Ange du Mal

by Stephanie Kane

  Samael’s lips curled. “Like I'd want to live among that? It would ruin my saxophone practice. You're thinking of the pits of Abaddon. This is my home. It has its uses.”

  “Uses? It's enormous! Who needs all this space?” I said, agog at the sheer beauty. Bay windows looked out upon a maze of a courtyard, with abstract statues and fountains, blooming with unfamiliar flora. “Is that a flying snake?” I gasped, plastering my face to the glass. A brilliant green serpent, like the gliding snakes of Asia, threaded by. Unlike normal reptiles, it had a crown of red feathers and expansive wings. It looked like the lovechild of a tropical bird and a basilisk.

  “Oh, that. That's a quetzalcoatl,” Samael said fondly. “It was a gift of the Aztec pantheon when we had a conference last year. I've always had a fondness for slithering things.”

  “Can I take a picture?” I begged, wondering about its anatomy. If only I could dissect it. I didn't want to harm it, but my curiosity at how it functioned burned like a supernova.

  “Human technology doesn't work here.”

  “But you have a cell phone, and a computer.”

  “They run on ether.”

  I looked from the window to him, narrowing my eyes. “You're pulling my leg.”

  “No, I'm not. Let's go. We'll miss happy hour. You can play in the garden later.”

  I followed Samael. He glanced down his long nose at me to make sure I was keeping up. The Grim Reaper almost glided across the floor, feet barely touching the ground. It was as if his walking was an illusion put on for my sake. I near-jogged to keep pace, which wasn't the easiest thing to do in heels.

  After twists and turns through endless corridors, we arrived at the main hall. It was tiled in brilliant blues and whites, walls and floor a fresco of the heavens, with starry cosmos on the ceiling. A crystal chandelier rained white light on the lobby, and a sprawling staircase wound upwards.

  Samael strode to the entrance and lifted the bolt. Locks rose like vines on the surface of the double doors, clinking together as the bolt opened to reveal a street framed by gardens. A black carriage waited with a pale horse at the entrance.

  Something was off about the carriage. “Is that a hearse?” I asked.

  Samael smirked. “Maybe. I am the Grim Reaper.”

  “I am so not riding in that deathtrap.”

  “Too bad.”

  He held open the carriage door for me. The interior was furnished with red velvet, large tinted windows, and a space clearly designed for a coffin. “Ugh,” I grunted, climbing in and sitting where the coffin was supposed to be.

  Samael chuckled and climbed onto the driver’s seat. He took the reins of the horse. “Let's go, Pallor,” he addressed the horse, giving the reins a flick. The horse took off at a trot, drawing us down the cobblestone street. We arrived at intimidating gates that opened to let us through onto a bustling avenue. Labyrinths of mansions lined the sidewalks, tucked into foliage, each dwelling like a slice of time. There were Japanese castles with rice-paper walls, huge Gothic manors, even a Russian-style dwelling with swirling towers.

  Through the streets, demons of every strain mingled, manning stalls and drawing customers to their exotic wares. Rich scents rose from foods and perfumes, and the inhabitants of Hell were many-colored, tailed and horned, some animalistic, others chimeras of creatures. Dirt-streaked children played soccer with ball of rags, weaving in between carriages and cars. A centaur and reptilian demon haggled over what looked like Turkish rugs. My face was plastered to the window, taking it all in.

  After perhaps fifteen minutes, we pulled into the market district, where shops lined the streets. Samael handed the hearse off to attendants in front of a bar and helped me out onto the crowded sidewalk. The valets drove the hearse off to the stables beside the bar. Samael offered me his arm.

  I looked at him, skeptical. “What are you, a Victorian gentleman?”

  His smile was crooked as he forcibly moved my forearm so it rested on his.

  “Ew. I’m literally touching Death. There’s something disgustingly poetic about this.”

  “Stop talking. The only reason humans are in Hell, besides the damned, is because they have sold their souls. We need to make sure no one suspects you're an ascendant. The damned would never walk free through Pandemonium. That means you must be one of the Claimed, those who belong to demons.” He held open the oak doors for me.

  I shivered. “I would never do that.”

  “It's called acting,” he murmured, waving his hand at a red-eyed demon with long white hair. “Beelzebub! You look dour, as usual.”

  Beelzebub, sitting sternly at the bar, looked up from his vodka and gave Samael a look of annoyance. “Look what the snake dragged in. Another whore?” he said, sour, as Samael guided us to seats beside the demon, who was dressed in military garb. Beelzebub glanced at me with cold eyes.

  I blushed. “I'm not a prostitute!-” I said.

  Samael put his hand over my mouth, muffling me. “She prefers the term consort,” he chuckled. “Beel, this is Shannon. Sorry for her manners - she's a feisty bitch. Just how I like 'em.” Quickly leaning over to me, Samael hissed into my ear: “Go along with it, maggot.”

  I broiled.

  Beelzebub took a sip of vodka and wiped his lip. “Don't you tire of playthings? You've neglected work for the past week. What in the nine hells have you been doing?”

  “Oh, this and that,” Samael said, voice airy. “Did I miss something?”

  Beelzebub narrowed his compound eyes. “A referendum, a hearing, and a strategical meeting. But then again, what to expect from the laziest wart on Hell’s ass?”

  “You don't mean that,” Samael said. “I'm only the second laziest. Belphegor's got me beat – he's the demon of sloth.”

  Beelzebub sighed and finished his drink. “I have work to do,” he said, excusing himself and heading out the door through the smoky room.

  I glanced around the pub. Some demons gambled, others played pool with blood at stake. Samael motioned for the bartender, smiling warmly. The bartender shuffled over, a middle-aged man with a black beard and twinkling yellow eyes. He was stocky, with tattoos on his arms that resembled scenes from Grecian urns.

  “Sam!” the bartender said, clapping Samael on the back. “What can I get you?”

  “The usual, Damien” Samael said.

  “And you, sweetheart?” Damien’s smile was kind.

  I quickly decided it would be a terrible idea to be under the influence in Hell. “Umm, can I have a root beer or something?”

  “Sure,” He quickly served us, bringing me a foaming mug of soda and Samael absinthe. Damien settled before me. “So, what's your name?”

  “Shannon.” I took a sip of root beer. I was surprised by the sweet musk of the drink. “Wow, this stuff is really good.”

  “It's homemade,” Damien said, proud. “I'm surprised Sam here hasn't driven you to drink yet.”

  “It's been a challenge to resist.” I was warming up to the bartender.

  Samael poured water over his sugar cube and dissolved it in the green liquor. “I can hear you,” he said. He stirred the sugar into his drink, added a few ice cubes, and tasted it. “Mmm. Perfection.”

  Damien snorted. “You're the only one of my customers that likes that crap. Your friend here has much better taste.” He set to polishing glasses behind the bar. “So, Shannon, why in Gehenna are you hanging around this loser?”

  “I don't know,” I said, swirling the ice cubes in my drink with a straw.

  Damien chuckled. “None of us do, sweetheart.”

  Samael scoffed. “I've saved your life too many times to count, wolf, not to mention keeping the angels off your back aboveground.”

  Damien peered into a shining shot glass. “Well, there is that.” He placed the shot glass behind him on the shelf and smiled wide. “Shannon, you look too nice to be mixed up in this mess. Not like your typical Claimed. You're definitely too refined for the likes of Sam,” the bartender said. He narrowed his
golden eyes, glancing at Samael. “What's really going on here?”

  “Damn it, why are you always so observant?” Samael said. He finished his absinthe. “Can we go to the back room?”

  Damien's friendly eyes darkened. “What's this about?”

  “I'll tell you when we have privacy,” Samael said.

  Damien shrugged, leading us behind the bar to a hallway squeezed between two cabinets. Pictures of Italy hung on the walls. A door was hidden in the woodwork, and Damien pushed it open, revealing a dim warehouse full of shelf upon shelf of weapons. Flails, halberds, staffs, spears, swords, cannons, guns... they were endless. There were instruments of death humanity hadn't even dreamed of.

  Damien led us to a corner with a table and sat down. Samael pulled out a chair for me and settled on a wooden stool carved to look like interwoven trees limbs. I took my place beside him.

  “So you’re an arms dealer?” I said, impressed.

  “Eh, I'm pack leader. I need to find a way to make a living beyond a skuzzy bar,” Damien said.

  I put two and two together – his lupine eyes, how Samael had called him 'wolf.' “Oh,” I said. “You're a werewolf.”

  Damien flinched. “Child of Lupa is the term we use,” he said. “You know the founders of Rome, Romulus and Remus? It's said they were reared by a she-wolf, Lupa. The Children of Lupa are her descendants.” He glanced down at his hirsute arm. “I'm certainly hairy enough to be one.” Damien turned to Samael. “Now what in the hell brings you back here?”

  Samael rubbed his shoulders of dust. “Ah, that. Have you heard talk of an ascendant?”

  Damien sucked in air. “I've heard rumors, sure, but I thought they were just that – nonsense bored immortals made up. You're not saying that she's... she's... you idiot! Why did you bring her here? You think I'd put my daughter in that kind of danger?” the bartender yelled.

  “She needs to learn how to defend herself,” Samael said, voice cool.

  Damien looked at me. “Lupa bless me,” he said. “I knew she wasn't one of the Claimed the moment I saw her. But I never imagined...” He shook his head, gaze almost reverential. “Shannon, you have a choice,” he said. “In no way do you have to work with Samael.”

  “What is your problem?” Samael said.

  “No, go on,” I said.

  “I can give you protection. Get you free of the influence of demons. You remind me of my daughter,” Damien said. “You don't belong in this cesspool.” He gave Samael a hard look.

  Samael scoffed. “I can keep her the safest, and you know it.”

  “True, but what value is there in becoming one of your pawns?” Damien asked.

  I scooted back in my seat. “No way,” I said, “Boniface here's got nothing on me.”

  “You're not my pawn,” Samael said. “I would never use you for petty gains. You're much too valuable. And Damien, I brought Shannon to you for a reason. Because I trust you. We can help her together.”

  “The way you helped Eve?” Damien said. “You've got gall. Using this girl for your schemes. I'll help you, but only because I don't want you ruining her. I'm going to make sure you don't abuse her gifts.” Damien looked to me, eyes blazing. “To be honest, the protection I could give you would be great, but it's nothing compared to what Samael can do. I just - I just - after so many years waiting for an ascendant, I want to do everything I can for you.” The bartender sighed, drumming his fingers on the table.

  “You've been waiting for me?” I asked. “Why?”

  “Because,” Samael said, “ascendants can, besides crossing into other worlds, open portals. Doorways to places that have been closed for a long, long time.”

  “Pan's woods,” Damien said, voice a reverie. “I haven't seen them in so many years.”

  Samael continued: “There are realms that have been lost over time, due to wavering human belief. The gods of those places have weakened, and it’s hard to access their homelands, even for the natives, like Damien. It costs each time to cross over, be it to Asgard or Olympus. That's why an ascendant has been prayed for for centuries – they can open long unused doors.”

  “But why did you leave your home?” I asked Damien.

  Damien had a faraway look. “Hell is closest to Earth, thanks to human belief. Right under the surface. Damn metaphysics.” He laughed slightly. “It was getting harder to come to Earth, and after Christianity took over the Roman Empire, it became impossible. Lesser immortals like my family moved to Hell after our religions fell in a thousand year exodus, tailing the rise of the Abrahamic faiths, in order to be closer to Earth.”

  “Immortals thrive off humanity's memories of our kind, and the farther we are from humans, the more our powers fade,” Damien continued. “Sure, we'd still exist, but not with half our usual glory.” Damien half-smiled. “Damnit I'm not a Hindu spirit. Then I'd still have a home.” He paused. “But you, Shannon. You're the first hope I've had in a long time.”

  I felt like a great weight had been placed on my shoulders. “But I don't even know how to open these doors, or even if I can.”

  Samael stretched his arms above his head and yawned. “Slow down, maggot. We have time.”

  I furrowed my brows. “Don't call me that.”

  “Then don't call me Boniface,'” he said, crisp. “Damien, do you have any peterswords?”

  Damien pursed his lips together. “Hmm, I may have one.” He took off into the back of the stacks, to a safe, and entered the combination. The bartender came back carrying a short sword shaped like a key, with a ridged edge like teeth, meant for hacking, and a round grip at the end. It was elegant but deadly.

  “I’m supposed to use that? I can’t even use a flyswatter,” I said.

  A knowing glance passed between Damien and Samael. “Peterswords are used to access working doors to Earth, just like St. Peter holds the keys to Heaven,” Samael said slowly. “But in the hands of an ascendant, they can be used for much more. They can create new doorways.”

  “You want me to fight with that thing? But I’m hella uncoordinated. What if I cut a limb off? What if I trip on it?”

  “Don’t worry,” Samael said. “We’ll take it slow.”

  Chapter 5

  Somehow I found myself back at Samael's estate on the practice fields, dressed in my exercise clothes, fighting for my life. Samael wielded his scythe like a master, bringing it down stroke after relentless stroke, forcing me to defend myself. I thrust my petersword to the right and left, attempting to deflect his blows, but stopping none. Death grinned madly, each touch of his scythe a light tap.

  “Faster,” he shouted. “I'm going pathetically easy on you.”

  I panted. “Yeah? I couldn't tell.” Sweat dripped into my eye and I wiped it away, shifting just in time to parry his scythe as it came for my neck. True, Samael's strokes were light, but I was still getting the workout of my life. “Shouldn't it be night now?” I asked. “It's been twilight for hours.”

  “Time moves differently here. You'll find not a second has passed when you return to Earth.”

  “Really?” I asked. “I can make it to the party then!”

  “Congratulations,” Samael said, clearly not caring. He twisted like a cat and brought his scythe up from an undercut. He paused, allowing me to block it. Then he brought the staff of his weapon to rest over his shoulder. The Grim Reaper appraised me. “You've done alright for your first day. It's time we call it quits.”

  “Thank god.” I exhaled. “What do I do with this thing?” I waved the petersword around.

  “Kiss it.”

  “Gross.”

  “Kisses are a kind of seal. You’re sealing your petersword’s energy.”

  I looked at him with judging eyes, but did as he said, pressing my lips to the blade. Suddenly, it shrunk to the size of a charm, with part of it looping together to form a silver chain. I looked at it dumbfounded. “It looks like one of those cheap necklaces you buy from the vending machines at Walmart.”

  Samael looked offended
. “That cost a lot.”

  “Sure.” I fixed the clasp around my neck. The charm rested just below my collarbone. “Can I go now?”

  “Beelzebub's balls, just wait a minute.”

  “Isn’t it weird to say that if you actually know Beelzebub? What a turd. Not as much of a turd as you.”

  Samael grunted, then took off his exercise shirt, revealing ghostly, chiseled abs. He threw it on the ground, sat down and patted the grass beside him. “Let's watch the sunset.”