"Open bible, open flask," Michael said, sitting himself down before the fellow archangel. "The two do go best together, don't they?"
Raphael passed him the bible, which was open to Ecclesiastes, displaying an underlined verse. "I thought you might visit tonight."
Michael read aloud the line Raphael had underlined. "'The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong.' Now there was a morose one, Koheleth."
Raphael sipped from his flask. "The man knew a thing or two about this world."
"So I've heard. Yet our old friend spoke of humans, not of angels or demons." Michael shut the bible, a little stronger than he had intended; it slammed shut with a boom and raised dust. He sighed. "Here, brother, the race will be to the swift, and the battle to the strong."
"Hence Laila."
Michael nodded.
An iron candelabrum stood in the center of the tent, its three candles low. Raphael stood up, rummaged through his chest for more candles, and soon new fire burned, though there was little to see aside from a cot, the chest, and books upon the floor. Though many angels on Earth used crude generators to feed batteries and light bulbs, mimicking the humans, Raphael clung to the old ways, a collector of candles instead of lamps, quills instead of pens, prayers instead of curses. He had woven his robes himself, rough woolen homespun, like some ancient human prophet wandering the hills.
"And is she the swift, Michael?" the great healer asked, turning those eternally sad eyes toward his guest. "Is she the strong in this battle between us and our brother?"
"A battle between Heaven and Hell," Michael said, watching shadows dance in the candlelight like tiny demons. "That Beelzebub is our brother is coincidental."
"Be that as it may, the girl has done well." Raphael sipped his spirits. "She won us this city."
Michael sighed, shaking his palm to refuse the flask Raphael offered him. "I've been training her. It's been... bothering me. Does that make sense to you?"
Raphael shrugged. "You've been working her hard. Boot camp is never easy, especially not for a hotheaded wunderkind. It's natural that you'd feel guilty for giving her a hard time."
Michael snorted. "You haven't spent enough time with her, Raphael. Leave Laila alone, and she mopes, weeps, drinks herself half to death while contemplating suicide. Boredom with our friend Laila leads to melancholy. When I work her like a dog, I don't give her time to think. I bet these are the only few weeks in her life when she hasn't cried, prayed to die, or sunken into drunken depression. The training's good for her, and she knows it. That's why she stays."
Raphael placed the bible atop the pile of books on the floor. A wind from outside shook the tent walls. "And yet still you come to me tonight speaking of guilt."
Michael wondered why he even wore his armor tonight. He was so used to being the soldier, to wearing his things of war, that he could not leave his tent without them, not even within their camp. He watched the candles. "I'm old, Raphael. Immortals we are, and our bodies stay young, but I feel old. Ancient. These past twenty-seven years aged me more than two millennia before them, I think."
"Earth can do that."
Michael placed his lance across the floor and gazed at it, its shaft smooth after years of use, its blade polished countless times. "We are soldiers here. Myself, my men, Laila. Killing demons is one thing. Laila doesn't quite fit into the demon category, though, does she?"
Raphael raised an eyebrow. "You train Laila to fight. You train all your soldiers to fight. That doesn't mean you are killing them."
"I send most angels to fight shades, lowly beings of scales and horns. I'm training Laila to face off against the devil and his wife."
Raphael patted a fold out of his cloak. "If there wasn't a chance she could succeed, you wouldn't be wasting your time with her."
"A chance, yes. A one in a million shot." Michael raised his gaze and stared into Raphael's eyes. "Laila is strong, don't get me wrong. She's powerful in ways few are in Heaven and Hell. Can she take over Hell? Can she win this war for us?" Michael sighed and shook his head. "In the forests, in her exile, she might have lived a few years longer, might have even grown old until Beelzebub or I won this war and destroyed the planet for her. Am I training her for an early death, Raphael?"
Raphael stared back levelly. "You might be. That's what training soldiers is. You know this more than anyone." The healer leaned forward. "Michael, you're my older brother. I know you. This is not what's bothering you. You never had qualms about sending anyone into battle and danger. What's troubling you?"
Michael looked away, staring at the wall of the tent. He's right, of course. That's not what's bothering me, is it? He reached over, took the flask from Raphael, and drank deeply, the spirits hot in his throat and stomach. "You have always been closer to him than I am. Gabriel too, but especially you. When we were kids, Beelzebub and I rarely had the patience to sit and pray, but you... you could always speak with him."
Raphael shook his head. "God loves us all, Michael, healers as well as soldiers."
Michael laughed mirthlessly, too loudly, the sound jarring in the tent. "Yet you healers have the easy work, never risking any harm to the soul. It is we, the soldiers, who face trials and tainting every day. I am sending Laila to her death, Raphael, and I've sent many to their deaths before her, and I don't care anymore. It doesn't bother me, and I feel not an ounce of guilt or pity most times. Someday, Raphael... someday this war will end, and I will return to Heaven, and I worry, Raphael. I worry that when that day comes, those gates will be closed to me."
Raphael lowered his head. "Earth is a trial, Michael. We made it that way, didn't we? It has tested mankind for many years."
Anger suddenly flared in Michael, and he slammed his fist against the ground, surprised at his rage, surprised to find his eyes close to tears. "It was never meant to test angels."
Raphael raised an eyebrow again. "Was it not? It seemed to test Lucifer and Beelzebub, I recall. Those two left too many Nephilim in the wombs of human women." The healer smiled softly. "Michael, to feel conflict is to have a soul. Your guilt is a sign of goodness. Don't worry. God still loves you, Michael."
Michael fingered the filigrees in his armor. "Sometimes I wonder if God even exists. I know he speaks to you, Raphael. I know he speaks to Gabriel. God never talked to me."
"God is not an old man with a long white beard, walking in sandals across the clouds, a staff in hand," Raphael said. "He does not speak in words, but in whispers inside you. The fire in these candles, and the light in the sky, those are God's voices that speak to us. He talks to you as much as he speaks with me. He is with you, and Heaven's gates will always be open to you."
Michael looked at Raphael, the sad archangel, the healer of swan wings and long brown hair, of tragic eyes. "If God speaks to you, Raphael... if you can speak back... then put in a good word for me."
Without waiting for a response, Michael stood up, lifted his lance, and left the tent. He walked along the aqueduct, gazing at the dark sea, lance in hand, until sunrise glistened in his armor and wings.
Chapter Thirteen
Ash covered the stars, and the night was so dark, Laila could see nothing, even as her eyes blazed. The wind whistled through the trees, and as Laila walked through the forest, branches snagged her and smeared her with sap. Pine needles crunched beneath her boots, and roots and rocks tripped her. She was cold, and her cloak could not warm her. Volkfair padded beside her, his breath warm against her left hand. In her right hand, she clutched her new blade, Haloflame.
On this winter night, Michael had sent her into the woods with her blade and her wolf. "I want you to find me something there," he had said.
"What," she had asked, knowing his challenges all too well, "a particular twig you dropped there a year ago? Your lucky acorn? Maybe a pebble you carved your initials into back in biblical times?"
He had pointed with his sword toward the distant, forested hills. "Go and find in the darkness why you're here. Why you really want to
take over Hell. Find the reason and bring it back to me."
"And then I'll be ready to face the King and Queen of Hell?"
He had smiled crookedly. "Nobody is ever ready for that. But maybe, Laila, you'll be one step closer."
And so she walked now in the darkness, the winds creaking the pines around her, the roots tripping her, Volkfair at her side. She cursed under her breath, kicking aside acorns and rocks. What kind of stupid task was this? She didn't have to go into the forest for this answer. Laila knew why she wanted to take over Hell.
"Because if Michael takes over Earth, Heaven's godlight will burn me," she spoke to Volkfair. "If Beelzebub wins, the hellfire would burn me. If I take over Hell, I can extinguish the fire, make it a home. It's how I can survive. What other answer does Michael want?"
Volkfair was silent, padding beside her. The black wolf rubbed against her and licked her paw. She smiled despite herself and ruffled his fur. "You're just a big puppy, aren't you, Volkfair?" she asked him. Feral and ruthless was the wolf around angels and demons, but alone with her, he was just her shaggy pet. She leaned down and hugged him.
"That Michael is nuts," she whispered into his fur. "He doesn't understand me. Only you understand me, Volkfair."
As the wolf licked her face, she sighed. After weeks of Michael's training, her muscles ached, she was more tired than she'd ever been, and her stomach seemed to cling to her back with hunger. She had never been so thin and weary. For weeks now, she had fed on nothing but the morsels Michael tossed her way, and she missed the taste of hot, fresh blood and meat between her fangs.
Tell me why you want to take over Hell, Michael had said. That was easy. So she could make a home there. She had tried to tell him that, but he only said, "Wrong answer."
How much longer would she have to stay in this forest?
Why, Laila? she heard Michael's voice in her mind. Why do you want a home in Hell?
A twisting root rose ahead, triggering a memory she had thought long buried. She had tripped over this root once, twenty years ago, fleeing the farm, Eclipse's body in her arms. Her bloody tears had wet her face then, and she felt them wet her face now. She stepped over the root and down a slope, the memory pounding through her, strong now, cold like the anguish of that day. Around a thorny thicket and three slanting pines she found it, the flat boulder she had placed there twenty years ago. "Eclipse," she had carved into the boulder with childlike script. Her tears had stained the letters with blood the day she carved them, and now moss covered the makeshift tombstone.
Volkfair by her side, Laila knelt before the grave. Cyclamens grew around the tombstone. Eclipse would have liked that, Laila thought. He liked eating flowers.
"I thought I was a monster," she told Volkfair, who looked at her with large eyes as if he understood. "It was difficult for me to befriend you, to have another pet. I didn't want to endanger anyone else."
Volkfair leaned his head against her. Often Laila thought the wolf had dog blood in him. She had found the beast wandering the desert—a burly European wolf lost in the Middle Eastern desert where his brethren were smaller, leaner, the color of sand. He too was an outcast, greater than other wolves, of mixed blood, a hunter with no pack. She had seen herself in him.
"I had to adopt you," she said, running her hands through his fur. "I had to prove I'm not a monster."
Laila sighed. Is that it, then? Is that what you want to hear, Michael?
Dawn was rising, and hunger grumbled in Laila's belly. She rose to her feet. "Come, Volkfair. Let's get something to eat."
When she had been a child, boars and jackals were the only large mammals to wander these hills, but in recent years, goats and deer had returned here, reclaiming the habitat humans had once taken from them. It was not long before Laila found the tracks of goats. The animals moved in single file along recurring trails, leaving cloven paths. Laila followed the trail, and soon Volkfair and she sat by a fire, chunks of goat cooking atop flat stones between the embers.
Volkfair feasted upon raw meat from the carcass, but Laila waited for hers to cook, remembering that day she had met Beelzebub ten years ago, when she was seventeen. He had taught her to cook her meat, and she had fallen in love with him, because he tamed her. He denounced her feral ways, refused to see her as a wild animal, but as an unearthly being of great power, and as a girl who was frightened and lonely. It was with Beelzebub that she grew from a beast into a legend. He too showed her that she could be more than monstrous. He had loved her. More than anything, his love made Laila feel less like a beast and more like a woman.
"And now I want to kill him," she said to Volkfair. The wolf raised his head from the goat carcass, bits of flesh dangling from his maw. "When the day comes, Volkfair... when I face Beelzebub in battle, will I be able to kill him like he killed my father?"
Laila lowered her head. Yes, Lucifer was my father. I am Satan spawn, a child of greatness. She had always known, deep in the whispers of her unconscious mind. How else could she be so strong? Why else would Heaven and Hell pursue her across the world? Lucifer, yes; he was my dad, and Beelzebub killed him.
"I'm not a freak," she said to Volkfair. "I am descended from great blood. I might be outcast from Hell, banished from Heaven, hunted on Earth... but I am still Lucifer's offspring." She stared at her meal, still cooking on the fire, drying out, burning away. She was no longer hungry. "Once I rule Hell, no one will hurt me anymore. Once I rule Hell, all will know that I'm not a monster."
So many times she had wanted to die, but now fire burned in her belly. She was done crying. She was done hiding. I am Laila, of the night. I am Laila, of godlight and of hellfire, of sins and of piety. I am Lucifer's daughter. I am not a beast.
She tossed dirt over the fire, her meal untouched. The passion filled her belly, leaving no room for food. The dawn spreading around her, she bared her fangs and howled at the rising sun, wings unfurled. Volkfair howled with her.
"Let's go back to Michael," she said to the wolf. "My training is done. It's time to invade Hell."
* * * * *
Bat El shifted in her shackles in the basement. The iron was cold and rough against her ankles, chaffing her, leaving red marks on her white skin. The shackles bound her to the wall, and the darkness was hot and thick around her. She was hungry and thirsty, and every part of her body ached.
Sometimes Bat El heard sounds from the fort above, screaming and creaking and thudding. The sounds of battle. Angels must be trying to reclaim this fort from Beelzebub. Yet whenever the sounds of battle rose, they faded quickly along with Bat El's hope. No angels ever burst into the dungeon to free her; her only visitors were hoofed shades who brought her stale bread, water, and jeers.
"Beelzebub!" she tried calling once. "Beelzebub, I want to talk!" Yet none responded.
Since her scuffle with Zarel, Beelzebub kept her here in the fort's dungeon, shackled. "I'm sorry," he'd whispered into her ear as his shades first bound her to the wall. "It won't be for long, I promise. Just until things settle down."
Then he had left, sealing her underground in darkness. She had not seen him since.
Sitting here in the dark, chained and hungry, Bat El felt anger fill her. How could she have ever fallen for Beelzebub? She trembled when she remember how she had kissed him, how she had let him know her, how the lord of Hell became the first man to have known her. You're a foolish, love sick girl, she admonished herself time after time. You fell to the devil's charms like a weak-minded mortal.Of course Beelzebub did not care for her. Of course she was nothing but a hostage to him, a bargaining chip. How could she had ever thought he cared for her, loved her, even?
Yet for all her rage and despair, and there was plenty of both here in the hot darkness, she remembered his last soft words to her. "I'm sorry." She remembered the last caress he had given her hair. And so, with her agony, lived the hope that someday he'd return to this dungeon and free her. It's Zarel who made him chain me here, she told herself. It's the Demon Queen who demanded I be lo
cked underground. Beelzebub would never treat me this way if he could avoid it. He's just trying to mollify his wife. It's me he loves.
She hung her head. Despite it all, she still hoped for his love, and she hated herself for it.
Bat El did not know how long passed as she remained here in the darkness. She tried to count how many times the demons fed her gruel and dry bread, but soon lost count. Days passed, maybe weeks. Her hair grew knotty and ashy, and her skin itched. Her shackles chaffed her ankles, and sleep brought nightmares. Many prayers she whispered in the darkness, praying to Heaven, to God, to Michael. Yet when help finally arrived, it came from the devil.
She heard his footsteps walking downstairs that day, and knew at once that it was him. Demons walked on hooves, cackling and hissing; Beelzebub's sandals made sounds like the song of angels to her. When he opened the door, she blinked in the light of the torch he carried, eyes stinging. Her hair covered her face, tangled.
She tried to speak, but her lips were dry. He placed the torch in a sconce in the wall and held a bottle to her lips. She drank the sweet water and tried to speak again, but words still failed her, not knowing if she hated, loved, or feared the lord of Hell.
He leaned in to touch her hair and kiss her cheek. She turned her head away. "How can you even think of kissing me," she said in a cracked voice, tears in her eyes, "after chaining me down here?"
He spoke quietly as he unchained her. "It's Zarel who ordered you chained in this dungeon, not I."
She glared at him through her tears, her legs aching as she finally moved them out of the shackles. "Last I heard, it was Beelzebub, not Zarel, who was running this show."
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