Dancing on the Head of a Pin

by Kiernan Kelly

  As quickly as it had risen, the fury drained out of him like water through a sieve, and he collapsed on the edge of the bed, his head hanging low over his knees. His hair fell in a wild black tangle on either side of his face as he wept bitter tears of self-pity.

  Why had he given in? What had possessed him? He and Cael had danced the same steps for nearly three millennia—it had almost been over. He’d pitied Cael before, felt compassion for him, for his plight. He’d known that at the end of it, Cael would be sent back to Hell. Cael was a demon—Hell was where he belonged, wasn’t it? Then why, when the end to their battle was so close that Malak could have reached out and touched it, when victory was within his grasp, had he thrown in the proverbial towel?

  The answer came to him like a hard slap across his face. His head jerked up, his eyes growing wide.

  At some point in the past three thousand years, at some moment when he’d not been paying attention, Malak had fallen in love.

  That was one thing he couldn’t blame on Cael. Demons didn’t love. They weren’t built that way—one needed a soul for that. They couldn’t comprehend it, and they certainly couldn’t coerce what was beyond their ken. Falling in love with someone who couldn’t possibly return the feeling was Malak’s fault alone. He’d let himself lose more than his soul. He allowed himself to lose his heart as well.

  He didn’t know what to do, how to cope, and he felt panic rising in his breast. He had no experience at being in love. Angels didn’t fall in love with each other, didn’t lust for each other’s bodies, didn’t ache to share every innermost feeling and thought. Their love was pure, cold, untouched by sexual needs. Theirs was brotherly love, or love for God, not the kind of all-encompassing, needful, possessive love that Malak realized he felt for Cael. The kind of love that made Malak want to throw his arms around Cael and hold him tight, to chain him to his heart and his bed forever.

  Sitting up, Malak ran his hands through his hair. He’d thought that spending the rest of time on Earth with Cael, of falling asleep in his arms each night and waking with Cael’s kiss on his lips each morning, would make being trapped on the mortal plane bearable. Now his fingers tightened in his hair as he realized what it was that was making him so angry.

  It was not the fact that he’d given Cael a piece of his soul. That was almost inconsequential now—a done deal. It was fear that fueled his rage. Fear that he was doomed to spend every moment for the rest of time loving Cael, hungering for Cael, investing every drop of emotion he had in the demon, all the while knowing that Cael didn’t return his feelings. Just because Cael now had a piece of Malak’s soul didn’t mean that Cael would feel anything for Malak other than lust.

  As a matter of fact, now that Cael had had Malak, he might not even feel that.

  He glanced at the door that led to the hallway and Cael’s bedroom. He squeezed his eyes shut, remembering how wild, how beautiful Cael had looked when he’d taken Malak’s virginity, the rapture that had lit his face from within. He remembered how Cael had make Malak feel, how Cael had sent him spiraling to nearly touch the Heaven he missed so greatly.

  Malak’s mind drifted further back, memories of their time together flashing in rapid succession. Suddenly one particular memory shunted all others aside, looming large in his mind.

  MALAK’S WINGS heal quickly, and he leaves the moment he is able to fly unaided. He is aware the demon had saved him and that he is bound by the covenant made between Heaven and Hell. For the next three millennia, he will be waging a war with this demon, Cael, a fight to the bitter end to keep control of his body and thereby keep his soul intact.

  Cael is beautiful, far more so than any creature Malak has ever seen, but that doesn’t help Cael’s cause. Malak will resist. He’ll be strong. But he’ll not tempt Fate by remaining in Cael’s company. Without a word he takes to the sky as soon as Cael’s back is turned, flying hard and fast until the cave where Cael had tended him is lost in the distance. Still he keeps flying, through the wisps of cloud with the sun warming his back, until he can remain aloft no longer. Coming back to earth, wings lagging in exhaustion, he finds a small overhang in the side of a mountain not far from Sinai. He crawls into the deep shadows of a crack in the mountainside and curls up against the cold stone walls. Coming out only at night, and then for only short periods to scavenge for food and water, Malak remains hidden for nearly a hundred years.

  It is loneliness that finally drives him out into the open. His self-imposed isolation has taken its toll on Malak. His body is thin, wan, but it is his heart that bears the brunt of his lonesomeness. Leaving his nest, he flies out into the world, and that is when Cael finds him.

  Either something about Cael has changed or the way Malak views him has, because Malak is nearly overjoyed to see him. He is every bit as handsome as Malak remembers him to be. Cael’s golden hair gleams in the sunlight, and his blue eyes twinkle, his body tall and strong. He is a welcome sight to Malak’s lonely eyes.

  “Malak, do not run from me again. We are alone among the mortals. You know that I will keep trying to seduce you, and I know that you will resist me, but other than that one small conflict can we not we live in peace together?” Cael asks, spreading his arms wide.

  Malak, his soul still raw and hungering for company after his years of seclusion, agrees.

  Cael embraces him gently, without lust or cupidity, holding him close while Malak keens his grief at his fate and at his lost years spent alone.

  It is when his tears finally cease, leaving him feeling empty and oddly at peace, that he lifts his head from Cael’s damp shoulder and looks deeply into his kind, understanding eyes.

  THAT WAS the moment, Malak now knew, when he had lost his heart to Cael. The moment, indeed, that he had lost the contest itself. There wasn’t really any hope for Malak after that, although he’d managed to convince himself to the contrary for almost three millennia.

  The only thing left for him to do was to accept that he was in love with Cael. If being with him without being loved in return would be a daily torture for Malak, it was still better than the alternative.

  He stood up, opened the door, and walked across the hall to Cael’s room. He raised his hand to knock but paused. What could he say to make up for the horrible things he’d said? Would Cael forgive him? Would he even want to stay with Malak now that he’d gotten what it was he’d been seeking for so long?

  Malak shivered, not wanting to contemplate life on earth without Cael. All he could do was apologize, beg for forgiveness, and plead with Cael to stay. Malak had no pride, not if pride would keep Cael from his arms. Malak simply couldn’t bear the possibility of living on earth until the End of Days without him.

  He knocked and waited for an answer. “Cael?” he called, but his voice failed him on the first try. After clearing his throat, he tried again. “Cael?”

  There was no answer. Not that Malak blamed Cael for not wanting to speak with him. Not after the way Malak had acted. Still, he had to try. Opening the door, Malak eased into the darkened room.

  The bed was empty, and the balcony door stood open, the wind blowing in to ruffle the sheets.

  Cael was gone.

  Chapter Eight

  THIS TIME the lights and glitz of Vegas held no appeal for Cael. He’d been there before, usually at the times when his body had demanded the release that Malak refused to give him. He’d found comfort there, in a city that reminded him nostalgically of Sodom. Sex filled the air here, just as it had there.

  Now the music seemed loud and grating, and the harshness of the neon lights burned his eyes. The humans who strolled along the streets and lingered near the casinos evoked no response from him other than the jealousy he felt toward the lovers who walked hand in hand, whispering their secrets to one another.

  He sat on the rooftop of the Eiffel Tower, his legs dangling over the edge 540 feet above the Strip, his wings folded back. The landmark had been replicated in scale by the Paris Hotel and Casino.

  Far below him, a yo
ung woman walked along the street, picking the pockets of tourists as easily as she might have picked a handful of daisies in a field. His keen eyes followed her movements out of habit, although he felt nothing, not even idle curiosity.

  She passed an older man, who was flashing a thick wad of cash at a whore in his early twenties. A deal was struck, and the older of the two boldly cupped the younger man’s ass with his hand as they melted into the shadows.

  Farther down on the Strip, another man, barely more than a boy, dealt three-card monte on a folding table. Farther still, a man and a woman in saffron robes clinked finger cymbals and passed out religious pamphlets while holding out baskets for donations.

  The flow of humanity never ceased. The Strip, from the Mandalay Bay to the Stratosphere, was packed with people of all ages, sexes, and sizes. That was a distance of just under four miles. Four miles, a virtual carpet of people, not to mention the thousands that were crowded inside the resorts, wedging themselves around the gaming and buffet tables. And yet Cael still felt utterly alone.

  Nowhere in the sea of humanity that flowed along the street below him was there one person capable of easing the ache in his heart. The only one with that power was Malak, and a week ago Cael had left him in a two-story house at the edge of the ocean, nearly a continent away.

  Bleakly, Cael considered his options. He could drink, but his metabolism was too fast for it to numb his pain. His body would burn the alcohol as quickly as he could imbibe it.

  He could turn to a whore for release. That was nothing new to Cael. He’d availed himself of asses for hire since the very first time he’d managed to wiggle his way out of Hell and into Sodom.

  But now, thanks to Malak, he didn’t think he would find any satisfaction in the arms of some stray human. In fact Cael strongly suspected that sleeping with someone other than Malak would only worsen his condition by deepening his guilt.

  He was quickly coming to realize that sometimes having a soul sucked.

  Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t smell the reek of sulfur in the air until it was too late.

  A hard push against his back sent him tumbling over the edge of the Tower, spiraling down toward the street below. Dropping like a stone, the wind was deafening as he plunged toward the crowded pavement.

  His wings unfurled, and he caught a lucky air current, swooping low, skimming over the heads of startled tourists on the Strip. Pumping forcefully, his wings carried him back up toward the top of the Tower in a graceful swoop.

  He hadn’t been in the best of moods before he’d been pushed, and now he was truly pissed off.

  He had no weapons except for his bare hands, but a demon was incredibly powerful nonetheless, much more so than any puny human. Whatever hapless halfwit had seen fit to push him would soon find himself shredded into unidentifiable chunks by the time Cael was done with him.

  Shooting up over the edge of the Tower, his muscles flexed and ready to do battle, he slowed, and hovered in all his demonic glory. His face was twisted into a mask of rage, and he shimmered his gracefully curved black horns into existence, wanting to give whatever human waited on the rooftop the full effect of his demonic appearance.

  It was then he realized that the stench of sulfur should have told him something.

  Asmodai.

  Standing balanced on one of the welded steel crossbeams, Asmodai scowled up at Cael, hatred all but sizzling in the expressions on all three of his heads.

  “How dare you do this to me? You were promised to me, Cael! I will not be denied my due. I should drag your ass kicking and screaming back down into the Pits, rules be damned!” Asmodai raged, curling his fingers into tight, hard fists.

  Cael hovered just out of reach of Asmodai’s scaly hands. “Fat chance, Asmodai. I’ve won my contest. By Hell’s own rules, I get to stay here until the End of Days. Fuck off before I decide to relieve you of a couple of your heads.”

  Asmodai threw his heads back and laughed in three distinct, hateful voices that burned Cael’s ears. “End of Days, huh? Then I don’t have long to wait, now do I?”

  Cael narrowed his eyes, mulling over Asmodai’s words. “What’s going on that I don’t know about, Asmodai? Nobody knows when time will end.”

  “No? I hate to be the one to tell you this—no, I take that back. Actually, I’m thrilled to be the one to impart the news. The Horsemen have been unleashed, Cael. Heaven has been so preoccupied with their own sense of self-importance that they haven’t even noticed. The Horsemen are coming, and soon. And the moment this planet is reduced to a cloud of apocalyptic dust, you’ll belong to me again.” Asmodai’s snake cock hissed in evident delight, slithering between his thighs.

  Cael frowned. “You’re lying.”

  “Am I? Well, time will tell,” Asmodai cackled. “In the meantime, perhaps I’ll pay a visit to that sweet-looking angel I’ve heard you’ve been shacking up with. What’s his name? Malak?”

  “Touch him and I’ll rip you into pieces, Asmodai,” Cael snarled, baring his teeth. “Slowly, starting with your dick.”

  “Your threats mean nothing, Cael. Soul or no soul, you are still a lesser demon. You’re no match for me, and you know it. I’ll do as I please,” Asmodai hissed. Pausing, he shot Cael a sly glance. “Besides, I’ll have you both soon enough anyway—either here or in Hell. Oh, wait… you didn’t know, did you?” Asmodai’s voice was dripping with mock sympathy.

  “You’re wasting your time playing mind games with me, Asmodai. I know the rules.”

  “Oh? Tell me, when did Lucifer ever play by the rules? Souls cannot truly be sundered, Cael. When the End of Days comes you will be remanded back into the Pit, and because your soul is a part of his, so will your Malak.”

  “Liar!” Cael roared, jumping toward Asmodai. He was a heartbeat too late, and his fingers closed on thin air. Asmodai had disappeared.

  Cael hovered for a few more moments, trying to make sense of Asmodai’s visit. It was impossible—Asmodai had to be lying. The date of the Apocalypse was unknowable. And even if it were not, the rules of the contest clearly stated that, although Cael’s future was the Pit, Malak would be returned to Heaven at the End of Days. But still…. There had been something in Asmodai’s voice that gave Cael pause. It was an odd mix of triumph and certainty.

  He became convinced that Asmodai had not been lying.

  The Horsemen were coming. And worse, Malak was in danger. He’d be no match for Asmodai, and more, should the Horsemen prevail he’d be sent to Hell along with Cael. Cael couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t allow Malak to experience the horrors of Hell. Not his Malak. Not his angel.

  There was only one thing Cael could do. He had to go home, whether Malak wanted him there or not.

  MALAK STARED down at the scummy film that floated along the rim of his cup. Hours old, his coffee remained exactly as he’d poured it, black, sugarless, and untouched. The croissant that sat on a plate next to his cup fared no better. It grew stale and would no doubt be tossed down the garbage disposal along with the java.

  Cael had been gone for nearly a week, and it had been the longest seven days in Malak’s memory. Malak found that he had no appetite, no energy. He could barely drag himself out of bed in the morning—there had been a few days when he hadn’t even bothered—and when he did it was only to slump in a kitchen chair or in the armchair in the living room and sit for hours, staring at nothing.

  This was far worse than the hundred years Malak had spent in his self-imposed isolation. He was obsessed with Cael. That was the plain and simple truth of it, and it was driving him out of his ever-loving mind. He saw Cael everywhere—in each room of the house, on the dunes of the beach, in the cloud formations that drifted over the waves. He heard his voice in the lapping waters, in the salty breezes that swept the sand. Cael was everywhere but where Malak wanted him to be, ached for him to be—in his arms, in his bed… inside of him.

  He’d found himself riffling through the laundry basket and pulling out a blood-red T-shirt that belon
ged to Cael. Imprinted with the image of a winged, scaly, be-fanged demon (the first time Malak had seen it, he’d cattily remarked on its uncanny resemblance to its owner), Cael’s unique scent still clung to its fibers. Bunching it into a ball, Malak had then buried his nose in it, inhaling deeply. The familiar scent of musk and sex had brought tears to his eyes.

  Again.

  Everything seemed to make him weep lately. The sight of Cael’s coffee cup, the dark brown stoneware mug he had always insisted on using to drink everything but coffee. A painting Malak had done ten years ago or so that he was certain he’d chucked away onto the dunes, found neatly framed and hanging on the back wall of Cael’s closet. A necklace of strung shells that Cael had brought home one night after one of his shorter absences. It reeked of another man’s scent, and Malak had no doubt that it belonged to some piece of ass Cael had drilled. And while Malak had no compunction about throwing that particular one of Cael’s possessions into the trash compactor, he still wept when he did it.

  It was as if Cael was dead, truly dead rather than just gone, and Malak was in mourning.

  He supposed he should be furious, not brokenhearted. Cael had used Malak, used him badly. He’d taken what he wanted and left without a word. No good-bye. No see you later, chump. Not even a Fuck you.

  But he couldn’t feel anger. He couldn’t feel much of anything, except an overwhelming bleakness and the ever-present pain that wracked him.

  He dragged himself to his feet, picked up his cup and the saucer that held the croissant, and carried them to the sink. He had turned on the tap and was rinsing the cup out when a sound caught his ear—footsteps, creaking on the floorboards. After setting the cup down, he walked into the living room, but it was empty.

  Puzzled, he peered through the sliding glass doors to the porch. Seeing nothing but the white sand of the dunes and the green of the sea kissing the blue of the sky in the distance, he shrugged and turned to go back into the kitchen. That was proof positive that he was losing it—he was starting to hear things.