by Drew Foote
The Imp offered her a hopeful smile between heaving breaths. He was a truly hideous thing. The Angel sighed forlornly, shook her head, and continued up the stairs behind Barnabas. Arcturus rested gratefully, wheezing.
Step after cursed step, one foot after the other.
It seemed as though there were as many steps as books in this damnable place, Barnabas mused. Would it have been too much to ask for an elevator for visitors? That showed a distinct lack of consideration on the part of the Tower’s owner. Barnabas would most assuredly have words on this matter when he reached the top of this blasted thing.
Kalyndriel was troubled, and her mind probed the Tower around her as she climbed. Angelic awareness examined the structure’s density, exploring its eldritch nature. There was something bizarre at work, even atop the usual strangeness. It felt as though the world outside was moving in molasses, or trapped in amber. Onward they climbed, but the moments barely trickled by elsewhere.
“Something is amiss,” she told Barnabas. “This place is different.”
Barnabas halted, and turned to look down the stairs at her with exasperation. “Oh, really? You mean there’s something odd about this gigantic reality-warping funhouse? Once again, your Angelic powers of observation never fail to amaze.”
She stared at him with an icy gaze. Arcturus, still riding on her shoulders, flipped him off. What a little turncoat, Barnabas thought with a grimace.
“What I mean,” Kalyndriel continued sternly. “Is that time has practically stopped outside this place. Have you noticed that?”
The Demon paused, somewhat taken aback. He was ashamed to admit that he had not. “Well, not yet,” he conceded. “But it was only a matter of time. That actually was rather perceptive of you. Can you tell why?”
Kalyndriel looked somewhat mollified, and Arcturus curled up once more like a bloated cat. “I cannot ascertain the purpose, no,” she replied, uncertain. “But the source is the Demon above us. From its pure force of will. Paimon the Cruel, I presume.”
That was a troubling realization. It was no small feat for a being to bend time, and for such a massive distortion, the being would have to be horrifyingly powerful: Fallen Angel powerful. Barnabas suspected Director Beelzebub had not given him the entire story about this Paimon, which was little surprise. It was clear enough that Beelzebub intended to murder them all when Barnabas finally got his hands on Walter. That was the obvious play for a Demon.
“Well. I guess that means we have all the time in the world to make it up these stairs. I presume we’ll need it.”
Kaly nodded grimly, and they continued up the endlessly winding staircase.
They trudged in silence, seemingly for days. Barnabas was exhausted, but he noticed with irritation that the Angel seemed completely tireless. Even clad in full battle regalia, her steps had not slowed an ounce over the course of the journey. They were as implacable as the justice she meted out.
Perhaps a distraction was in order. He could get some amusement along with much-needed respite.
“Tell me,” he began conversationally. “How does it feel to be a hypocrite?”
The Angel’s armored form clanked to a sudden, menacing stop. Barnabas tried to appear casual as he struggled to catch his breath. Arcturus raised his head from slumber, alarmed.
“Explain yourself.”
Barnabas turned to face her. “Oh, well, I was just wondering,” he continued. “You’re in the business of murdering things. I think I remember there being something in a book, somewhere, about that being frowned upon.”
He gave her a huge grin.
Her face was etched steel, beautiful and utterly unbending. “I purge the unclean, Demon: the vile creatures that violate the Wager. I deal in justice, not destruction.”
“Ohhh, that’s right, this Wager that no one in Hell had anything to do with? That’s totally fine, then. It’s fine because your rules say it’s fine, correct?”
Kaly took a step upward toward Barnabas, her black wings hissing dangerously. “Do not equate your iniquity with my righteousness, Demon. I fight for those that cannot defend themselves.”
“Defend themselves from what, pray tell?” Barnabas asked coyly. “The rules of creation that your vaunted God forced upon them? The iniquity is His, I dare say … or at least inequity. How have His rules been treating you, lately?”
That provoked the Angel even further. Kalyndriel took another step up the stairs, frighteningly close to the Demon. Her hands clenched and unclenched, as though they fitfully dreamed. The darkness of her wings deepened, absorbing the nearby light. Shadows began to weep from the corners of her eyes.
“Watch your tongue, Fallen One, lest I remove it,” she said softly. The Angel’s voice was dangerously smooth, like silk drawn over the blade of an executioner’s axe. Bloodshed was imminent.
Amazingly — inexplicably — Barnabas did not quail before her fury. Although he had originally intended some harmless Angel-baiting, merely an amusement, Barnabas now felt something terrible awakening within his heart. He felt a rising anger stir from the deep recesses in which it usually slept.
Barnabas leaned toward Kalyndriel, sneering combatively.
“Yes, that’s exactly what you would do, isn’t it? I saw you tear that Minotaur to pieces in Pandemonium. Was that holy? Was that righteous? And even if it was, that’s not why you did it, was it?” the Demon spat, contempt guttering from his mouth in a cascade of vitriol.
“I saw the joy in you! All of Hell heard your soul rejoice as you slaughtered that creature, and there was nothing holy about it. It occurs to me that, if this whole redemption thing doesn’t work out, you’d be a perfect fit for the Directorate of Wrath.”
“That’s your sin, Angel, and you embody it as surely as I embody Pride.”
Kalyndriel was stunned into silence. She took a step backward, the rage dissipating from her in an instant. The little color drained from her alabaster face. Her wings lowered in defeat, their darkness lightened to a sickly, ashy gray. She seemed empty, and terribly afraid.
Barnabas did not stop, however. His blood, so slow to simmer, was now boiling with the haughty Angel’s presumption. Her apparent contrition could not halt this landslide.
“And you have the nerve to call me a Fallen One? Tell me, from where did I Fall?” he asked. His hands trembled with emotion. “I was never in Heaven, Angel! I never cast my lot with Lucifer, and I never violated my oath. I was born in the inferno, of the inferno, spawned from the black hearts of the humans that you say you protect.”
“So what do I owe your God? Your God has never spoken to me, and has He ever spoken to you? Would he redeem me? Would He welcome me into Heaven should I repent my ‘evil’ ways?”
Barnabas took another step forward.
“Redemption? No, I think not,” he laughed bleakly. “My lot is what I was given, and I do what I must to survive. There is no other path for me, and I would have it no other way.”
“So do not dare judge me, Avenging Angel!” he snarled. “You sit high atop your ivory tower in Heaven, sneering at the worms and the Demons writhing in the dirt below, but you’re no better than us. You’re just another butcher with nice hair and shiny armor.”
“You are not the cure, Angel; you’re just another symptom of the disease!”
Barnabas burned with indignation, his wings stretched as taut as a drawn longbow. His soul soared as he gave voice to a fury that he had never truly confronted within himself. Hurtful words spilled from him in a torrent of blackness, and it felt wonderful.
It felt as though he lanced a pestilent boil.
“I have made more dreams come true than your God, and is that just? Everything is all fucked up, Angel, we agree on that, at least … But I didn’t do it!” he bellowed furiously, his face roaring down at hers, his words echoing through the Tower. His chest heaved and his heart churned with emotions never before given shape. Emotions buried beneath a smooth façade.
Kalyndriel weathered his onslaught with do
wncast eyes. Her wings lay folded behind her, faded, dingy things. She was silent. Even Arcturus was taken aback. He had never seen this side of Barnabas before, and it was both inspiring and frightening. The Imp would never have guessed there was a glimmer of true emotion, other than entitlement and self-preservation, behind Barnabas’ slick used-car salesman exterior.
It was clear that Barnabas had exhausted himself. He turned away from Kaly, struggling to regain his composure, the thing most precious to him. He had let himself slip out of control, and he cursed himself for it: he was better than that.
Kalyndriel finally raised her face, and there was shame and compassion written in its lines. She spoke softly.
“Barnabas. Regretfully, much of what say is true. I am not infallible, and we all struggle mightily. I thank you for your honesty, and I offer you my apology. We are comrades in this, likely the only ones we have, and we should strive to treat each other as such.”
She bowed her head slightly in a gesture of peace.
Barnabas turned to her, slowly regaining his bearing. He looked at her contrition and, peculiarly, felt some of his own. There was little fun in provoking an Angel when he could not keep himself above the fray. He needed to keep it classy.
“Apology accepted, Kaly,” he replied wearily. His voice was uneven, drained from his eruption. “And you have my own. We are all slaves to our nature, no?”
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” she responded with a wan smile. “But let’s try to disagree congenially?”
He smiled back. “Yes. Let’s try that.”
Arcturus heaved a shuddering sigh of relief. “Hug it out?” he suggested hopefully.
“No,” Barnabas and Kaly responded in unison, and the trio continued up the endless stairs for an eternity. They were silent, but it was a comfortable silence.
~
Time was a supple thing. Time was what Paimon desired it to be, shaping it with immeasurable power. As the trio climbed and climbed, around and around, they were lost in contemplation and exhaustion. The Imp slept on the Angel’s shoulders.
Barnabas considered his previous outburst. What was it that had triggered such a monumental reaction? Only amateurs and peasants allowed their emotions to get the best of them, and he was neither.
Something in the altercation, however, had touched a raw nerve somewhere deep within him. Perhaps it was a sense of powerlessness, wounding his pride. Perhaps it was the Angel’s condescension, her maddeningly narrow vantage. Perhaps it was his indignation at being judged for the sins of his forebears, being trapped in a world he had not chosen.
But who ever had choice? He had no cause for outrage.
Kalyndriel’s own behavior troubled her greatly. She had given herself to the shadows of vengeance to enter Hell, as a means to a righteous end, but she was losing herself to the seductive pull of the murky depths. They called to her, impossibly enticing, and the Demon had spoken true.
Giving in to Wrath had been a joy unlike any other. The sweet release, the rush of cleansing annihilation. Its beauty was terrible, intoxicating in ways she had never experienced. She was not damned, not yet, but a part of her was terribly afraid she would be unable to shed the darkness that she had invited inside. Could she resist its allure?
She did not know if she wanted to resist.
As they climbed ever higher, they began to pass barred doors alongside the stairwell. They heard unsettling sounds emanating from them: howls of laughter, screams of terror, and wrenching sobs. They were prisons for the souls kept by Paimon. Souls like Walter Grey. They were getting close, cresting the peak of the black mountain.
Then, abruptly, the stairs stopped. They found themselves on a landing containing nothing other than a massive wooden door, framed in iron and carved with floral etchings. An enormous Apple dominated the center of the carvings. It looked sickeningly ripe, and the sight of it turned their stomachs.
The trio looked at each other uncertainly, scarcely believing they had finally reached their destination. Barnabas shrugged. He raised his hand to knock on the door, which swung open noiselessly before he could strike.
Inside sat Paimon and Walter.
Chapter 22
Confluence
Barnabas and Kalyndriel, with Arcturus still riding her spaulders, walked into a spacious and comfortable study. It was filled with elegant furniture and even more tomes. A fire whispered from a stone hearth. Tapestries adorned the walls, shifting in the gentle currents of air.
It was a sanctuary, an island of civility in Hell.
An ancient and erudite Demon in black robes sat behind a modest desk of mahogany, an open window behind him. A disheveled human soul sat before the Demon, and he turned to observe the visitors. The profoundly odd couple stared at Barnabas and Kalyndriel with no alarm. They appeared to have been waiting for them.
Barnabas recognized the soul immediately. He still had a form similar to the one that he had worn when Barnabas first approached him: old, overweight, and markedly frumpy. It was the legendary Walter Grey, perhaps the most wanted soul in existence.
Barnabas noticed, however, that there appeared to be something different about the erstwhile professor. Was there strength now lurking in the depths of his hollowed eyes? Did the academician have a backbone when they last met? Barnabas did not think so.
Walter met Barnabas’ stare with recognition, nodding slightly. His mouthed twisted slightly with wry chagrin.
Barnabas stepped forward, and bowed low before the seated Demon. “Greetings,” he began formally. “You must be Lord Paimon. My name is Barna —”
“Barnabas and Kalyndriel,” Paimon interrupted him, his voice deep and resonant. “Yes, I know. The two of you should have a seat. We have much to discuss.”
The Demon gestured to two open chairs in front of his desk. Barnabas could feel overpowering infernal strength radiating from Paimon’s unassuming form, washing over them in waves. The Master of the Tower pulsed raw power like a hellish quasar. Barnabas realized, with some alarm, that he was no common taskmaster.
Barnabas shrugged obligingly and moved toward the chairs. Kalyndriel, however, did not move. She stood as though frozen solid, her attention locked on the Demon’s weathered visage.
“Have we met?” she finally asked.
Lord Paimon smiled wistfully. “Eons ago, Kalyndriel. You used to beg me to tell you tales of battle and glory, back when the world was still young.”
The Angel continued to stare at him silently while her mind struggled to make sense of his statement. That voice, that kindly face. Stories of valor long dead. She grasped at fleeting memories that shied from the touch, and she finally clutched them firmly. Realization slid into place with a tremendous jolt.
“Archangel Raziel?”
“Wait … Raziel?” Walter asked, his surprise surpassing even Kalyndriel’s. He turned to look at Paimon. Shock was evident on his face, and the sound of betrayal stained his voice.
Barnabas looked around the room, observed the building tension, and concluded it now might be a wise time to keep his mouth shut. He promptly took his seat and watched the proceedings with curiosity.
A conflicting storm clouded Walter’s faded face. He thought he had known the Demon, but this … this changed everything. Or did it? Paimon had shown Walter his story, he had opened the painful pages of the past, and he had let Walter look upon his own sin. He had spoken truly when he said it was a tale they shared.
“The Serpent in Eden … it was you?”
Paimon nodded sadly. “Indeed. I was once the Archangel of Knowledge, tasked with guarding the Tree of Knowledge. Obviously, I was remiss in my duties, and I was cast out …”
Rainbow hues danced once more in his sorrowful eyes, and Walter finally recognized them from the Garden. They looked now as they did then; filled with a terrible wisdom that brought only desolation. They were radiant will-o’-the-wisps, beckoning from dangerous depths.
Walter looked down and said nothing.
“Tell me,” Paimo
n eventually asked, his voice heavy. “Do you hate me, son of Adam? For what I did?” He sounded incredibly weary.
Walter considered the question. Walter could taste, once more, the venomous bite of the Apple on his tongue. His soul felt the acidic juice worming its way into his mind: the damnation of an entire race in one forbidden bite. The original sin, the great temptation. The cruelest of pranks.
Did that terrible treachery belong to the Serpent?
No, the Serpent had not lied. That treachery was older than Raziel, or Eden itself. The Serpent had spoken true, and he had shared in humanity’s fate, trapped with them in damnation. That blame could not be laid at his doorstep; it belonged to one far higher than a mere Archangel.
“If you had the choice, would you do it again?” Walter finally responded.
“Yes,” Paimon replied immediately. There was no hesitation.
“Then no,” Walter breathed, exhaling the words as though he released a terrible weight. “I don’t hate you Paimon. You gave us a gift, and it was one that we asked for.”
“A gift with a terrible price, and one that you continue to pay.”
“As do you, my friend. And what is of worth that has no price?”
They smiled weakly at each other in commiseration. For the first time, there was true peace between the Serpent and Man.
Barnabas interrupted the poignant silence by loudly clearing his throat. Paimon and Walter turned to him, irritated, and Kalyndriel scowled. Even Arcturus shook his tiny head in disapproval.
“Well then,” Barnabas blithely continued. “Now that that bit of business is taken care of, perhaps we should continue?”
The others stared at him with weighted silence. Eventually, however, Paimon sighed. He gestured for Kalyndriel to take a seat as well. The Angel sat down next to Barnabas, her wings folded delicately behind her, and she bowed her head in respect.
“Well met, Raziel. It has been far too long,” Kaly greeted him warmly.
Though Raziel was cast from Heaven, he had never been vilified like so many other Fallen Angels. He had not taken part in Lucifer’s rebellion, nor had he raised arms against his former brethren. He had been guilty of indulging humanity’s desire, and had so been punished, but there was no true evil within him.
