Behind him, Sodom burns.
MALAK BLINKED, and drew in a deep, shuddering breath. He rose from the bed, shed his pants, and spread his white-feathered wings, stretching them out to their full span. They were half again as wide as he was tall, and it felt wonderful to free them from their normally tightly tucked position. Slowly fanning his wings, the breeze they stirred rustled the curtains and helped cool the heat that flushed his skin.
He still had an erection, a painful reminder of both his predicament and the effect Cael had on him. He knew from experience that it would plague him all night if left unattended. Sighing, he shivered his wings into their normal translucent state, folding them in flush against his shoulder blades.
In the adjacent bathroom, an odd combination of lust and guilt eating at his stomach, he grabbed a bottle of lotion and turned on the hot water in the shower. Stepping under the sputtering stream, he squirted out a healthy dollop of the cream onto his palm and solved his problem as he had countless times since that first day in Sodom. The only way that was open to him other than giving in to Cael.
And that, he swore to himself once more, he would never do.
Chapter Three
CAEL WALKED into the bank stark naked, cloaked only in a murky veil of translucency. One could not be truly invisible while on the earthly plane, but one could be dim. A shadow of himself, an amorphous cloud vaguely reminiscent of a man that could be seen from the corner of one’s eye, he was noticed by few and, if spotted, quickly dismissed as a figment of the imagination.
He walked past a security guard with a Styrofoam coffee cup in his pudgy hand and slipped behind the row of teller cages. Reaching around the tellers, he helped himself to a thick fistful of fifties and hundreds from each drawer. The money, once in contact with his hand, became as insubstantial as Cael. After stuffing his take into a small burlap bag he’d lifted from the first teller’s cubicle, he cheekily pinched the bum of an older cashier, making her blush bright red and squeal. When she spun around, there was no one to be seen.
Sauntering out of the bank into the bright Florida sunshine, he whistled a dirge last heard sometime during the sixteenth century in Italy, if his memory served. Something dark, perhaps one of the earlier works of Palestrina?
He could have simply conjured the money out of the bank. For that matter, he could have easily negated any debts that humans might have thought he owed them, from the cable television fees—he was particularly fond of pay-per-view pro wrestling—to the mortgage on the beach house itself. But physically taking it provided him with a means of entertainment. It was always amusing for him to hang around at the back of the bank and watch the chaos erupt when bank officials realized they’d been robbed in broad daylight in full view of a building packed with witnesses, none of whom had seen a fucking thing. They’d run around like headless chickens as they blamed everyone and everything but the true culprit.
Today, however, he had left the bank quickly, wanting to get back to Malak. He’d nearly succeeded in pushing the angel over the edge the day before. For a moment, Cael had thought he’d won, and the notion had nearly undone him. Unfortunately Malak had once again found some inner reserve of strength and had pulled away, much to Cael’s annoyance and grudging admiration.
An alleyway provided him with the opportunity to coalesce back into solid form without attracting undue attention. Ignoring the reek of garbage spilling from a pair of dented trash cans nearby and the scuttle of rats in the shadows, he took a moment to stretch his wings. Eighteen feet from tip to tip of thin, blood-red leathery membrane, he spread them out fully, sighing with relief before shimmering them into transparency again. Cracking his neck from side to side, he rolled his powerful shoulders, working out the tension that knotted his muscles, tension he felt more and more with each passing day.
Cael was on the final leg of a very long run. Three millennia ago he’d won a rare chance to gain the one thing that could free him from an eternity of servitude in the bowels of Hell, but the clock was ticking down, and he hadn’t yet secured the prize.
For an angel, Malak could be a stubborn devil.
Cael had tried everything he could think of to get Malak to cave in. Rubbing himself up against Malak, touching him at every opportunity. Gifts. Music. Wine. He’d stocked the fridge with every food that claimed aphrodisiac powers and had filled the DVD cabinet with porn of every conceivable type. He’d made certain that the only reading material available was erotic. He’d lit candles, simmered potpourri, and drowned himself with sensual oils and musk. He’d begged, bribed, threatened, flattered, and coerced, but to absolutely no avail. On more than one occasion, he’d been tempted to slip Malak a proverbial mickey, but that wouldn’t do Cael a piss-wad of good. Malak had to give himself to Cael voluntarily or all bets were off. Tossing him a Mickey Finn would only serve to give Cael a stellar case of the jollies, not secure him his freedom.
He had a plan for tonight, though, one he hadn’t been desperate enough to try before then.
Pity sex.
Big, fat crocodile tears and a pout, complete with puppy eyes and pathetic whimpering, a scene worthy of an Academy Award. He’d been practicing it secretly for a month and was certain he could pull it off. Cael was, if nothing else, a consummate actor.
Confident that his newest plan to get Malak between the sheets and himself between Malak’s cheeks would be successful, Cael conjured up a pair of skintight jeans, a black T-shirt that clung to every ripped muscle of his chest and back, and a pair of flip-flops. He felt too good at the moment to fly directly home—he wanted some attention. A few minutes one way or another wasn’t going to make a lick of difference in how soon he got Malak into his bed. Plus, he needed his ego pumped if he was going to play the wretched role he had planned. Dressed in denim jeans that were slashed in all the right places and the tight T-shirt, with his long golden hair and perfect tan, he knew he’d get attention on the street, and in spades.
“Always as cocky as ever, Cael,” a voice rumbled from close behind him. “I’ve always liked that about you.”
Cael froze. That voice was familiar, even after nearly three thousand years. Deep and grating, there was nonetheless something wet about it, reminding him of the sound a finger pushing through putrefying flesh might make—wet and slick and maggoty.
“Asmodai,” Cael whispered under his breath, feeling suddenly cold. He recovered his poise quickly, before he turned around. “What brings you out slumming?”
Hopping off the garbage can where he’d been seated, Asmodai sauntered up to Cael.
“I came to ask which scent of oil you prefer. I thought that would be the least I could do for you, since you’ll be spending the rest of eternity with my cock shoved so far up your ass that I’ll be able to check you for tooth decay,” he replied, winking lasciviously. The serpent that served Asmodai as a penis hissed excitedly, striking out toward Cael. Cael saw a broad, self-satisfied grin spread across Asmodai’s face while his additional two heads, the ram and the bull, bleated and snorted in agreement.
“Don’t count your assholes before they’re lubed, Asmodai. I’m not out of time yet, and I don’t plan on losing.”
“One more turn of the seasons on this spit-wad humans call a planet and you’ll be all mine.” Asmodai laughed. “You really should stop deluding yourself, Cael. You aren’t going to win—the outcome has already been decreed. Lucifer has promised you to me, a reward for my faithful service. A fitting punishment for your insubordination as well. Why drag this out to the bitter end? Give up now and come back with me, and I swear that I’ll not let anyone else touch you. Just me.”
“Fuck you,” Cael spat, taking a threatening step forward. He eyed the thick, scaly length that coiled up from between Asmodai’s thighs and jumped back reflexively when the snake cock feinted at him.
“No, I believe I’ll be the one doing the fucking,” Asmodai retorted, grinning. He walked a circle around Cael, eyeing him up and down, foul breath from all three of his heads singei
ng Cael’s nostrils. “I believe I’ll allow you to keep this form, at least for a few millennia. It pleases me, and it will be so easy to break. Over and over again….”
“Get thee from my sight, demon!”
“Hah! And a sense of humor to boot! Oh, I am going to enjoy you, Cael! And when I’m done with you, my legions will enjoy you as well.” Asmodai laughed. The ram and bull nodded in agreement, both salivating freely as he dissipated into nothingness, leaving behind the strong sour smell of rotten eggs and decay.
Cael took a deep breath to steady his nerves, but it did nothing to still the terror. It had been horrible enough in Hell before, but the possibility of an eternity spent spreading his legs for Asmodai was enough to turn his blood to ice.
His good mood spoiled, Cael shed his clothing and shimmered his wings into existence, then leaped up into the air. With a few strong, leathery flaps, he was rising over the tops of the buildings and farther, into the camouflaging screen of puffy white cumulous clouds.
Riding the air currents, the object of curious—if wary—inspection by a flock of gulls, he headed back toward the beach house. His body flew in the right direction unconsciously, his mind lost in the distant past.
THE SCREAMS of the damned never cease, nor does the searing heat and bone-numbing cold of the Pits ever waver. Torturous pain is a constant state of being. Such is life—if one could call eternity in the foul cesspool of Hell life—for the minions who toil forever under the lashes of the taskmaster generals of Lucifer. Their existence is only a hairsbreadth above the agony experienced by the damned human souls that Heaven spat into the bowels of Hell.
Cael is but one of six thousand others in his legion, a faceless number in Lucifer’s army. Slaving away since the Fall in the desolation of the Pits, he is a victim in his own mind. He had been seduced and manipulated into making the wrong choice when Heaven was sundered by civil war. He’d backed the losing team and had been paying the price for it ever since. Because of that belief, he labors with less enthusiasm than many of his fellows, a fact that often grates on his commanding general’s nerves.
Then one day Cael discovers a way to escape his torturous prison through a crack in the walls of Hell, a pathway that leads up to the earthly plane. Whenever the opportunity arises, he avails himself of it, sneaking out into the clean, fresh air of the mortal world for brief periods of time. Not often and never for very long, lest Lucifer or one of his generals sense his absence. His punishment would be immediate and severe, and Cael has no wish to tempt the Fates.
He usually finds himself in Sodom or its sister city, Gomorrah, during one of his illicit jaunts. They are cities of Men that meld well with his own preferences—complete self-indulgence and instant, guilt-free gratification.
Sodom especially is a favorite of his. While gluttony, greed, and the bulk of the other seven deadly sins have roots in Gomorrah, sex is the spice that flavors Sodom. Sex in all its glorious, pulse-racing, semen-spurting forms, and Cael revels in it every chance he gets.
But on this day, things have gone terribly amiss. First, shortly after he arrives, he spots angels walking among the merchants in the marketplace. The grim looks on their saintly faces tell Cael they aren’t there to sample the wares.
Cloaked in a mist that renders them all but invisible to the human eye, they stalk up and down the rows, murmuring to one another, bodies tight with ill-concealed anger and contempt.
He keeps to the shadows, surreptitiously watching them until they file into a house near the edge of the marketplace. Only when it becomes evident they are not going to return to skulking about does Cael feel free to return to entertaining himself with the human population of Sodom. He gives the angels not another thought. Whatever their purpose is in Sodom, it is none of Cael’s affair.
Just as he finishes encouraging a group of men to ass fuck a comely young man for Cael’s viewing pleasure, the sky begins to rain fire.
Fireballs and malodorous brimstone streak through the air, crashing into the ground all around him. The city ignites, the merchants’ fine silks, gauzy cottons, and flammable oils quickly adding fuel to the Heavenly flames.
Cael should have known the destruction of his favorite city would be the only reason angels would walk among the wicked.
Heaven had never been accused of being overly creative. Its minions rarely veer from the boring but effective methods of annihilation, and fire and brimstone are high on the short list.
Knowing this, Cael realizes Sodom is about to be incinerated into a reeking puddle of blasphemers, and if he doesn’t get out soon, he’ll have the dubious pleasure of being liquefied along with the rest.
He runs from behind the vendor’s booth, his wings unfurling and readying to leap into the sky and safety, when he spies a beatific vision huddled on the ground, quaking in the middle of the chaos.
Long, dark hair blows in the hot wind, exposing a face that seems fashioned from fine porcelain. Huge dark eyes stare Heavenward, confusion, fear, and pain flickering in their ebony depths. One of the angel’s gossamer wings has been burned; his flight feathers have been scorched black. As skittish as a foal, he jumps each time a streak of flame sizzles through the air nearby. His alabaster skin is marred by both flame and the grainy sand whipped up by the sulfurous wind.
In that fear and pain-etched face, Cael’s keen eyes see something more than exquisite beauty—he sees opportunity. An opportunity that is so rare, so extraordinary, it has not been taken by any demon, to Cael’s knowledge.
To save the life of an angel will grant a demon the opportunity to gain a piece of the angel’s immortal soul, which, in turn, will provide the demon with freedom from the chains of Hell. True, the demon will not be welcomed into Heaven either, but he will be free to wander the earthly plane.
Free, until the End of Days.
The rules are simple. Save an angelic life and choose your contest. Win the contest within three millennia and the angel will be compelled to share his soul. Lose, and you will be remanded back to the Pits for all time.
Even if he prevails, the demon will be sent back to Hell after the End of Days as well, but until then he could live in a paradise undreamed of by most who dwell within Lucifer’s domain. It is an all or nothing gamble, in which the odds are stacked against the demon. But it is something.
Cael has no intention of passing on the opportunity and even less intention of losing.
Wincing as a market booth explodes into flame nearby, he dashes into the street and holds out his hand to the cowering young angel.
“Take my hand and live,” he says, putting every drop of persuasion he possesses into his voice.
Cradling the trembling body of the angel to his chest as he flies them high above the carnage of Sodom, Cael hears Lucifer’s cold, venomous voice in his head. Lucifer’s anger at his minion’s escape and his inability to punish Cael immediately for his transgression is evident. The hostility in Lucifer’s voice nearly causes Cael to drop from the sky.
“Choose your contest, creature of the damned.”
Cael thinks quickly and chooses the one activity at which he knows he excels. The one to which he feels certain any creature will easily succumb.
Sex.
As it turns out, it is a poor choice.
THREE MILLENNIA later, Cael was still trying to get into Malak’s angelic pants. Now Asmodai had seen fit to pay him a visit, reminding Cael that his time was running out and also that Asmodai was lubing up his snake cock in anticipation of Cael’s arrival in the Pits.
Spiraling down toward the dunes that surrounded their house, Cael debated the merits of telling Malak about Asmodai. It was time to play the pity card, and the sad truth was that it wasn’t going to be necessary for Cael to have to fake being pitiable.
At the moment, with Asmodai’s oily voice still ringing in his ears, he felt like the most pathetic creature on the planet.
Chapter Four
MALAK WAS in the kitchen, chopping raw greens for a salad.
; His slender, elegant fingers worked competently, dicing a fresh green pepper into bite-sized bits. He scraped the fragrant pepper from the cutting board into a bowl already filled with arugula and endive leaves, and set to work on slicing a few plump, pale oyster mushrooms for the mix.
For all intents and purposes, aside from a few rather unique attributes and abilities—having wings being foremost on the list—Malak’s earthbound form was subject to all the same trials and tribulations of the human body. His body needed fuel, and being an angel, he refused to consume anything that had once had a face.
His full lips lifted into a wry smile, knowing in advance how Cael would respond to Malak’s choice of a menu.
“Rabbit food again? If we weren’t supposed to eat beef, Malak, then cows would come equipped with armor plating and Uzis strapped to their hooves.”
Malak’s smile grew into a grin as he heard Cael’s deep, velvety voice in his head. During the course of their years together, Malak had come to appreciate Cael’s dry sense of humor. He’d even go so far as to say that, except for the annoying business about Cael trying to steal a piece of Malak’s soul, he’d actually come to like Cael—although Malak would rather lop off his own wings than admit to it.
He was grateful to Cael, in way. After all, Cael had saved Malak from an eternity languishing in the between world, a place created for those whose souls were too unblemished for Hell but not pristine enough for Heaven. Those souls—such as angels who died while in corporeal form without absolution—were cast into nothingness, existing in the blackness, excruciatingly aware of the passing of time and the existence of their own flaws until the End of Days. Such would have been Malak’s fate, had Cael not intervened.
Dancing on the Head of a Pin Page 2
