by A. L. Mengel
Nesmaron was standing in front of the stone altar, which was atop a terrace, also made of stone, which sprouted four wide steps leading down to a platform where Antoine was kneeling. Behind Antoine was a legion of Demons, and they were standing in a sea of writhing lost souls.
The sky turned blood red as the thunder sounded in the distance, getting closer with each passing moment. Nesmaron turned to the legion behind Antoine.
“It is time my brethren,” he began, bringing his arms to his chest, folding his hands in front of his stomach. “All of you know Antoine.” He gestured down to Antoine as he spoke his name.
“And all of you know that Antoine committed the ultimate betrayal to Tartarus,” he continued. “And now he will be laid to rest! Asmodai will come! Claret will come! They both will come and take you straight to hell!” He pointed with a flaming sword to Antoine, the pointed tip of the sword just inches away from his face.
The sky opened up in fire, flames shooting from out of the dark red clouds, swirling with fury above the stone altar. The two demons closest to Antoine stepped forward and grabbed each of his arms, and two more came around to the front of Antoine and began to shred his clothes with their swords, taking the tips and catching the bottom of his shirt and ripping it to pieces, until just small bits of fabric clung to his battered and bloodied frame. They held him standing, nude, in front of Nesmaron.
“Lay him down on the altar,” he commanded. “It is time.”
The demons were not gentle as they drug Antoine to the altar, his face now hanging in defeat, looking towards the stone floor, his long locks shielding his face from torment. And the winds began to increase in velocity with great intensity the closer he came to the altar.
Getting ever closer to the stone slab, Antoine closed his eyes. How had he gotten here?
The first shovelful of dirt.
The coffin.
In his mind, he saw it again, playing over and over. He saw himself, standing over a rotted, muddy coffin, tearing the lid away piece at a time. He could hear the splintering of the wood, feel the dustiness and dried wood fall apart in his hands.
And Darius.
Darius had spoken to him that night. Before the demons came, before Asmodai called the winds…Antoine had spoken. But what replayed in Antoine’s mind, was a night many, many years ago…
…“You enjoy your bloodlust!” Antoine had screamed at Darius, so many nights ago. The two were standing in the foyer of the chateau, about to head out for the evening. Antoine stammered. “I can’t – I can’t…” he had continued but didn’t finish his sentence. He collapsed for a moment at the foot of the stairs, exhausted and spent. Darius had approached him and placed his hand on Antoine’s shoulder.
“You are still clinging to your mortal life, Antoine,” Darius explained. “This is where your grief comes from.” Darius took his hand and ran the back lovingly on Antoine’s cheek. “You need to find some definition as an immortal – a purpose. I took you into this world for a reason. And that reason was not to cause you grief.”
“And for what reason was that then?” Antoine looked up at him desperately, his cheeks stained with fresh tears.
“You were a lover in life. There is no reason why you can’t be in your immortal life. And that is why I must do this.”
Darius reached to his pocket, and removed a shiny dagger. It gleamed in the warm glow of the light. Antoine stared at the dagger.
“Do it Antoine. You need to find your way. I cannot force you to choose mine. Let go of your mortal life, and find definition for yourself. Shed your skin.”
Antoine took the dagger from Darius’ hand gingerly, never taking his eyes from the piece. He knew what Darius meant. But could he do it?
Darius stood up slowly and removed his shirt. “Do it,” he said. He stood in the center of the foyer, under a giant hanging candelabra, the faint glow of the light making his skin seem warm and like that of a mortal. “Just remember to bury me quickly. Do it now!”
Antoine lurched forward and plunged the dagger into his neck; instantly blood spurted out of the wound like a geyser – spraying into his face.
Darius clutched his neck and fell to the floor. Antoine must have hit a central artery, as the blood was spurting out at high speed, causing Darius to fade quickly.
“Just…” Darius coughed, “- take – cough! Take my heart – cough! – and burn me!”
*~*~*
Antoine opened his eyes and saw the altar before him.
Just a simple stone slab.
The winds…he thought. The winds have started. Antoine raised his head to the sky, and through strands of hair covering his face, he saw the flames in the sky.
Asmodai is coming…
He hung his head back down, but it got whipped back as the demons lifted him swiftly off the ground and laid him on the stone slab.
He closed his eyes slowly.
The legion of demons that stood at the base of the steps parted, revealing a long wide open path, at the end of which stood Asmodai. He stood there staring with his canine snout, his muscular frame, and his long tail curled around in front of him. Behind him, he extended a pair of pointed wings; the wings started to flap and he carried himself up above the army and promptly over to the altar.
He looked down towards the altar, where Antoine lay with his eyes closed, awaiting his fate. Asmodai drew his sword, and held it at his side.
“Nesmaron,” he said quietly. “Have you brought this sinner to me?”
“Yes,” he replied.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Nesmaron had landed earlier on the Sea of Souls with Gizelle in his hands. She was a far cry from her former self; now she was a vixen, formerly fucked by a studly monster demon; now she possessed all that she physically desired for herself. Her long brunette hair framed her supple face and pouty, red lips; the tips and curls of her hair played with her gigantic breasts. All of her was sexy; all of her spelled desire.
Nesmaron pointed to the top of a cliff that led towards the city. “Go,” he said. “Go out into the city and do what I have instructed.”
She obediently left, climbing the edge of the cliff. In the meantime, Antoine had been carried closer to the Altar.
Gizelle stopped at a large stone wall and backed towards it, ducking around the side and stopped suddenly.
A grey hair older man stopped suddenly in her path, his eyes widened and he froze. “Shit!” he said.
She bore her teeth, elongated out of her dark snout, reaching through acidic saliva toward the man’s throat, ripping his skin and showering the ground with deep red blood.
The man fell to the ground, shaking and dying.
The other two men ran to his aid.
“Jonas!” Jean Carlo screamed, falling to his knees and grabbing Jonas’ shaking body in a desperate attempt to pull him away from the demon girl and save him.
But it was too late.
She tore through Jonas’ neck once again, ripping off his head and throwing it into the pit of flames.
“Who the fuck are you two?!” She stood tall and stamped her feet on the ground. Jean Carlo almost lost his footing. He tried to speak, but Darius stopped him. He reached for Jean Carlo’s shoulder, and pulled him back. Both of their eyes were trained on Gizelle, watching as she doubled in size.
She sprouted black wings, her long black spiny legs lunged forward.
Jean Carlo snapped his head in the direction from whence they came. “Metatron! I am Uriel and I command you!”
Darius looked at Jean Carlo quizzically.
The army of Metatron lurched forward in unison, all drawing swords that burst into flames. They surrounded Jean Carlo and Darius.
Gizelle hissed and spit, snapping her wings but advancing no further.
Darius and Jean Carlo crouched backwards towards the protection of the squadron.
Several of the Metatron drew flaming swords towards Gizelle, as she snapped her claws, closer and closer to Jean Carlo.
*~*~*<
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The rocks that surrounded the Sea of Souls shook away from their foundation and crumbled away as a giant earthquake shook everyone off of their feet. The winds grew, pinning everyone to the ground.
Darius knew who was coming.
Looking up, both men saw the super demon riding down on a blanket of black clouds in a blood red sky. But the demon did not seek them, nor the Metatron or Gizelle. He was coasting slowly towards where Nesmaron was posted.
“No!” Darius called out, trying to get to his feet. He crawled towards the edge of the Sea. “I am coming Antoine! This time, I will! I will not let you burn!”
Nesmaron snapped his attention towards the other side of the sea, watching Darius as he fell into the lake. Countless bodies grabbed him as he fell into the sea, smothering him, carrying him below, pinning him down.
Darius felt the stirring in the pit of his stomach, the power of the stench overwhelming. He thought he was going to vomit. He tried to climb to the surface, but so many rotting limbs were holding him down.
Nesmaron threw his head back and laughed. “You silly, stupid mortal! You can’t stop what is already written to be done!”
But Darius fought for a gap and managed to surface.
“Come forth!” Nesmaron offered. Darius was able to navigate through the bodies. He kept his eye on the altar across the sea, his focus never broken.
But he was too late.
With a chorus of thunder and a shower of lightning, Asmodai’s sword called the flames down to the altar and Antoine burst into flames.
“No!” Darius screamed, reached the edge of the lake. But several guarding demons prevented him from getting any closer.
I am sorry love. I have failed you. I am sorry that it had to end this way. I am sorry that you had to see this, Darius.
“You have not failed me,” Darius said, watching the flames intensify as the storm grew. “I have failed you.”
Darius collapsed at the edge of the lake.
*~*~*
The storm intensified as increasingly violent bursts of lightning struck, closer and closer to Jean Carlo and the Metatron.
“They are attacking us!” Jean Carlo called.
One of the Metatron caught a bolt of lightning, and as his sword ignited he drew it towards Gizelle, still frozen.
Gizelle called out across the sea. “Look what you have done to me!” she hissed. “I have served you!”
The Metatron lunged his sword into Gizelle and the flames engulfed her.
Asmodai called across the sea, watching Gizelle flail like a giant impaled insect. “I never promised sparing you!”
And he rode the clouds away.
*~*~*
“Darius!” Jean Carlo called out across the sea. “Darius! Come back! There is no saving him now!”
But Darius held steady.
The guard demons retreated once Asmodai left, and Darius crawled towards the altar, collapsing in a fetal position on the ground, looking up at the plume of smoke rising from where Antoine had lay. He managed to find the strength to stand, and hoisted himself up, and looked down at Antoine’s remains. He ignored the ashes and focused on the beating heart.
There you are, my friend.
“Darius!” Jean Carlo called again, still from a distance, but this time much closer. Darius turned around and saw that Jean Carlo was navigating the Sea of Souls, dodging Nesmaron’s fireballs, gradually getting closer.
But Jean Carlo succeeded.
“He is gone,” he said quietly to Darius, once the two men were standing together next to the altar.
“Give me the urn,” Darius said. “It’s time to go. We don’t have much time.”
Darius looked behind them, hearing the methodic deep rumblings of monstrous footsteps.
Nesmaron was coming.
Jean Carlo reached into his backpack and produced the small stone urn that they had brought with them for the worst-case scenario.
“Hurry!” Darius said, scooping up the ashes and throwing them into the urn hurriedly. Jean Carlo stepped in to help.
“Let’s go!” Darius said, placing the urn in Jean Carlos’ backpack.
They ran down the edge of the sand to the lake and stopped dead in their tracks.
Nesmaron was patiently waiting for them in the center of the sea, rising from the multitude of writhing bodies like a giant, commanding black serpentine insect.
The demon did not wait, but immediately called on the fires again, sending fireballs towards the two men.
“Follow me!” Darius said, diving into the bodies. Jean Carlo followed quickly behind him, holding his backpack and precious cargo tightly.
The two men surfaced. Nesmaron was still a ways away, still in the center of the sea. He lunged forward.
“Take this!” Jean Carlo said, giving Darius the backpack. “And move away from me! I have never done this before!”
Jean Carlo looked towards the sky. Tell me how, Jonas. Tell me how!
Jean Carlo closed his eyes, looking down, and let himself sink deep into the bodies. Darius looked on, and then snapped his head in the other direction, and froze, watching Nesmaron get closer and closer.
*~*~*
The sea turned a brilliant bright white, as if glowing. The brilliance of the light illuminated the entire area, and was so mystical that Nesmaron stopped his advances, and Darius simply stared in disbelief.
And then what rose from the waters was so beautiful, majestic and glowing that Nesmaron was dumbfounded as well.
“Go now Darius,” the presence commanded. “I am holding him. It is safe to cross the sea.”
Darius proceeded, slowly and carefully walking past the retreating bodies, never taking his eyes off of Nesmaron until he was safely on the other side of the sea. Darius looked out into the sea, shielding his eyes from the glowing luminescence, calling out to Jean Carlo.
“I cannot hold him much longer, Darius,” it said. “Go to a safe distance and I will join you shortly.”
Darius obeyed and waited at the entrance. He sat down for a minute, caught his breath, and waited for Jean Carlo.
But almost no time had passed when Jean Carlo came running around the corner, furiously screaming and panting. “Let’s go! Now!”
Darius got up and the two ran out to the streets as the ground opened up and fireballs charged past time, igniting everything.
They approached the wall of the green mist, and Darius hesitated for a moment.
“Go!” Jean Carlo said, pulling Darius’ arm and dragging him into the mist.
Getting closer to the offices of The Astral, Darius looked back towards the Sea of Souls.
The mist had devoured everything. Buildings, rocks, the altar, the sea itself.
They ran through the offices, just as the mist was demolishing everything. They flew down the stairs below, slamming the door shut behind them.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Manhattan at night –
The hustle-bustle of the city never stopped and never quieted. The crowds never thinned. Despite the cold and bundled up citizens huddling at each corner, chit chatting with each other which caused their hot breath to puff like smoke, Darius was dressed in a much lighter fare.
He walked slowly and surely towards his hotel, ignoring the crowds around him. In his arm, he carried an urn. He passed a red haired woman, dressed in a long black leather coat, smoking at a small café table…sitting outdoors despite the cold. When he passed, her eyes followed his moves, but she quickly returned to her steaming cup of coffee.
*~*~*
Later that night, Darius fell asleep next to Antoine’s urn. The urn had lay with Darius in his coffin for three days and three nights; and for those days Darius did not move or open the casket lid, nor did he open his eyes, think, or speak.
For those days, Darius was just as dead as Antoine. But the two were together again, side by side, together as one inside the casket.
“No matter what, Antoine, I will keep you near me,” Darius had pledged, upo
n scraping up his ashes off the altar and carrying them back into the present dimension. “I will bury you as you have buried me, and I will let you rest and I will raise you one day. That I promise to you.”
Upon waking after the third day, Darius felt the steel, hard cold of the urn in the pit of his right arm. There he was.
Antoine.
Safe and sound as he should be.
What Darius didn’t know is how long Antoine would be dead. To raise him now, of course, would be foolish and impossible. Asmodai has too much power in the fourth dimension, Miami is in chaos, and Nesmaron has become the world leader – guiding all of humanity and immortals alike into darkness.
“One day, my friend, one day,” Darius spoke, while rising out of the coffin and gingerly placing the ashes on the mantle in his chambers. One day Antoine would rise again.
Darius started to dress.
He dressed in a two-piece dark suit that was customary to the early twenty first century, white shirt and black tie. He tucked his long brown hair behind his ears, tying it back into a ponytail and slipping it under his jacket.
It was quarter past ten p.m. when he looked at his wristwatch.
He was going to catch a red eye flight to Frankfurt, head back to the Chateau, and stay there for a while. But first he was going to bury Antoine.
Surrendering to renewed mortality, but not giving up the ways he has been accustomed, he glanced over at the casket. I don’t need that anymore, he thought. I should be looking at beds.
And then he opened his brown leather travel bag, waiting for him on top of the dresser. Inside, he drew out the ticket, one way from New York to Frankfurt.
And now I am cursed to fly the old-fashioned way…in a plane.
Mortal.
A two-syllable word that rang in his ears, over and over. No longer immortal. Life would be very different from this point forward.
