his warm breath brushing over Devin’s cheek. “No.”

  Devin stared into those familiar eyes before his gaze traveled down the length of James’ body, his eyes narrowing shrewdly when he caught sight of the swell between James’ legs. “You want to be in here—in here with me.” Devin reached out a hand and pressed it against the barrier close to James’ groin, his voice lowering huskily. “I own you.”

  “Fuck you,” James said, but he didn’t move away.

  A WARM voice rumbled down the hallway. “Language, James. Let us not lower ourselves to his level.” A burly, white-haired man in a priest’s collar and worn jeans strode into sight. “You go on home, now. You have done your duty.”

  “Yes, Father William.” James’ eyes slid closed, hiding the aroused glitter as he stepped back, respectfully distancing himself from the older man.

  Devin spoke low, his voice a warning hiss that tickled James’ eardrums. “I was just going to kill you. Sure, it wouldn’t have been quick, but it would have been finished eventually. Your body would have given out in a matter of days. But you are planning on keeping me here, in this body, for as long as it might take to save me?” Devin laughed, a tight, brittle sound. “There isn’t anything left to save.”

  James’ gaze flicked over to Father William, who just smiled back at him gently. “Go on home, boy. Your wife and son miss you.”

  James walked down the hallway, hands in his pockets. Devin called after him silently, his tone derisive as it echoed in James’ head. “You can’t get rid of me that easily, James. I’ve burrowed my way inside you in more ways than one.”

  James stilled, shoulders hunching as the spite sizzled along the connection, even as he glanced back over his shoulder, feeling a visceral pull tugging him back. “My property, claimed in flesh and blood,” Devin reminded him with a shark-tooth smile. “It goes both ways.” Then Devin laughed, the sound like shattering pebbles filling James’ skull. “Think of me when you’re fucking that pretty wife of yours.”

  James turned and quickened his pace, just trying to get out, to stretch that invisible, invincible tie past its breaking point. He struggled to ignore the need that pulled him back, his effort growing more difficult with every straining step.

  “Be sure to visit, James,” Devin sing-songed. “I get bored so easily.”

  Father William slammed the bedroom door in Devin’
s face, cutting off the sound of his laughter and filling the house with silence.

  “BUT WHAT if he doesn’t like me?” James asked, his lower lip sticking out at the thought.

  Father William gazed down at James cleaning the weapons and gave a paternal chuckle. “That won’t happen. You were born to love him. That is why you got this.” He reached for the dog tags hanging around James’ neck, his thumb rubbing over the pressed letters that spelled out Devin Goodman, the print nearly worn away with time. Then his eyes sharpened, and he let the dog tags slide from his fingers, the metal thumping against James’ chest. He added warningly, “But never forget you cannot trust him. He is likely to be the one to kill you.”

  James fell silent as he thought about this. “What if we can’t save him?”

  “We will... eventually.”

  “But what if we can’t?” James eyes widened in his young face. “Brad says—”

  “That boy doesn’t know what he’s talking about!” Father William snapped. When he saw the startled look on James’ face, his voice gentled and he knelt on the floor beside him. “Even if we have to destroy him... either way, what is left of his soul will be freed. He won’t be suffering anymore.” The priest picked up a knife, the light of the fire glittering along its length and reminding James of the stained glass window of Saint Michael in Father William’s parish, his sword held high as he drove Lucifer from Heaven. “Then it is up to God to sort it out.”

  Call her ZANNE. She lives in beautiful, sunny Southern California, which is ironic since she tends to avoid the sun like it might incinerate her on the spot. While her colleagues often refer to her job as zookeeping, the technical title is actually middle school teacher. Misfit Prophets Beneath a Bankrupt Sky was her first published novel and her short story “Persephone Is Bleeding” was published in the Hungry Hearts anthology with Inkstained Succubus Press.

  S. ZANNE can be found at:

  Website: http://lvfp.tripod.com/zanneiam/

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/zanneiam

  CARDUUS LICKED his lips. He could feel the last beat of Appleby’s heart as it failed him. His belly filled with the life energy he had drained away. Carduus had no pity for Appleby. Even if Carduus had been human, he would have shown no mercy to this man, a pedophile. As an incubus, pity was a foreign idea to Carduus. It wasn’t that demons had no emotions; demonic feelings were just different from how humans quantified them.

  “I can’t even say you were tasty,” Carduus lamented, giving Appleby’s calf a slap. His meals never were any more, but Carduus felt oddly content with that. He’d sacrificed taste for something more important.

  Getting off the bed, he flipped his waist-length braid over his shoulder. By the time he’d reached the door, Carduus looked like the ten-year-old boy Appleby had brought back to his place under the guise of needing help finding his puppy. Someone would find the pedophile soon enough. Carduus never concerned himself with what happened to the shells of flesh he left behind. He rarely knew anything about the humans he interacted with. Even names hadn’t been important until recently.

  He wore his magical disguise of a sweet-faced little boy for several blocks before the child walked into a public library and came back out as the person Carduus had been masquerading as most often for the last year. David Winters kept the braid, but his incubus features were hidden. He had a nice smile, though his teeth were so blunt and human, and his eyes didn’t hold a hint of the true nature of his pupils. Incubi, like poisonous snakes, had slit pupils, a little slice of their wickedness showing.

  From the library, Carduus caught a bus to his job. He had never imagined holding one down for so long, but this wasn’t a normal incubus life he had right now. Instead, it was a life very much of his own choosing. The devils who controlled him were curious as to why he’d been gone for an extended period of time, but so long as he was culling the herd, they didn’t bother him. Good at keeping secrets, Carduus didn’t give them any hint of what he was doing. They didn’t suspect. Neither did Mark, and that was the important thing.

  As he walked into the teahouse where he worked as David, Carduus thought about Mark, the human who had made him reconsider centuries of freely seducing and devouring the life force of the innocent. Oh, how sweet they tasted! Carduus missed that sweetness on his current diet. He was like a diabetic who could only remember the taste of cake.

  He’d been a lot of things over the centuries, generally whatever suited him at the time. Being a barista at a teahouse was easy enough, and his boss liked him. Flirting came naturally to incubi, so he could put most anyone at ease, talk them into a dessert or the larger, more expensive drinks. The real reason he chose to work at this place was its proximity to many downtown businesses, specifically the police station. The teahouse saw a lot of the station’s business, but there was only one person Carduus cared about: Mark Oberholzer.

  Though their chance encounter a year ago had left a lasting effect on both of them, Carduus had to admit he was probably the one who had changed most radically as a result of the relationship. Mark loved him, but he only knew Carduus as David, tea monkey and wannabe artist. The homicide detective had no clue—and why should he?—his lover was a demon.

  Carduus fixed pots of tea, handed out scones and muffins, until he saw Mark come in with his partner, Melissa. The detectives were a study in opposites; Mark was tall and so very blond, his eyebrows almost transparent, while Melissa was petite and dark-haired. Seeing him, both of them smiled.

  “Hello, Detectives.” Carduus grinned. “The usual?”

  “No way. He’s going to try something other than Earl Grey for a change,” Melissa replied, shoving Mark gently.

  “Surprise me.” Mark sighed, turning to Melissa. “Can I at least have my usual muffin?”

  “Far be it for me to ruin your entire routine.”

  Carduus knew they wouldn’t sit and enjoy the tea. They were forever off to some depressing place or another to look at dead bodies and ruined lives. Tea in paper cups, goodies in a sack, and they’d be gone. He selected a spicy chai for Mark.

  As Carduus was packing everything up, Mark leaned against the counter. “About tonight,” he started hesitantly.

  Carduus wrinkled his nose. “You can’t make it.”

  Mark’s pale face flushed, his blue eyes flicking away from Carduus’ gaze. Carduus disliked that Mark felt his job demands were disappointing him. “I’m sorry. We caught a double homicide this morning. This muffin is breakfast and probably lunch. I don’t want you waiting for me when I’m pretty sure I won’t be coming home until the very early hours.”

  “It’s all right. I’ll go hang out with friends or work on my art.” Carduus shrugged. “I understand.”

  Mark sighed, and he loosened up, looking as if his tension melted. “Thanks.”

  “And I know it’s Evie’s anniversary. I’m sorry you don’t have a clear schedule to work on that.”

  Mark favored him with a thin smile. “Thanks for remembering.”

  Mark might be shocked by the things Carduus could remember about him. Evie Stanton died two years ago today, murdered, her case unsolved. Mark worked on it whenever he had time. Mark and Melissa believed they knew who had done it: Jerry Boyd. However, Boyd was a careful predator and they had no evidence. It was one of the reasons Carduus had planned to be home tonight for his lover, knowing he’d need the support. Now Mark would be too busy to muse over Evie’s death and depress himself. That would be good in a sick way.

  “No problem,” Carduus told him.

  He watched the two detectives go. On his break, Carduus called Lamia. He might as well entertain himself if he was going to be alone.

  “WHAT DO the souls taste like?” Lamia asked.

  Relaxed back on the big, over-stuffed couch in Lamia’s apartment, Carduus sipped at his whiskey, mulling over the answer. The simple question was more complicated than it seemed. “I’m not sure there is an equivalent. It’s not like they taste like chicken. The purer the soul, th
e better the taste.”

  “And yet you’ve been purposely eating the wicked and setting yourself up for the equivalent of bad high school cafeteria food for the foreseeable future. I find that very curious.” Lamia turned from her computer. Her eyebrows rose, making the rings through them flip back and forth. “It’s going to make an extremely weird entry into my demonology book.”

  He shrugged. “I can’t really explain it.”

  “You blame your lover.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “‘Blame’ sounds so negative. He is the reason. He is a good man, and his simple goodness makes me want to be better.” Hearing it out loud made Carduus feel foolish, no matter how true it was. He felt the disgrace of it: a demon who momentarily wanted to be good. His kin would be ashamed and furious. “Why, I couldn’t say. This hasn’t really happened before.”

  “Is that why you didn’t kill me? You’re trying to be good? You did kill several people at the Sanguine Feast.” At the memory, her pale face lost color it could ill afford.

  Carduus licked his lips, remembering the month of feeding off the young people who went to the club pretending to be vampires. It had culminated with a blood orgy and he had made a feast of several of them himself. That had been before he met Mark, before the strange desire to be good overtook him. Lamia had fascinated him, even though she hadn’t actually taken part in the bloodletting. In fact, she had seem detached, an observer, and that had caught his attention. She’d seemed less interested in the Goth-vampire lifestyle and more about research into the occult. She was an odd human, and Carduus was glad he’d let her live. She entertained him. “You were too interesting to eat,” he said at last.

  “I guess I should be thankful. So, you’re culling the wicked for a man who doesn’t even know what you’re sacrificing. There’s nothing to gain there. Looking for redemption? Is it even possible?” She leaned in close, studying him, and brushed her fingers over his hair. “Aren’t you a fallen angel originally?”