Ange du Mal

by Stephanie Kane

  I looked at him in suspicion. “Why?”

  “Because you're wound up from practice, and you need to relax.” Samael's gaze strayed to the firmament.

  As if in answer to my question, a smattering of stars appeared, dancing across the sky, following the sun. The gold of the heavens turned rosy, tinged with dusky purple. I gasped at the glory. “That’s astrologically impossible.”

  “They're not stars: they're Marquis Phenex's attendants. Phenex is our version of the sun. He's the most angelic demon in Hell, and he flies through the sky every day, shining his glory down upon us.” Samael laid on his back and crossed his arms under his head. His smile was content. “It's my favorite part of the day.”

  Sure enough, what I thought was the sun drew closer. I could make out great, fiery wings and talons that reflected the light. A sonorous cry split the night as Phenex descended. His attendants followed in double trails, twin Milky Ways. Slowly, the spectacle ended, and the ‘sun’ slipped behind a great mountain to the east.

  “He's roosting for the night,” Samael explained.

  “What's that, then?” I pointed to what looked like the moon as it sailed into the sky.

  Samael’s smile was thin. “Lilith. We have a bit of a history.”

  I watched Lilith's looping trail, like a bird circling the sky. “Of course you do. Wasn't she the first woman? The one who didn't want to have sex with Adam in the missionary position?”

  Samael snorted. “Adam couldn't please a blow-up doll. That's why Lilith and Eve came to me.”

  It was my turn to snort. “I thought you just gave Eve an apple. Anyways, what kind of woman would ever like you?”

  Samael rolled over onto his stomach. “Desperate ones, I suppose. Am I really so horrible?”

  I sat down beside him, looking at the sky. “You're pretty annoying, yeah.”

  “I'm an acquired taste. Like absinthe.”

  “No, you're not. And you are in deadly need a tan, and a haircut.”

  Samael plucked a blade of grass, stretched it between his thumbs, and blew, producing an extremely annoying whistle. Done, he tossed it in my face. “Whatever you say, maggot.”

  “Why do you keep calling me that!”

  “Payback, and also as a sign of endearment. I like slithering things. Snakes. Worms. Maggots. Larvae and annelids are good for decomposition, and snakes, well, they've always held a special place in my pitch-black heart.” Samael yawned. “I suppose I should take you home.”

  “That’s the only good idea you’ve had in the history of ideas, I think.”

  We stood, brushed dirt off ourselves, and Samael summoned a portal. He led me through it, back to the College Woods.

  “How can you summon portals? Wouldn't Damien need to be a petersword to do it?” I asked.

  “One of the perks of being an archdemon. But I can’t keep them open for others. Only an ascendant can do that.” Samael slipped his shirt back on. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have saxophone practice. Have a good night, and see you tomorrow - 7 PM sharp.”

  I cocked my head. “See you, I guess.”

  He was gone before I finished my sentence.

  I collected myself, thoughtlessly touching the petersword at my throat as I walked back to campus. It was exactly 7:00, and I had about an hour to get ready for the party. I entered my room, opening the door to find Divya and Rosanna half-dressed.

  “You made it!” Rosanna called from in front of the mirror, pausing mid-braid to wave. “Come here. We're getting ready, and I need your and Divya's help choosing an outfit.”

  “I like the black maxidress,” I said, eying the selection on Rosanna 's bed. “Do you have any red stilettos?”

  “Of course,” Rosanna laughed, finishing her hair. “Are you doing a gold smoky eye, Div?”

  “Do you think it will match my skirt?” Divya asked, slicking back her bangs in the mirror.

  “Definitely.” Rosanna darted to her bed and changed into her dress. She eyed the rose-patterned skirt on her pillow and glanced at me. “Hey, Shannon, do you want to borrow my skirt? I've got the perfect top for it, and you've got a great butt.”

  I looked at the skirt. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure. It would look great on you. Gotta impress your soul mate, eh?” she said, smoothing the skirt. “I think the Devil would like roses.”

  I suppressed a grimace. “Nah, he probably smells like sulfur. Anyways, what makes you think I'll meet my soul mate tonight?”

  Rosanna smiled, waving her finger in the air. “You always gotta be prepared, right? You never know who you'll meet.”

  “I guess,” I relented. “Hey, I'm gonna go shower, be back in a bit.”

  “We'll wait for you,” Divya said.

  I went to the hall bathroom and slipped into the shower, letting the water cleanse me, rinsing the dirt from Samael's practice fields off my skin. I touched my necklace, thinking of my time in Pandemonium. My body still ached from holding the petersword and darting to and fro.

  I leaned against the stall, thinking of what Damien had said. That an ascendant could open doors. But could I really? Why now, of all times, had I entered a hellmouth? If I'd had this ability all my life, why hadn't it happened before?

  Clean, I toweled myself dry, donned my bathrobe, and went back to the room. Chatting with my friends, I tried on Rosanna 's skirt. It fit perfectly.

  “Nice necklace, Shannon,” Rosanna said. “Is it an antique key?”

  “Um, sorta?”

  Divya checked her watch. “It's almost eight. Ready?”

  We chatted on the way to the athletics building, soon finding ourselves in the midst of a bustling crowd. Freshmen from all dorms were out, dancing to a student indie band composed of bearded hipsters. Overall, it was ridiculously tame, but a fun time.

  I ran into Baxter on my way back to my dorm. He smiled, waving his open flask. “Hey, Shannon. Feel like studying the stars?”

  I smiled in return. “I’ve never been good at astronomy. Maybe you could teach me something.”

  Baxter and I hooked up on top of the astronomy building, majorly buzzed. I headed back afterwards, and the weeks passed in a blur, with classes during the day, studying in the afternoon, and sparring with Samael in the evening.

  Baxter’s and I’s evening dalliances continued until I grew sick of him talking about football and cars. Whatever was between us fizzled out, and I decided to lay low from the dating scene, making time for schoolwork. I even managed to join the art club, while Rosanna happily spun yarns for the literary magazine. Divya joined her desired sorority, and we attended a few parties there. I even went to see Mo at football games, where he blew me mocking kisses from the field.

  “Glad you’re not dating my teammate anymore,” Mo said one night at dinner, elbowing me in line for pasta. “That’s like incest or something.”

  I flinched. “Shut up. Go back to being the main course at Outback Steakhouse.”

  Mo forked pasta into his mouth before he got to the register. “Ouch, Shannikins. That hurt.”

  Classes got more difficult, but if anything, Mo was getting stupider.

  For the Winter Exhibition, I drafted a painting of a peacock, inspired by Hell's sun. I imagined Phenex as the bird, his proud head a crown of feathers. Samael noticed a paint smudge on my nose one night towards the end of September, when we were practicing in his arena.

  “What's that, angel crap?” he said at the end of a sparring match.

  It had rained the day before, making the grass damp. The dew soaked through my socks. I squelched my shoes in some mud. “Nothing.” I kissed my petersword and it shrank to necklace-size. I was actually blocking half his blows now.

  “Is it paint?” His blue eyes lit. “You're an artist”

  “Maybe.” No way did I want to tell him about my painting.

  “I'll take that as a yes.” He shouldered his scythe and followed me inside, latching the door shut behind us. “I thought you wanted to be a biologist,” he mused, smiling a
s we walked into his cozy kitchen. It had state of the art appliances and red marble counter tops. He fixed himself one of his perpetual cups of coffee and made me some chai tea.

  “I do – art's just something I do for fun.”

  “Ah, so you're a renaissance woman. I'm abysmal at painting, and most things artistic. You should have seen me in the angelic choirs. I couldn't sing a lick.”

  My mind flashed back to the night I met him in the churchyard, when Samael had sung in such a beautiful voice. “But your voice is great,” I said, surprised by myself. I blushed at his taken aback expression. “I mean, maybe not in a traditional sense, um, but in a Nick Cave kind of way.”

  Samael smiled. “Thanks. I think that's the first compliment you've ever given me.”

  “Don't get used to it.” I sipped my tea. “So this sparring is nice and all, but I haven't had much need for it.”

  The warmth melted from his face. “I’m prepping you in case you do have to use it. I pray you never will. I've done a thorough job hiding your presence from Heaven and Hell. Besides me, only Damien knows your true nature.” He took a long slurp of his coffee. “Speaking of Damien, I have somewhere I need to take you. Hop in the shower and change. There are clothes for you on my bed, and a towel.”

  I choked on my tea. “Your shower?” I said. “Are we on that level now?”

  Samael grunted. “Funny. Very funny.”

  I wound down the halls to his room and entered a bathroom straight from a magazine. Testing the faucet, I warmed up the shower and stripped, luxuriating in the exotic smelling soaps and shampoo. I'd never actually seen Samael use the bathroom, and he'd told me in so many words that it was only for guests that happened to warm his bed. I quickly wondered if demons ever pooped, and questioned how many Claimed humans Samael had. How many playthings had he collected? I'd seen Claimed in the streets of Hell, trailing after demon lords: some concubines, others servants, or a mix of the two. But I'd never heard Samael mention owning any human souls. Maybe he was too lazy. Beelzebub had mentioned whores, after all, and from what I had seen, there were plenty of succubi that winked at him on Pandemonium’s streets.

  I dried my hair with a blow dryer he'd left for me on the sink. On Samael's bed was a fringed flapper dress and gold headband, with matching dancing shoes. Where did he find this stuff? I tried it on, feeling like Daisy Buchanan. I fixed the headband so that dark red bangs framed my face, then slipped on the shoes and was off.

  I found Samael in the kitchen, dressed in a sleek pinstripe suit and red shirt. He towered over me, even though he was slouching, and his hair was tied back under a fedora.

  “I'm sensing a theme for the night,” I said, suspicious.

  “We're going to a dance at Asmodeus'. We have to dress like it's the 1920s all over again,” Samael sighed. “I know, I know, it's pastiche. Just go along with it. Asmodeus is obsessed with flappers and Fitzgerald.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Why are you taking me to a dance?”

  Samael fixed his tie. “Because Hell's nobility is under the impression that I'm besotted by a new concubine. Why else would I be spending so much time with you?” He chuckled. “They want to know who it is that has enchanted Hell's ruler.”

  I would have spat out my drink, but I didn’t have a drink. “You're Hell's ruler?” I said.

  He blew on a stray lock of hair. “In theory, well, yes. Demons weren't made for being ruled. That's why we rebelled. We're more a loose conglomerate of nation-states, with me as de facto leader. When shit hits the fan, I'm who Hell answers to. But most of my duties are optional – at least, that's how I see it.” Samael grinned toothily. “I do attend to the more serious matters, or those that catch my fancy, like you. You're a very promising project.”

  “So that's why you waste so much time on me.”

  “Oh, I wouldn't call it wasted time.” He checked his watch. “Let's go, maggot.”

  “Shut up.”

  After a half-hour hearse ride, we arrived at something that looked like the Gatsby mansion. Rich foods and sparkling champagne made their way through an open-air ballroom, bordered by impressively shaped bushes and swimming pools. Jazz music flooded the air over the burble of voices, and demons were decked in their finest 1920s getups.

  A swarthy man with glowing emerald eyes, dressed in a deep green sports jacket, made his way over to us. He was lean and elegant, with a cane that seemed more for pomp than practicality. He tipped his hat to me and Samael. “Well if it isn't the bastard himself?” our host said.

  “You've outdone yourself, Deus,” Samael replied, slapping Asmodeus on the back. They both laughed.

  “And who is this jewel?” the green-eyed demon asked, looking at me.

  “Shannon, meet Asmodeus,” Samael said, wrapping his arm around my waist. I jumped at his touch, then remembered I was supposed to be pretending to be his – gag – whore.

  “It's a pleasure,” Asmodeus said, taking my hand and kissing it.

  “Um, thanks,” I replied, uncomfortable. I wished I had pockets I could shove my hands into.

  “So, what can I get for you? And don't tell me you want that disgusting piss of a drink, Sam,” Asmodeus said, curling his lips in distaste.

  Samael grinned. “What else would I have but absinthe?”

  Asmodeus turned to me. “And you?”

  “Nothing, thanks.” I shifted on my feet, anxious.

  “If you're sure,” Asmodeus said, disappearing into the crowd to fetch us drinks.

  “I read about Asmodeus on Wikipedia,” I whispered to Samael. “Isn't he the demon of lust? The one who killed Sarah’s husbands? The one King Solomon imprisoned to help build his temple?”

  Samael leaned down to whisper back: “You've kept up with your research.” He straightened his tie. “Yes, Deus is the demon of lust. And Sarah was a low point in his life. He was a bit desperate back then. But don't be afraid of him, he's a good man – as far as demons go – if a bit jaded.”

  Asmodeus returned, his smile cool. He offered Samael his drink. “I don't know how you stomach this stuff,” Asmodeus said.

  “Thanks,” Samael replied. He sipped the green liquor and sighed contentedly, gazing up at the yellow moon.

  Asmodeus nursed a gin and tonic. “So, have you heard the rumors of an ascendant? My Claimed won't shut up about it.” He laughed slightly. “Beelzebub is convinced his hellhounds caught scent of one, about a month ago. He's put trackers on the ascendant's supposed trail, but nothing's turned up. Either the rumors are loads of angel shit, or someone is covering the ascendant's tracks very well. I suppose the ascendant would have already been caught by now, but whoever has him – or her – is very wisely keeping their discovery to themselves.” The green-eyed demon shook his head, ice clinking in his glass. “I'd give my best wing to own them.”

  “Would you?” I said, voice strained.

  Asmodeus chuckled. “Oh yes. I'd just like to dangle them in front of the angels, light a cigar, and watch the fiasco that ensues.” He elbowed Samael gently. “Can you imagine? Michael soiling himself in desperation, trying to obtain the ascendant, only to find that they're already mine.”

  “It would be very satisfying, yes,” Samael said, sparing me a sympathetic glance when Asmodeus wasn't looking. I stomached the urge to punch the green-eyed demon.

  Asmodeus looked at me with curiosity. “You look a tad queasy. Sure you don't want a drink?”

  “No,” I said, voice flat.

  Samael cleared his throat. “You'll have to pardon us. We were up late last night. Perhaps it didn't agree with my lovely consort.”

  I almost barfed on the spot as the word 'consort' passed his lips. “Right,” I said, smile thin. “We were. In fact, I don't feel so well. Maybe we should go.”

  “Perhaps you'd like to come inside? I can have a bed and restoratives prepared for you right away. Or perhaps you’d like one of my Claimed to entertain you,” Asmodeus offered.

  “Oh, she'll soldier through,” Samael assured him, g
iving me a look. “We have business to attend to.”

  “Don't you always?” said Asmodeus. “Well, enjoy the party. I have to go chat with Baphomet about a goat tax.” Asmodeus waved goodbye with his cane and was off.

  “Goat tax?” I asked. “That seems random.”

  Samael shook his head. “Asmodeus is head of Hell's business sector. It doesn't matter. What is important is that we find Damien. And sorry for Deus' little comment about ascendants – he doesn't mean you any harm, as long as he doesn't find out.”

  “Gee, I feel so reassured.”

  Samael led me through a crowd doing the Charleston to the ballroom entrance, where burly, Italian bodyguards were standing. He bowed his head and talked to one, who radioed in on his headset, then pointed in the direction of the gardens. The guards were olive-skinned like Damien, and had the same striking golden eyes. Samael whisked me away down a garden path framed by orchids.