Angels to Ashes

by Drew Foote

  She would destroy it … she would destroy it all.

  Kaly struck Morax’s gigantic chest with the force of every tormented scream that had torn at her heart in that city of the damned, the unstoppable momentum of purest wrath. The Minotaur’s monumental bulk catapulted backward through the air, the chains around his neck snapping in a metallic percussion, and his body crashed into a wall twenty yards away. He lay collapsed and disoriented amid the rubble.

  The Angel leapt mightily, wings thrusting and weeping trails of howling shadow. She descended like an ebony bird of prey, landing on the chest of the fallen Minotaur. The crowd gasped.

  Her once-lovely face was a twisted mask of bloodlust. It seemed a carving of a pagan goddess of war, merciless and furious, as she gripped one of the Minotaur’s massive horns. Her muscles tensed.

  The horn wrenched loose with a sickening crunch, a spike the size of a man’s leg, and she drove it violently into Morax’s bewildered face. His massive body twitched, then stilled.

  The black Angel stood slowly, her wings spread wide and her shoulders hunched in aggression. She turned to the gaping crowd and stared at them silently, her frenzied glare begging for more challengers. None dared.

  Barnabas stepped forward, chuckling apologetically. “Please excuse my friend. She’s new here, you see,” he stated unconvincingly. “There’s an adjustment period.”

  The gathered Demons hastily scattered into the various alleyways, wanting nothing more to do with whoever that dreadful Fallen Angel was. They were alone in the street, save the Overseer lurking high above. It did not move from its perch, its visage curious.

  Barnabas approached Kalyndriel cautiously, his hands open in a gesture of peace. He waited silently beside her, gaze deliberately averted. She was still wild, buckling beneath the tide of wrath that threatened to overwhelm the levies she had constructed within herself. Her breathing was heavy and ragged.

  The Angel and Demon stood next to each other for a time, neither speaking, as Kalyndriel struggled to rein in her overwhelming fury. It felt as though she tried to chain a monstrous, raging beast that had just gotten a delicious taste of freedom. Eventually, with great effort, she managed to regain a measure of composure.

  She looked down at the butchered Minotaur.

  Kaly sighed, a sound of monumental weariness. “That was … excessive,” she admitted, chastened and deeply troubled.

  Was her brutality any different, even if it was ‘just’? She refused to consider a concept as trite as justice being relative, but her world had become uncomfortably ambiguous.

  She was forced to admit a part of her had enjoyed that: the release, the frenzy, and the righteousness. Kalyndriel was no stranger to heated combat, but something was different. Something had broken inside her, and she had liked it. She wondered if black wings suited her better. She silently prayed that they did not.

  “A bit,” Barnabas admitted wryly, and chose not to pursue the matter further. “Shall we continue?”

  “On the bright side,” Arcturus added. “There’s a lot less congestion in the streets now. We should make good time.”

  He was correct, and they soon found themselves at the foot of the massive Hall of Records. It stretched high into the sky, the repository containing the final disposition of every soul that entered Hell. If Hell’s bureaucracy was outrageous normally, and it certainly was, the bureaucracy of the Hall of Records took it to another level entirely. They would be lucky to find the location of Walter Grey’s soul within the next century.

  They entered into a dimly lit lobby, run-down and filthy. Shabby chairs lined the walls and the linoleum floors were warped. An Imp wearing enormous spectacles sat at a worn desk flipping through a ledger. He looked up at them in annoyance.

  “Ah, yes,” the Imp barked irritably. “You three. Take a seat.”

  Barnabas looked quizzically at him. “You were expecting us?”

  The Imp frowned. “I wasn’t, not as such. They were, though,” he replied, and gestured toward a door behind him.

  Three tall forms entered through the door. Two Fiends, and a third Demon Barnabas did not recognize. He was a ghastly thing, a towering skeleton consisting of nothing but ancient and yellowed bones. Skeletal wings were folded behind him, and his bony fingers were covered in all manner of rings and jewels.

  The decrepit form stopped and smiled, or at least Barnabas assumed it was a smile. Skulls were always smiling, more or less. A wispy, hollow voice emerged from the death’s head.

  “Greetings to you, Barnabas, Kalyndriel, and Arcturus,” the Demon groaned.

  “And greetings to you, sir! To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” Barnabas asked smoothly, although his mind raced with alarm. The bag of bones knew exactly who they were, and likely what they sought.

  The being chuckled, a sound of dried leaves blowing in the wind. “I have the inestimable pleasure of being Eligor, the Majordomo for his Excellency Beelzebub, Director of the Interior and Lord of Pandemonium. His Lordship bids you welcome.” Eligor bowed elegantly, his joints creaking.

  Barnabas’ heart skipped a beat. Kalyndriel looked at him with concern, ready to fight if needed. He shook his head slightly, and turned once more to Eligor.

  “His Lordship is most gracious for this welcome. We merely seek information from the Hall of Records; no matter that merits his concern.”

  Eligor chuckled again. “Lord Beelzebub is quite aware of the information you seek. In fact, he requests your presence to discuss the matter.” The skeletal face was unreadable, but his tone made it perfectly clear that it was not a request, at all.

  “That sounds delightful,” Barnabas declared with hollow enthusiasm. “Let us be on our way, then.”

  Chapter 18

  The Prince of Flies

  I gazed up at the soaring ceilings of the Pandemonium Citadel with no small measure of awe. They stretched far above — leagues, it seemed — and they displayed exquisite murals depicting the War in Heaven. Hanging braziers illuminated the distant friezes, and the figures were painted in massive scale to be visible from so far below.

  It was an arching fresco of Lucifer’s rebellion, the work of a Demonic master artist. The Morning Star’s glorious, radiant form battled the chilling Gabriele and the grim Michael to a standstill at the foot of the Stairs. Apollyon lay crouched atop Samael’s fallen body, gouging out his luminous eyes. Makariel turned treacherously on his Angelic regiments, laying cackling waste to scores of horrified Powers. Leviathan’s mammoth form breached violently through the clouds of the Choirs, legions of desperate Angels driving their swords and spears into his thick carapace. On the side of the mural, Beelzebub, the Prince of Flies, watched the carnage with beatific grace.

  I noticed Kalyndriel looking up at the mural with a mixture of disgust and … memories? “I don’t see you up there,” I whispered.

  “Oh, I was there,” she replied grimly. “It doesn’t depict the part where the traitors were defeated and cast down.”

  I shrugged. “Artistic license, et cetera.”

  Eligor continued to lead us unerringly through the cyclopean interior of the Pandemonium Citadel, one of the largest structures in Hell, and the lair of Director Beelzebub. In contrast to the rusted and ruined nature of the city itself, the Citadel was immaculately beautiful. Gems encrusted the golden surfaces, the floors were shining ivory, and artistic depictions of Demonic might filled its vaulted corridors. It shamed the greatest of Man’s works, a tribute to the glory of the inferno.

  It was my kind of place.

  We proceeded down a long hall. A legion of golden-armored Minotaurs stood at attention lining the walls: the Director’s Honor Guard. I desperately hoped they had not heard about what happened to the last Minotaur that had accosted Kalyndriel. Thankfully, they remained at attention, their eyes forward.

  We reached the end of the corridor, stopping before an enormous golden double door. An intricate depiction of the Director’s corpulent form, surrounded by a swarm of flies,
was carved in metallic relief. I heard a horrid, buzzing noise from behind door. Eligor stopped, and turned to address us.

  “Honored guests,” he bowed graciously. “The Lord Director wishes to speak with Barnabas in private. The two of you are welcome to remain here until they are finished.”

  I frowned nervously. “These are my boon companions, sir. I would prefer to have their company during this meeting,” I said, hopeful.

  Eligor laughed dryly, and shook his skeletal head. “I think not. The Lord Director is quite familiar with your Angelic friend’s … proclivities, so to speak. He has positively no intention of allowing her anywhere near his Grace,” the Demon answered firmly. “She will be quite safe here, I assure you.”

  I was slightly more concerned about my own safety, as well as the Honor Guard’s. I turned to Kalyndriel, and she gave a small nod. It seemed as though we had no choice. I turned to Eligor and smiled.

  “Very well. Lead on, Majordomo.”

  His death’s head grinned, and he gestured for me to continue alone. The golden doors swung open with a colossal grind, and I walked forward into a whirring swarm of flies and locusts.

  ~

  The enveloping cloud of screeching insects was so thick I could not see anything. They whirled around me, bouncing off my skin with stinging impacts. I resisted the urge to bat them away, fearful I might offend the Director by injuring his favorite fly, should he be so sentimental.

  I inched slowly forward through the swarm, covering my face with my hands. The heavy doors slammed shut behind me, locking me inside a maelstrom of chitin and madly beating wings. Panic slowly built in my gut, rising like a ravenous tide, and I fought the desire to flee headlong into the quivering storm. My teeth clenched as I placed one foot in front of the other.

  “Welcome, Barnabas.”

  The words seemed to come from all around me, issuing from the beating wings of the flies: a heinous, ghastly noise. Their vibrating timbre ground itself into my skull with excruciating pain. I fell to my knees, clutching my ears.

  The colossal cloud of insects laughed as one in a terrible chorus of pulsating thoraxes and grinding mandibles. I cried out, feeling my sanity slipping through my grasp like sand. I could sense the loathsome force of Beelzebub’s presence worming its way into my mind.

  How simple it would be as one of the flies, a part of something larger and greater. How easy, and how rewarding. I fought to hold onto myself, to resist becoming one with the eternal swarm. I was Barnabas, damn it, and I liked that just fine.

  “Fuck off, sir,” I growled through gritted teeth. It was what first came to mind, and it was all I could manage beneath the whirring onslaught.

  The swarm suddenly dispersed, leaving a clearing of startling emptiness around me. I stood before Lord Beelzebub, Director of the Interior, and the flies formed an impenetrable, shifting amphitheater. The Prince of Flies lounged on an enormous throne of golden skulls: a massive, bloated maggot with the face of a man. His handsome features looked down upon me with mild surprise.

  “Fuck … off?” he asked in a gyrating voice. He seemed to be debating whether to be amused or outraged.

  “With all due respect, your Lordship,” I replied solemnly, kneeling with appropriate reverence.

  He laughed, a disconcerting sound, but far less so than his earlier mirth. “Fair enough, Barnabas. I suppose that was a somewhat rude greeting, I grant you.” He smiled coyly, and gestured for me to rise.

  I was thankful he did not seem angry, but I was still dreadfully shaken by my experience within the swarm. I still felt as though I could feel a multitude of legs crawling on my skin, trying to force their way inside me. I fought to suppress a shiver.

  “You requested my presence, sire?” I asked. I struggled to maintain control of my voice as I eyed the shifting canopy of insects above.

  Beelzebub nodded, raising his grotesque body into a sitting stance. The tiny, needle-sharp legs that lined his frame undulated hungrily. “Indeed. I request a simple favor; one that I think coincides with your own interests.” His charming smile was quite disturbing from above such a disgusting form.

  I grimaced. I knew where this led. “The soul of Walter Grey, correct?”

  “But of course. I’m well aware that Director Leviathan has already come calling, and I sincerely apologize on his behalf.” Beelzebub practically oozed commiseration. “Leviathan’s soft skills could use some work, truth be told.”

  That was quite the understatement. “No offense taken,” I lied. “And you would have me give his soul to you?”

  He laughed his vibrating laugh once again, this time with a note of condescension. “No, no, Barnabas. What kind of Director would I be if I sought to rob a Demon of his hard-earned souls?”

  He waved his tiny legs at the surrounding citadel. “What need have I for a piddling soul? What I would have, however, is information.

  “His taskmaster is … quite the stickler for the rules, you might say,” Beelzebub continued. “He will permit none other than the one who owns his soul to have access to him. All I ask is that you retrieve him, and ask him a single question.”

  The Director smiled again, and it seemed the whirring of the flies increased in intensity. I stared at him evenly. There was something frightening at work, and I began to appreciate the enormity of my predicament fully. Several of the most powerful Demons in Hell, and one of the Archangels, were far too interested in this soul.

  What was at stake, here?

  “And the question, your Lordship?”

  “The same question that your Angelic friend desires, no doubt. What happened to Walter on the night of his death? That is all.” He gave me a warm, friendly, and utterly deceitful smile. The swarm stilled ominously.

  “That’s it? And then I am done with all this?”

  The Director nodded solemnly. “Absolutely. I can guarantee that Leviathan will trouble you no more, and I’ll even put in a good word with Director Asmodai for you. Perhaps a promotion is even in order! Asmodai and I are quite close.” He flashed perfectly white and even teeth.

  “Retrieve the soul of Walter Grey from his keeper, ask him what he knows, and then report back to me. Simple as that. I’ll even find a good home for your Fallen Angel friend.”

  I desperately wanted to believe him. I would pay any price to be free from the chains that had somehow woven themselves around my carefree existence, and his offer was tempting. It was a shame I didn’t believe a word he said; he was a Demon, after all.

  “All right. I’ll do it. Where is he?”

  A flicker of irritation crossed his sublime face. “The Tower of Knowledge, under the keeping of Paimon the Cruel.”

  That was surprising. “Souls actually get sent there?” I asked.

  “Very few do. Only ones in which Paimon takes a special interest. He is quite the odd one, that fellow. I recommend you tread carefully and ask nicely.”

  I would tread carefully, indeed, around every infernal or celestial presence that had any interest in the damnable Walter Grey. Although the fact galled me, the only one who seemed halfway trustworthy was the Avenging Angel. She was a stampeding hippopotamus: far too blunt and obnoxiously earnest to be deceitful.

  “Understood, Lord Director,” I replied, bowing low. “Do I have your leave to go?”

  His slimy girth leaned back, satisfied. “You do. Go with my blessing, Barnabas.”

  The hovering cloud of insects whirled into action, swirling onto his corpse-white carcass in a flowing wave. They sank into his skin, disappearing inside his body, the mass of the insects causing his maggot form to bloat and swell grossly. The room was clear. Director Beelzebub waved a leg, and the golden doors swung open smoothly.

  I rose and gratefully exited his dreadful presence, finding Kalyndriel and Arcturus still waiting outside. I could see they were surprised to find me in one piece, although Art did an admirable job of acting unimpressed.

  “What was that about?” Kalyndriel asked in an urgent whisper when I rejoi
ned them.

  “What do you think it was about?” I snapped. My wings rustled in agitation.

  “Walter?”

  “How clever you are. We’ll talk more when we get out of here,” I gestured at the oppressive shape of the Citadel. This entire city was an extension of Beelzebub’s will. “I know where he is: The Tower of Knowledge.

  Chapter 19

  The Final Chapter

  “I can feel a black tide converging upon you, Walter. The waters are rising,” Paimon said softly. The Demon and human sat across from each other in the library, bathed in the fitful glare of flickering candles.

  “That’s the story of the ages, isn’t it, Paimon?” Walt replied conversationally. Walter now met the Demon’s gaze confidently. He was the veteran of a thousand battles, the sufferer of a thousand torments. Gone was the feeble creature that had arrived at the Tower thousands of epochs ago.

  Paimon chuckled warmly. “Indeed it is, my friend, and you have walked the ages bravely,” the Demon responded, and he leaned in closer. “Tell me, Walter … how long do you think it has been since you died?”

  Walter Grey considered the question. His mortal life seemed like it belonged to someone else: distant and blurry, irretrievable. Walter had read of the War in Heaven and the ensuing Fall, and he had fought in the ancient struggle as both an Angel and Demon. He had walked the shadowed glades of Eden and suffered the echoing emptiness of the aftermath. He had watched humanity grow and die, feeling the pain of every sin and the joy of every triumph.

  “Centuries … millennia?” he finally replied, unsure.

  Paimon smiled slightly. “Yes to both. Also … only three days.”

  “That’s impossible!”

  The Demon nodded. “Quite impossible, but … time twists oddly in Hell, as it is, and it submits even further to my will within the Tower. Only three days above have passed,” he insisted, and somehow Walter knew this was true. “There are limits to even my power, however, and I’m afraid the flow of chronology has caught up to us.”