Angels to Ashes

by Drew Foote

  There was always a way out.

  “Well?” Gressil asked, his words sour with impatience. “One man’s soul, such a paltry thing. It’s hardly worth angering Director Leviathan, wouldn’t you say?”

  I nodded in agreement, head downcast. Casually, I reached over and placed my hand on the simple feather that lay on the edge of my desk. A feather left by a decidedly nasty Angel. It felt warm in my grasp.

  “Yes, quite right,” I sighed, defeated.

  I looked up, as though I had just remembered something forgotten. “Oh, yes! You might also be interested to know that the Angel Kalyndriel was here, asking about that very same soul.” I pronounced her name very carefully.

  “Yes, yes, I know,” Gressil barked, irritated. “Now … are you going to agree, or are things going to go unfortunately for you?”

  I felt the feather in my hand twitch, as though alive. And so very, very angry.

  Chapter 13

  Fallen Angel

  Moonlight filtered through the ornate stained-glass windows of the cathedral. The moon’s pale rays lit colorful depictions of saints and Angels from within. There, Archangel Raphael blew his mighty horn, signaling the end of days. There, Archangel Michael stood tall and triumphant over the corpse of the dragon. Good always defeated evil. Such was dogma.

  The thin beams of radiance did little to pierce the thick gloom of the shadowed cathedral. The Archbishop and the priests were asleep in their humble quarters, dreaming of tomorrow’s sermon. The worshippers and tourists left long ago, returned to their homes and their meager lives. They slept easily, believing in their salvation. Tomorrow was a new day.

  The High Cathedral of Saint Peter was a massive and imposing structure, its cruciform edifice stretching proudly into the sky above Cologne. Its foundations were laid more than seven hundred years ago, and it had staunchly withstood the tests of both time and Allied bombs. The cathedral served as monument to God on Earth, a symbol of the Church’s might.

  Painstaking detail infused its gothic trappings, its every flourish designed to instill a feeling of awe and humility. The Church’s divine duty was to remind worshippers of their mortal frailty, and the High Cathedral of Saint Peter set about that task with enthusiastic ostentation. An ornate candelabra cast a feeble glow, its tremulous light unable to throw back the triumphant shadows.

  Kalyndriel sat in solitude, her heart reflecting the surrounding darkness. Her searing wings, so often extended in righteous battle, were folded solemnly behind her. Their glow was subdued. She gazed upward into the two spires towering high above her, their depths impenetrable. The silence was absolute.

  Even the High Cathedral, one of Man’s most glorious tributes to Heaven, was but a pale imitation of Heaven’s soaring heights and wondrous vistas. Its choirs were nothing more than a mockery of the true song of worship, the song that emanated from the heavenly Choirs with perfect harmony. This place was gaudy and ostentatious.

  It was the work of overweening children.

  Tenderly, as though probing the socket of a lost tooth, Kalyndriel reached out to Heaven with her mind. As before, as it would likely be forever more, she felt … nothing. Kaly was severed from Heaven, her halo shattered. She could not hear the song; she could not feel the fellowship of the other Angels. She was utterly alone.

  It was overwhelming. In her thousands upon thousands of years, Heaven had always been there, resonating in the depths of her spirit. It had been her lighthouse, guiding her into safe waters. It was a peaceful glade in the heart of a forest filled with predators. Kaly felt empty, as though there was a howling, abyssal crevasse in the center of her chest.

  Who am I, if not an Avenging Angel? What is my duty, if not to battle against the forces of Hell?

  The blackest of betrayals, the cruelest of fates, had stolen her purpose from her. An Archangel, a pinnacle of holiness, had cast her from Heaven like discarded refuse. God had not stopped him.

  Why?

  Kaly could not understand. Her mind relentlessly gnawed the jagged edges of the situation. Nothing made any sense. What were Uriel and Samael hiding, and what secret could be so terrible that they would banish her, rather than let her discover it?

  They were Angels she had loved and served for millennia, through countless ordeals. Kalyndriel had been Uriel’s shield bearer during the Fall, protecting the fiery Archangel as he fought his way through the ravening throng of Demons to confront Apollyon. She had stood side-by-side with Michael as they held back the horrific, shining onslaught of the Morning Star at the foot of Stair of Heaven. Her heart had been true.

  Kaly continually asked herself what she had done to deserve such punishment, but there was nothing. She had violated no rule nor broken any oath. She had behaved with honor and integrity, and they banished her. Betrayed by those she loved: such is the cruelty of existence.

  A single, glowing tear traced her cheek. It was a tear of loss, of horrible grief and boundless anger. It was a vessel filled with wrath, a deluge great enough to drown the world. It was a thing of righteous vengeance. It was beautiful. It was terrible.

  Not all was lost to her. Despite her banishment, Kalyndriel could still feel divine fire pulsing through her veins, hot and fierce. Her power remained to her: the power of justice and punishment. They cast her from Heaven, but God had not forsaken her.

  Her halo once bound her to Heaven, but her God was not Heaven. Heaven was a place that led to Him, but it was only one of many. Kalyndriel had remained true, she had not broken her covenant, and even Archangel Uriel did not have the power to separate her from Him.

  She could still serve God. She was still His weapon.

  She was Truth, she was Justice, and more than anything else, now … she was Vengeance. She was far from powerless.

  Kalyndriel wiped the tear from her eye and stood. She made her way through the darkened aisles, silent statues of saints witnessing her aching passage. She walked into the moonlit courtyard.

  Kaly stared upward. The moon looked down with celestial indifference. The pain was still within her, devouring her, but it slowly burned away in the ferocious heat building in her soul, boiling with incandescent fury.

  “God, help me. I shall punish them,” she whispered to the night sky. Wrath choked her voice.

  She felt a sudden, insistent tug on her mind. It was the Demon, Barnabas, trying to summon her. And he was … terrified?

  The darkened courtyard of the High Cathedral of Saint Peter was bathed in harrowing light as the Lance of Justice tore into the night sky. The air sang her passage with the sound of a screaming choir.

  ~

  “What are your terms?” Barnabas asked with resignation.

  Gressil grinned, pleased. “The soul of Walter Nathaniel Grey, originally belonging to you. In exchange, I leave you in peace and friendship.”

  Barnabas eyed him shrewdly. “What about your friend, Nimis?”

  Gressil laughed unpleasantly. “Oh, him? Don’t worry. He’s harmless, I assure you,” Gressil replied. His words were oily, and Barnabas noted they did not answer the question.

  Barnabas appeared to consider the offer, but he was actually listening closely. Eventually, he sighed and shook his head. “Well,” he replied. “It appears as though you have left me with no choice. Very well, I agree.”

  Gressil’s face lit up with satisfaction, and the Devourer licked its lips wetly. The Fiend extended his hand to seal the transaction. Barnabas cocked an ear expectantly, looked up, and took one, careful step forward.

  Barnabas offered his hand, although he was still several paces away from Gressil.

  Gressil grunted in irritation, and stepped toward Barnabas to shake his hand. Just before their hands met, at the last instant, Barnabas jerked his hand backward. The Fiend was left grasping empty air, anger flashing on his Demonic features.

  “What’s the meaning of —” Gressil began to snarl. A furious chorus filled the air. Barnabas leapt backward.

  In an explosion of timber and hasty repair
s, Kalyndriel punched through the ceiling above Gressil like a winged piano. She landed directly on him with the horrendous force of a falling mountain. The terrible impact caused the Fiend to explode into countless steaming chunks of infernal matter, spattering across the interior of the office.

  Blinding light roared through the cloud of debris and bloody mist. Kaly’s wings flared as she rose, and her lance materialized in her hands. She assessed the situation rapidly. Her Angelic features burned with what Barnabas recognized, with equal parts dismay and delight, was unbridled wrath.

  The two Powers looked at each other in confusion, completely aghast at the turn of events. Dim-witted surprise filled the Devourer’s dull, piggy eyes. Jumping swiftly to action, Barnabas jumped swiftly over his desk and took cover beneath it. He huddled with Arcturus.

  Nimis the Devourer, now recovered from its surprise, let out a gruesome bellow. Enraged, it pounded its stubby hands against its enormous belly. The beast opened a monstrous mouth, far wider than was physically possible, and lurched toward the Avenging Angel in a waddling charge. Nimis’ numerous, sharp teeth began to reciprocate like a garbage disposal.

  Kalyndriel surged to meet it head-on, moving without hesitation. Her luminous lance flashed out like a lightning, its shining tip driving down the Devourer’s enormous gullet in a perfectly placed strike. It was a masterful blow.

  The spear sank into the depths of the monster’s throat, halfway up the haft, and then stopped. Miraculously, it didn’t exit the back of the Devourer’s neck, and Nimis did not seem bothered. The grotesque creature chuckled happily, a rotten wind issuing from around the spear lodged it its craw.

  With a brief look of irritation, Kalyndriel attempted to pull her lance from the beast’s mouth, but it sank deeper into Devourer’s throat. She snarled angrily, released her grip on the weapon, and took a step backward.

  Eyes narrowed, she raised her gauntlets in a martial stance. She balanced on the balls of her heels with wings extended.

  Nimis slapped his hands once more on his massive stomach, and charged toward her. The creature’s mouth, grown unspeakably large, was now enough to devour her whole. Even an Avenging Angel could not survive a Devourer’s kiss.

  Kaly darted forward in a blur of brutality. As she closed with Nimis, she twisted and threw the entire weight of her colossal fury into a looping, right-hook haymaker. She yawed her powerful wings as she twisted, adding even more force to the strike. Her fist careened through the air like a howitzer round.

  The Angel’s gauntlet struck the side of Nimis’ malformed head like a sledgehammer hitting a watermelon. The Devourer’s head exploded in an eruption of corpulent flesh. Bits of pestilent matter painted the walls alongside Gressil’s remains like a grisly Rorschach test. Its horrible mouth, the only part of its head still recognizable, snapped feebly as though still alive. Kalyndriel’s lance clattered freely onto the floor.

  Kaly turned slowly to face the two Powers. They had watched the brief battle as though it was a terrifying magic trick, too stunned to move or intervene. Sweat beaded their Angelic brows.

  “Go now, Brothers” Kalyndriel growled with barely-restrained rage. She pointed a finger at them, black gore dripping slowly from its tip. “Tell Samael and Uriel that I come for them.”

  The Powers looked at each other nervously. They took a deep breath, and Angelic swords materialized in their hands. Barnabas, now peeking over the edge of his disk, winced. Idiots.

  The treacherous Angels attacked Kalyndriel together, their bright swords flashing toward her as one. Unarmed, she moved like mist around their clumsy strikes. She batted their infantile blows aside, lazily, with the palms of her gauntlets.

  Kaly’s wings burned with such white-hot intensity they left streamers of incandescence in the air as she twirled. Her blood boiled in her chest, filled with fury. The Angel’s beautiful face twisted in a haughty sneer of derision.

  A thrown whiskey bottle caught one of the Powers in the face, glass exploding. Barnabas flashed Kaly an encouraging thumbs-up as he searched for more ammunition. Teamwork at its finest.

  The bombarded Power grimaced, distracted, and Kaly darted forward. She planted her foot on the center of his chest and kicked violently, propelling him through the exterior wall of the office. He exploded out onto the adjacent street, unconscious.

  The remaining Power now attacked desperately, but his pathetic attempts were woefully insufficient. His face was haggard with panic as he struck wildly, hoping to score a blow against the merciless Avenging Angel. He had no chance, and Kaly dodged his blows effortlessly, moving with unearthly speed.

  She slipped inside the Power’s guard in the blink of an eye, the smallest whisper of motion, and she dealt him a crushing backhanded strike. He spun through the air like a rag doll, sword flying from his grasp. He struck the far wall and slid to the ground, dazed.

  Kalyndriel stepped slowly toward him. She raised a hand, and her shining lance flew into her grip. She placed the tip on the Power’s exposed neck, and her face was hard.

  “Flee now,” she implored him, her voice strained. A hint of uncertainty danced in the flames of her eyes; she was afraid of what she might do next. “I won’t tell you again.”

  The Power nodded in terrified agreement. He raised his battered form from the ground, and flew quickly through the hole in the ceiling. Barnabas had never seen an Angel fly quite so fast.

  Kalyndriel let out a shuddering breath, and her lance disappeared. The sheen of her wings dulled in intensity. She closed her eyes and shook her head regretfully. The battered structure that remained of the Demon’s office creaked sadly.

  Barnabas clapped in cheerful appreciation.

  “Mistress Kalyndriel!” he exclaimed with a wide, beaming smile. “I’m so very glad you could make it! Now tell me; is this the part at which we hug?”

  Chapter 14

  The Board of Directors

  “The Board is now in session,” droned a tiny, bored Imp. The scribe fidgeted absentmindedly with a quill pen.

  Hell’s Board of Directors gathered, as customary, in Cocytus, the 9th Circle of Hell. The deadliest Demons in existence circled an immense stone table by the abyssal edge of the Frozen Lake. Above, the pitch-black sky whistled with piercing shards of obsidian ice, their crystalline edges flaying the flesh from tormented souls in a never-ending blizzard. Frostbitten fingers reached feebly from the ice of the lake. Lips struggled to pierce the surface, to scream.

  The Board numbered ten Demons. Fallen Angels, one and all, they were the blasphemous architects of Armageddon. Creatures so vile, so twisted, that the stain on their souls was forever beyond redemption. They wore this stain proudly for all to see, reveling in their damnation. The Board was not interested in redemption; it was interested in annihilation.

  Mammon, Leviathan, Lilith, Belphegor, Asmodai, Azazel, and Bael. The seven Directors of Deadly Sin, each responsible for one of the cardinal vices that infested humanity. Each Demon was the ultimate personification of the depths of their chosen flaw, the final destination of the road to Hell. Apollyon, Beelzebub, and Adramalech were also Directors, responsible for War, the Interior, and Venial Sin, respectively.

  Grand Ambassador Babylonia also joined the board. Though she was not a Fallen Angel, she was ferocious enough to have earned a position as their advisor. Even the Directors were hesitant to incur her wrath.

  The eleven terrible Demons eyed each other suspiciously from their positions around the stone table. Though they were ostensibly allies in the war against Heaven, they often spent as much time thwarting each other as they did the Angels. Though Asmodai was the Director of Pride, the other Fallen Angels still had more than enough pride to prevent any sort of solidarity from forming amid such conflicting Demonic interests.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Beelzebub, the Prince of Flies, began.

  Beelzebub, the Director of the Interior and the Lord of Pandemonium, was a singularly repulsive creature. His face was human and handsome, though stain
ed by cruelty, and a jagged crown sat atop his curled locks. His body, however, was the fat and bloated form of an enormous maggot. The Demon’s voice vibrated sickeningly with the sound of whirring insects, a cacophony of chitinous vermin. It was the sound of filth and madness.

  The other Directors snarled with irritation at such courtesy. Beelzebub was appallingly fond of decorum, but he was in the minority among such a brutal audience. Words were better used for insult than for greeting.

  Unperturbed, Beelzebub continued. “This meeting has been called to address our current situation.” Swollen, blood-red flies leaked from the corners of his mouth as he spoke.

  “Our current situation?” Asmodai the Magnificent barked rudely. “That’s one way to put it, you simpering twit. The Nexuses are completely fucked, and no one knows why.” The Director bared his jagged, razor-sharp teeth. The rest of his form was equally as jagged, a hulking monstrosity of venomous spines.

  “Yes, quite,” Beelzebub replied dryly, heaving the front half of his grub-like body onto the edge of the stone table. He waved his multitude of tiny feet for emphasis as he spoke. “Nearly a quarter of the Nexuses have failed, and if this trend continues … then the rest will fail within the week.”

  The Board erupted in a cataclysmic uproar. Fallen Angels shouted over each other with voices of pealing thunder, pounding monstrous fists on the table’s granite surface. The din of the argument echoed through the entire 9th Circle. The Imp groaned and placed a hand on his weary forehead.

  A horrendously fat Demon, a walking mountain of flesh, stood from its seat. It raised ham-like fists for silence. The Demon’s eyes were glazed and rolled back in its head as though in a trance, the sickly whites glistening like rotten eggs. It opened its mouth, and a voice that seemed impossibly large echoed from its depths.