Ange du Mal

by Stephanie Kane

  “I what?” Samael said.

  “My pajamas. You put me to sleep and left me back in my room, with my pajamas on, clearly not in my shorts. You didn't even leave on my underwear, you perv.”

  “They were dirty?” he said. He crushed a leaf under his boat shoes. “Anyways, I already told you. I'm not attracted to redheads. Michael ruined them for me and… and another woman. Every relationship I’ve had with a ginger ended badly. Gingers are poisonous.”

  “My hair is auburn. God, men really don’t pay attention to colors.”

  “Whatever. I was just trying to do you a favor,” he said, smoothing his shorts.

  “By undressing me?”

  “By redressing you, cleaning you up, and tucking you into bed. I could have just left you lying by the lake.”

  I fumed, irritated by his self-righteousness. “Yeah? Well you missed a big swatch of blood.”

  He grinned, revealing incisors like an Anne Rice vampire. Maybe he was Lestat in an wig.

  He continued to speak, not realizing how annoying he was. “I wanted you to remember, not to think it a dream.”

  I glared. “I'm not going to work with you. I don't care if I'm 'useful.' I have exams to take and friends to make. I'm going to be a field biologist, and I’m going to publish a paper by the time I graduate-”

  Samael snorted.

  “What?” I said. I tore the string on my dress free. “That’s not funny. Being a field biologist, I mean. It’s a better job than stalking eighteen year olds.”

  “I'm not asking you to drop your commitments. Just urging you to open your mind to a world beyond the mundane.”

  “Screw you,” I said. “I'm going to go on research trips, publish cutting-edge data, and ignore the disaster you're dragging me into.” I rose to my full height, which at 5’ nothing wasn’t much, and faced down the Satan with sexy grunts. “Don't think you can convince me to sell my soul.”

  Samael grunted again.

  My defenses weakened.

  “I already have my own soul.” He stared at my heart, and my pulse quickened. “Though yours is very exquisite.”

  I crossed my arms over my breasts. “Ew.”

  His temple throbbed. I thought that only happened in comic books. “I'm not interested in you, even if you throw candy at me like men tossing cash at a stripper.”

  “That wasn't for you. That was for a wish.”

  “What?”

  I scowled. “For you to leave me alone. Apparently Ochún wasn't listening.”

  “The Orisha? Didn’t know you knew her. She's nice. Kind of a hippie. I hit on her once when I was wasted, then she tossed me in Poseidon’s pool.”

  “You mean Rosanna wasn’t lying?”

  “Of course. Most gods are real. Not so much with Xenu though, or the Flying Spaghetti Monster.” Samael chuckled. “I don't want your soul. I want to make you an offer: protection from those hunting you, and in return, you’ll become my pupil.”

  I gaped. “Someone's hunting me? Back up.”

  Samael nodded. “After the hellhounds caught scent of you – a human in Hell – they alerted their masters that an ascendant had crossed over into the underworld.”

  “Huh. It’s almost like you’re an alien attempting to speak English.'”

  Samael's smile was devoid of humor. “Are you familiar with Dante Alighieri's work The Divine Comedy?”

  “Dante's Inferno? Of course

  “That's the first book. In it, Beatrice is Dante's guide to Paradise, a soul capable of crossing the borders between worlds. She’s an ascendant. She leads Dante to Heaven. There are legends of humans of such pure hearts that they are able to cross over into the otherworlds, such as Galahad, or Beatrice, or Thomas the Rhymer. The stuff of myth, really. It rarely happens. So rarely, most immortals don’t believe in ascendants. But I think if Hell had need of a human, that perhaps they could enter.” Samael scrutinized me. “You appear to be one.”

  My arms swung by my side. “Okay, but why would demons want to hunt me?”

  “Because,” Samael said, “only creatures of mortal blood can kill an immortal.”

  “But I thought the point of immortality is that you don't die?” I said, angrily stripping a branch of its leaves.

  Samael buried his hands in his pockets. “No, the point of immortality is that I can't kill them. That they are beyond the reach of psychopomps, illness, and time. But immortals can still be destroyed. It is very difficult, but entirely possible.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “But I don't have beef with anybody. Except you. Why would I want to murder them?”

  “Maybe you don't now, but there will be battles fought over you, attempts to take you into different beings’ possessions. Do you want to be kidnapped? Is that a thing girls fantasize about these days?”

  “God, no! Stop being a frigging creep. So if I get chummy with you, I can keep going to Hortense – all I have to do is take lessons in being a superfreak?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Right, so basically, you're the one trying to take possession of me, but it’s okay because you’re too immature to be an evil overlord,” I said, plastering him with a hard look.

  Samael shrugged. “You don't want to fend for yourself, trust me. You saw how the hellhounds hunted you. There are spirits more brutal than me, lusting after your power. Without my protection, it's only a matter of time before you’re enslaved. Or worse.”

  “This is your fault!” I said. “If you had just let me go before those whackadoo hellhounds came, no one would have known about me.”

  He knitted his temples. “You're lucky you ran into me. You would've been stuck in the hellmouth or worse, wandered off and become dinner for Shedim or whatever else was hungry. Be grateful I was there.”

  I massaged my temple, a headache in my skull. “This is too much,” I said. “Fine. I'll make a deal with you, as long as you just shut up.”

  He held out his hand to shake on it. I took it hesitantly. Heat zinged from my palm to my spine. I jumped back. “Huh?”

  He gave a toothy grin. “That was our contract being sealed. Go get a good night's sleep. We meet here tomorrow at 7:00 PM sharp. Don't be late. Only I’m allowed to do that.”

  “But that's when art club meets!” I said.

  “The only thing you'll be painting with is blood if you don't stick to our little agreement,” he said.

  With that, he disappeared. No puff of black smoke. He just melded into the air and was gone.

  Muttering to myself, I returned to my dorm. Rosanna was fast asleep. I slipped into bed, wondering why the Devil grunted so much.

  Chapter 4

  The first day of classes passed in a blur. I had Intro to Biology and Inorganic Chemistry in the morning, a mental whammy, and found myself frantically jotting down notes in an attempt to retain information. Divya, a premed, joined me in my classes, and we got lunch together afterward out on the college green.

  “You look tired,” she said, her makeup immaculate, with a hint of blush on her cheeks. Whenever I put on blush I looked like John Wayne Gacy.

  “I didn't get much sleep,” I said. “Nervous about classes.” And other things.

  She bobbed her head in agreement, daintily eating a wrap. “I know. The professor talks a mile a minute. Luckily it was a review. What class do you have next?”

  “Advanced Portfolio Studies, thank god,” I said.

  “That's supposed to be relaxing? I can only draw like stick figures.”

  “It is to me.” I shrugged.

  Divya smiled. “Good for you. So are you rushing?”

  “Oh, you mean sororities? Nah. That's not really my thing.” I sipped my lemonade. “Which sorority are you interested in?”

  “Alpha Phi Zeta. They do work with domestic violence victims. I thought that was cool.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Hey, Rosanna and I are going to the school-sponsored summer party tonight. It's at 8:00 outside the athletics building. Maybe tame, b
ut there’s nothing else to do around here. Can you make it?” Divya asked.

  I calculated: 7:00 was my meeting with Samael. Would I be done in time with whatever nefarious thing he had planned to get back in time for the party? Probably not. “I don't think so.”

  Divya peered at me. “But it's only the first week. There can't be that much to do.”

  “I know, I know, I've just... been feeling out of sorts lately,” I only semi-lied. “Everything's happening so fast.”

  “True. Well, at least get dinner with us at 6:00.”

  “Sure.”

  Soon, it was midway through the afternoon, time for art. I went to the studio and was impressed by the displays of student work. The building itself was open and spacious, with wide windows for natural light that framed the college green.

  We had a thirty minute free sketch period to start off, and I found myself rendering charcoal drawings of hellhounds. “What am I doing?” I muttered, tearing out the pages from my sketchbook and tossing them in the trash. The professor glanced over at me but said nothing. I settled back into my seat and went to work on a sketch of a raven.

  “Nice work,” the professor noted. “What year are you?”

  “Freshman,” I replied.

  The professor whistled low. “That kind of craftsmanship is hard to come by. You have a good grasp on anatomy.”

  I glowed at the compliment. “Thanks.”

  “What's your preferred medium?”

  “Oils. But sketching is fun.”

  “I want to get you started on painting then,” the professor said. “I’d like you to have a few pieces ready in time for the Winter Exhibition.”

  “Really?” I asked. Usually only juniors and seniors displayed their works in the school showcase. “You sure?”

  “Very. But chose a theme for your work.” The professor smiled, then moved on to another student. I began contemplating a focus for my work.

  Dinner rolled around. Rosanna was telling stories of the month she spent abroad in Europe, sneaking into industrial clubs and meeting obscure musicians whose band names sounded like Swedish venereal diseases.

  I stirred the beef in my stew as talk turned to the party. A popular band was playing and there was going to be a movie screening on the college green. I cursed Samael for not being able to go.

  I made a convenient excuse to leave dinner early, went back to my dorm, and changed into running shoes that had seen better days. I tied my hair back in a ponytail, spritzed on bug spray, half-hoped it had demon-repellant properties (as Samael was nothing if not a bloodsucker), and made my way to the College Woods.

  I only had to walk several minutes around the lake until I ran into Samael, who sat smoking beneath a tree. He was dressed in leather pants, combat boots, and a torn gray shirt, with a plethora of piercings on his face.

  Samael gave a mocking salute and crushed his cigarette under his boot.

  “Did you get mauled by punks?” I said.

  His biceps rippled as he crossed his arms over his chest. “This is what I usually look like. Last night I went boating on the Styx with my family. I had to dress the part.”

  “You look like the bastard child of Hell’s Angels and a heavy metal band. Also, you need a haircut. Like I said, ghost of Danzig”

  He bristled. “Did you come here to insult me, or are you going to be agreeable?”

  “You're lucky I came at all. Let's get this over with. Whatever this is.”

  “I just can't win with you,” he said, more to himself than me. Samael grunted and straightened his too-tall frame. “We're going to Pandemonium.”

  “Is that a sex dungeon?”

  “I wish. It’s the capital of Hell. We’ll go to a bar my friend owns. Then, after drinks, training begins. I can't do this sober.”

  I scoffed. “Because teaching under the influence is such a good idea. No way am I going to Pande-whatever. That's like licking shut the envelope on my death warrant.”

  Samael chuckled. “You'll find it's nicer than you'd expect. You'll be under my protection, so there's no need to fear.”

  “Whatever you say, Satan.”

  He squinted at me. “I'm finding it awfully hard to protect someone I want to strangle.”

  “Well I find it hard to take a guy with hair longer than mine seriously.”

  “Shut your mouth,” he said.

  A scythe materialized in his hands. Samael spun it in a circle, then spoke in a guttural language. A black hole appeared around the blade, and before I could protest, he tossed me over his shoulder and strolled through.

  The vortex tore at my hair. It was like diving into an ice-water bath. Just as quickly as we had entered, Samael strode out the other side, with me in a daze. He deposited me on an oxblood comforter spread over a four-poster bed.

  We were in a sparsely decorated room with dark wood paneling and high stained glass windows. A few shelves were built into the walls, lined with yellowed books, weapons, and pieces of what looked like driftwood. The bed was unmade, strewn with belts, pants, and worn t-shirts. A leather jacket hung over a wing-back chair beside a mahogany desk, which was littered with piles upon piles of papers, cigar boxes, and half-drunk cups of coffee. An outdated laptop was fired up, playing jazz, and the single picture on the walls was a beat-up poster for a Billie Holiday concert. In a corner of the room was a worn saxophone, half-tucked into its case, sitting beside a walk-in closet. Sam smiled as he scanned the room, stretched, and checked his watch.

  “We made good time,” he said happily. “Now, to find something appropriate for you.”

  “I don’t need a personal shopper.”

  “You need to blend in,” he said, head buried in the closet. He reemerged moments later with a tiered ruby dress.

  “Why do you have women's clothes in your closet? Not that I’m judging.”

  He smirked. “Because I knew you wouldn't dress the part.” He bent over and picked up a pair of strappy heels, then flicked the closet light on. “You can change in there,” he said, motioning to the closet.

  I side-eyed him. “What I'm wearing is fine. I thought we were training for something.”

  “That comes later. First we need supplies.” Samael grinned like a shark. “The bartender I'm friends with is the best arms dealer in Pandemonium.”

  “That makes me feel so safe.”

  He ushered me into the closet and closed the door behind me. I sighed, slipping out of my exercise outfit and into the dress. It fit like a glove, and the heels added a good three inches to my 5 foot-nothing. Maybe he’d taken my measurements in my sleep? Creeper. After quickly braiding my hair, I walked out and surveyed the weapons lining Samael's wall.

  “Why can't I just use that?” I said, motioning to a crossbow. “Or that?” I pointed to a katana poking out of its sheath.

  Samael was lounging at his desk, apparently texting someone on an ancient cell phone. He didn't bother to look up. “Those are of sentimental value. I doubt you’d know how to use them.”

  I sat on the bed and smoothed the skirt of my dress. “I handled your blade-on-a-stick thing just fine, even though it was supposed to incinerate me.” I picked up a metal-studded belt from the mess on his bed. “Also, if you knew I was coming over to your man cave, why didn't you clean up?”

  He shrugged. “No use misleading you. I run on coffee, jazz, and mayhem.”

  I snorted. “In other words, I'm not worth impressing.”

  “I didn't say that.” Samael took a sip from one of the gross coffee cups and flipped his dinosaur of a phone shut.

  “Do demons even need caffeine?”

  “Not really, but it helps.” He rose, dusting off the knees of his pants. His smile was chipper. Too chipper. He glanced at me over his shoulder. “You coming, maggot?”

  “Don't call me that.” I followed him out the door, about to mouth a retort, when my breath was stolen by the elegance of the hallway. It was like stepping out of a dump and into a cathedral.

  Red marble floors
shot through with veins of quartz echoed our footsteps. My voice bounced off the towering, sandy walls and curving, vaulted ceiling. High windows let in the last glimmers of sun. The rays played against columns that dripped down like stalactites, and rich paintings and tapestries spanned the length of the hall. We passed too many doors to count, some open to reveal rich interiors, others bolted shut. I felt like I was in the midst of a Renaissance castle.

  We rounded a corner into a wider hall, this one more glorious than the last. “Where's the fire and brimstone? The screams of the damned?” I said, agape.