by Drew Foote
Raziel nodded sadly. “So be it,” he breathed.
Two enormous Apples fell to the ground.
“Eat, now, and then you must run. Good luck, humans … children no more.”
The eternal Serpent slithered back to the Tree and wound his way slowly up its gargantuan trunk, disappearing into the shimmering foliage.
Adam and Eve each picked up one of the Apples, so ripe they were close to bursting with succulent goodness, as though filled with limitless potential. The Progenitors smiled at each other in excitement, but it was an excitement fraught with fear. The warnings had been terrifying, but they knew the course they must take.
There was no other way they could live. This, they knew.
As one, they each took a bite from the Apples. The sweet taste that filled their mouths was overwhelming, a taste of such beauty it brought tears to their eyes. It was the essence of divinity, an indescribable song that rang through their bodies. The glory of Knowledge filled their souls. The Progenitors clutched at each other, weeping with joy and exultation.
For but a moment.
The sweetness turned to virulent venom in their mouths, ripping their insides with razor-sharp fangs. They gagged and sputtered, their mouths filled with the distilled essence of every heinous evil that would ever come to pass. They fell to their knees, vomiting, but the Apple’s poison continued to wrench them apart.
They writhed on the ground, retching, and it seemed as though the world was tearing itself to pieces. The rainbow leaves of the Tree of Knowledge rained down, scattering around them like colorful raindrops. The beautiful, emerald hills twisted and shimmered, leaving behind a desolate wasteland littered with bones.
Much like the Garden, the Progenitors’ minds underwent a similar rending. They felt their consciousness fracture, feebly attempting to encompass the terrible Knowledge of an alien God. It was an impossible task for such a flawed vessel, and it ripped them apart.
It was not all good. It was not all joy. It was pain, suffering, and loss. It was a darkness that slept within the breast, whispering of damnation. They learned of murder, rape, deceit, greed, and every other vile spirit that would plague humanity for eternity.
They knew Death, which was only the beginning … and that was the worst pain of all.
The humans wept as the Garden of Eden died. They could not find the strength to stand, although they knew they must. They felt tremendous, seismic thuds vibrate the ground beneath them. Animals fled crashing through the brushes, howling in terror, and they heard the searing roar of a colossal firestorm, crackling and snapping.
He came for them.
“You must run!” the Serpent cried urgently in their minds.
In the distance, towering above the trees, loomed a fiery catastrophe. It was Uriel, the One that Burns. His furious spirit flared with the heat of a thousand suns, incinerating everything so utterly that not even ashes remained. The burning maelstrom of his essence sucked everything toward the forge of his heart; air, animals, trees, all flew whirling into his celestial furnace.
“Disobedient children!” Uriel roared. “Come now, and know me!” He strode toward them with thundering steps, the once-lush garden withering in his wake.
Adam and Eve forced themselves to their unsteady feet, lurching forward in a sprint. The air swirling toward Uriel’s raging heart pulled them backward, but they ran with desperate abandon. They struggled onward with the rumbling sound of dissolution behind them, destroying everything they had ever known.
All that was good and pure dissipated into forgotten memory, never to be reclaimed by the children of Adam.
They ran and ran, never stopping to look back at the desolation they knew lay behind them. They fled into the bone-filled wastelands, where they and their progeny would live until the death of time.
All was ashes.
~
Walter closed the book and sat, slack-jawed and dazed. He did not know what to think, or feel. Everything he had been taught in Sunday school had been true, but in many ways … it wasn’t. The story was the same but the message was different, and he could not understand it.
His mind spun so fast that it eventually stopped, and all was still. He breathed out.
“Such a tragedy, is it not?” Paimon asked, his voice heavy with emotion. “Did they make a mistake, or did they even have a choice?”
Walter looked up at the Demon, his face blank.
“I leave you with one further question, Walter Grey. If God is omnipotent and omniscient, did he know full well they would eat the Apple before He even planted the tree?” Paimon asked.
Walter shrugged. It was the most he could manage.
Paimon chuckled a strained laugh, and nodded sagely. “Good answer. If you ever find out the truth, please let me know. I don’t know, either.”
Chapter 17
Father Pandemonium
“Are you ready?” Barnabas asked uncertainly.
Kalyndriel looked over her newly blackened armor and wings, now crackling with shadowy energy. Was that how it began, the slide into damnation? Was she falling from grace, in truth?
Her mouth tightened, and she nodded.
“I like the new look, for what it’s worth,” Barnabas offered cheerily. “Now, since you’ve never been to Hell before, it’s probably best if you take my hand.” He extended an open palm toward her.
She removed her gauntlet and grasped his hand. Her fingers were cold and hard, as though carved from the finest marble. The Demon’s hands were hot with infernal warmth. Barnabas opened his wings, and Kaly felt the world twist. The walls seemed to drip before her disoriented eyes, and she fell once more.
Down and down, forever down.
They plummeted through a burning corridor, desiccated hands grasping feebly at them as they fell. Distorted faces pressed against the walls of the shaft as though against satin sheets, wailing and screaming for succor. Heinous laughter resounded, echoing from every surface. It was filled with hunger and unspeakable promises.
Welcome home, Angel.
Thus, Kalyndriel found herself in Hell.
~
Pandemonium: the true Father of Cities, the capital of Hell and the jewel of the inferno. It sprawled across the blighted surface of the 1st Circle like a cancerous scab. Jagged, misshapen towers of twisted metal rose far into the hellish sky, disharmonious angles at odds with everything noble. Every surface was rusted and pitted, etched by the tears of lost souls.
Its catacomb of warren streets wove with no rhyme or reason, the filthy lanes crowded with Demons and human souls alike. The souls herded like chattel onto raised platforms, their terrified faces downcast as Demons bartered for possession of their eternal essence. Some were destined for the Scream Factories, doomed to supply Hell with the wails of anguish that sustained its foul machineries. Others were bound for the Birthing Mines, where they would dig endlessly into the inferno’s stygian depths, releasing new Demons into the world.
Countless destinations for an eternity of misery.
Above it all, vile Overseers soared through the twisted pinnacles on enormous wings of leather. They wheeled gracefully on the updrafts of torment that rose from the city, their sharp eyes seeing all. They were monstrous things, little more than wings and tearing claws, and they were the eyes of the Lord of the city, the Director Beelzebub. Nothing occurred in Father Pandemonium without his foul knowledge.
Barnabas, Kalyndriel, and Arcturus found themselves standing outside the enormous gate to the city. The ancient entrance, far older than the first civilizations of man, was fashioned in the shape of a gigantic, fanged mouth. Barnabas had always considered that dreadfully clichéd, but such was life.
The yawning maw served as the only entrance into Pandemonium, and two bored Fiends monitored the dense flow of traffic into the city.
Kalyndriel looked around at the infernal landscape, her eyes wide with horror. It was far worse than she had ever imagined; Hell had always been some vague, abstract thing, a faceless foe wi
thout true power. Pandemonium was terrifyingly real, as was the infernal power that coursed through the stifling air. It was thick and brutal, the foul taste of evil triumphant, and it was so much bigger than her.
Here, she was overmatched. Here, she was weak.
Barnabas eyed the Angel with interest. He was fascinated to see such a fierce, proud soul humbled before the undeniable magnitude of Father Pandemonium. It was rather satisfying. “Don’t forget to breathe,” he suggested.
Kaly nodded grimly, and collected her resolve. No matter her appearance, no matter the injustices she had suffered, she was true to her purpose. What greater test was there for an Angel than to delve into the belly of the monster and emerge with her faith intact? It was a worthy tribulation.
“Let’s go,” she said.
They approached the gate. The Fiends glanced sharply at them, their attention lingering on Kalyndriel. “Name and purpose?” one asked. They shuffled uneasily on their hooves.
“Barnabas of the Directorate of Pride, and company,” Barnabas replied grandly. “Here to visit the Hall of Records.” He offered them a winning smile.
The Fiends looked at each other for a long moment, and then turned back to Barnabas. “Very well,” one said. “Proceed. Enjoy your stay in Pandemonium, Barnabas … and company.” He smiled maliciously at Kaly, waving a hand toward the gate.
The trio proceeded through the mouth. Once inside, Barnabas turned to Kalyndriel. “Well, that went well, don’t you think?” he whispered conspiratorially.
“Hey, shouldn’t you have used a fake name, or something?” Arcturus asked. Barnabas shrugged.
The Angel felt sick to her stomach. They were crowded on all sides by throngs of Demons of different shapes, a menagerie of the grotesque and the damned. The mob pressed close against the party, but it seemed to give Kalyndriel a wider berth than normal. She did not radiate an Angelic presence, but she was still an undoubtedly dangerous creature. She was far fairer than most denizens of Hell, but she was obviously not to be trifled with.
Barnabas noted that, to her credit, she was doing a passable job of acting intimidating and nonchalant. Her mouth was a thin, grim line, but she didn’t appear on the verge of a panic attack. Yet. So far, so good.
Kalyndriel struggled fiercely to maintain that appearance. There, surrounded by beings that were poisonous to her soul, she longed for nothing more than to lash out with lance in hand. Her grip ached for the feeling of terrible justice clasped within it.
What sweet glory it would be to rend these Demons to pieces, to sanctify the streets of this blasphemous place with holy judgment.
Kaly’s black wings crackled with heat like logs upon a hearth. She could send a message of hope to the poor damned souls that paraded about like livestock; she could burn like a beacon of purity … but no. She could not. She exhaled, shuddering.
They pressed forward through the teeming masses, Barnabas leading the way. Kaly followed close behind, Arcturus fluttering nearby, and she scanned the crowd intently. All manner of Demons filled the street; regal Fiends strode with purpose and challenging gazes. Servile Imps flew and scampered between cloven hooves. Lumbering Minotaurs strode through the center of it all, oblivious to any in their path. Demons walked and crawled, slithered and flew, capered and cavorted.
An Overseer swooped low overhead, and Kalyndriel could feel its bulbous gaze fall upon her like a cowl.
Barnabas led them swiftly through the labyrinthine streets of the Father of Cities. He put on a brave face, but unease filled him. The city was dangerous at the best of times, but something felt different. Pandemonium was more than a mere city; it was a living thing, given unholy, pulsating life by the multitude of Demons living within.
Pandemonium inhaled the despair of the damned souls, and exhaled the essence of Hell itself. It was alive, it was aware, and Barnabas felt like it was watching them. Every broken spire, every pile of detritus, and every collapsed building was a bundle of bloody nerves that strained toward the party. He felt as though it had been waiting for them, biding its time like a trap-door spider.
“Hey, boss,” Arcturus whispered unhappily. “I think this was a bad idea.”
Barnabas swallowed. Arcturus was almost certainly right. “Let’s try to stay optimistic, now, Art. I’m sure you’re imagining things.” They continued through the maze.
Kalyndriel could feel it as well. She sensed the walls of the alleys bending toward them, seeking to envelop them within the city’s embrace. She felt trapped, suffocating. Her pulse quickened and she clenched her fists, preparing to strike at a moment’s notice.
A cacophony of jeering Demons filled the air, hawking their wares and hurling insults at one another, but beneath it was the subtle undercurrent of another sound. It was a deep rumbling, humming sound. It came and went in cycles, vibrating the cobbled stones beneath her feet. It was the sound of a great bellows, opening and closing.
She realized, with dismay, that it was the sound of the city breathing.
Barnabas noticed her rising panic. “Keep it together,” he whispered urgently to her.
“How … how can this be?” she asked forlornly, shaken to the core. How could evil be so powerful? How could such horror exist, and flourish? Such questions had always been purely academic to most Angels, but the jarring reality of Hell was a cruel awakening. Its might rose on all sides of her, implacable, undeniable.
Kalyndriel realized, sickeningly, that Heaven was not winning the war. The age belonged to the inferno. She had been a fool.
Barnabas grimaced. “I didn’t write the rules. Ask your God,” he sneered, far more viciously than he had intended.
Kaly turned away silently.
“Look,” Barnabas continued, his tone conciliatory. “We can discuss this later, but now is most assuredly not the time for theological debate.” He gestured at the walls surrounding them, looming ever closer. “We just need to get the information and get out of here.”
The Angel nodded half-heartedly, and the trio continued to wind through the crowded streets of Pandemonium. Arcturus flew close to Kalyndriel in the suffocating press of hellish pedestrians, many whom paused to gawk openly at the beautiful, black-winged new Demoness. Whispers grew and built around them as they struggled onward.
After traveling for what felt like an interminably long time, Barnabas paused and pointed at a looming structure in the distance. It seemed incomprehensibly large, towering over the other massive spires.
“That’s the Hall of Records,” he said with a vast measure of relief. “We’re almost there.”
During their trek through the streets of Pandemonium, they had attracted quite the gathering. A crowd of Demons, of various types and sizes, had taken to following them, speculating on the nature of the unusual party. Several enterprising Demons had even begun taking wagers on how long it would take before extreme violence erupted.
The consensus was “not long at all.”
Barnabas continued forward, hoping the odds were wrong, but realizing that he would definitely have put money on something bad happening. Soon. His fears were confirmed when he came to a sudden stop, staring up at the barrel chest of a monstrous Minotaur standing directly in front of him. The beast looked darkly down at Barnabas, clearly not intending to let him pass.
Minotaurs, the slightly smaller cousins of the Doombringers of the War Directorate, were still fearsome behemoths in their own right. This one looked to be of a particularly surly temperament, his massive horns crowned with the skulls of murdered foes. He wore a collar of steel around his thick neck, and from it dragged numerous chains. They enslaved the damned, pathetic souls in his thrall.
“Hello, good sir!” Barnabas called upward, craning his neck. “Now, if you will excuse us,” he made to step around the Minotaur, who shoved him roughly back into place.
The Minotaur’s fixed his black gaze firmly on Kalyndriel. “Who’s the pretty lady?” the beast rumbled. He yanked viciously on one of his chains, dragging forward an attached
soul. “Introduce me, slave.”
The bruised and battered soul knelt in the abyssal filth of the street, his eyes averted. “It is my honor to present to you the Demon Lord Morax, Gorer of Angels, of the Directorate of Wrath,” the poor creature wheezed through the chain wound around his neck.
Kalyndriel looked down at the slave. Barnabas shook his head frantically, begging her with wide eyes to restrain herself. He could see the terrible struggle building within the Angel. She finally looked up at Morax, her face unreadable.
“It is an honor, Demon Lord Morax,” she muttered through clenched teeth. “But I must be going.”
Barnabas breathed a sigh of relief, impressed.
“Nonsense!” Morax happily insisted. “A meeting such as this should be celebrated with blood!” He yanked once more at the kneeling slave, pulling him into the Minotaur’s monstrous grasp. With a single, brutal motion, the Minotaur wrenched the soul sickeningly in two.
“Let us be friends, beautiful one!” Morax declared grandly. He tossed the pieces of the slave at Kalyndriel’s feet.
“Aw, shit,” Arcturus whimpered. He and Barnabas edged backward very, very slowly. An Overseer sat perched high above, watching the grim festivities with great interest.
Kalyndriel stared blankly down at the dismembered soul laying in the grime and muck of the filthy street, still twitching, still unable to die. Though he was ruined, the soul would never be able to escape his torment. He would never know release.
The soul reached a hand toward her, pleading. “Please …” he whispered, essence leaking from his mouth in a translucent stream.
Something within the Angel snapped. With a tremendous roar of rage, her fury exploded from her in a concussive nova that threw the gathered crowd to the ground. An alarmed yelp ran through the onlookers, as that was certainly not proper etiquette.
Morax took a step backward, confused.
Kalyndriel launched herself at the Demon Lord with a tremendous bellow, her wings erupting in a black solar flare. Here was evil, here was disease, here was the flaw in God’s creation! She would excise the cancer.
