by Debra Dunbar
Tura shifted his wings. “Please understand, Ancient One, we do not wish to promise this only to present an unacceptably low angel, or worse yet… one of them.”
A cold chill rolled through Gabriel. Yes. What would they do if Angels of Chaos were created? The idea both frightened and excited him.
“You assured me that wouldn’t be a problem.”
“It won’t. I vow that the only angels produced will be those of Order. I’m just concerned that with the short time frame we will not be able to create something worthy of the Ruling Council. If they approve of the project, then of course we will produce proof of successful creation. Members of the Ruling Council will have first access to the technology.”
Gabriel frowned. Instinct warned him to delay the presentation until there was proof, but he this meeting seemed to be the only way they’d truly find out the details behind Tura’s project, and be able to determine whether it fell within angelic law or not. It wouldn’t hurt to schedule the meeting to discuss the theory. They could always put it to committee or ask for a follow-up if Tura’s reports were ambiguous.
“We will need to see the tools in order to evaluate both the feasibility and the lawfulness of your project,” he warned. “Be prepared to show us both the storage mechanism, to ensure there is no degradation of the demon essence, and your method for formation. We’ll need to spend considerable time discussing the ethical implications of an unsatisfactory creation, as well as any barriers to eligibility for the program.”
Turas nodded as if he were one of those bobbing dolls Gabriel had seen on the dashboard of a car.
“Of course, Ancient One. Of course.” The angel vanished with a quick bow.
Glancing toward the park, he thought again of Tura’s anxiety when he’d first arrived. The cause may have been anything, but it was an odd coincidence, especially since the park was the very location the body of one of the recently deceased angels had been found. Still invisible, with wings tucked behind him, Gabriel crossed the road and hopped the embankment, dropping lightly to the grassy park a few feet below. It was a pretty spot with colossal trees and wandering dirt paths. Wooden playground equipment stood to his left on a large bed of mulch. To his right was a cluster of picnic tables with a small hibachi grill and metal trashcan, painted bright blue.
Pivoting, Gabriel walked toward the playground, painfully aware of how terrible it would have been had a dead body been discovered by human children racing for the swing sets. In some neighborhoods, that may have been a normal occurrence, but this was not one of those neighborhoods.
“Back so soon? Will we ever be free of you?”
Gabriel pivoted, hearing the words in Spanish from underneath the dappled shade of a towering tree. There sat an ancient man, gray curls tight against the sides of his head, encircling a bald pate. His eyes were white with thick cataracts. Beside him sat a cane, a brown bag with a banana protruding from the top, and a thermos.
“Abuelo, I’m sorry to disturb your restful outing. I will not be here very long.” The man must have heard his footsteps on the path, even though Gabriel was cloaked and normally moved with the silence of a shadow.
“You’ve come about the dead angel,” the man continued. “Drained, he was. Devoured until all that remained was a physical shell. The angel that came to collect him could barely tell he was one of theirs, but I knew.”
“Can you see me?” Gabriel asked in astonishment. “How do you know all this?” It wasn’t just that the man’s vision was obviously severely impaired, but that Gabriel was cloaked. No human should be able to see him. And he was fairly certain that any of his brother’s Gregori who came to collect the corpse would have likewise been hidden from human eyes.
“Angel of Water and Ice, of course I see you. I am not blind.” His voice rasped with a deep, throaty laughter. “I see many things, and others do not see me at all.”
Gabriel could imagine that was true—tucked under the tree in the shade, he was practically a part of the bark, his aura blending completely with the surroundings.
“Please tell me what you know of the dead angel, Abuelo. I will be very grateful.”
The old man shifted on the bed of moss that was his seat, looking pleased that someone was actually interested in what he had to say.
“An angel brought the body. He flew in, wings outstretched, cradling the man in his arms. It was a beautiful vision. Then he landed and tossed him onto the ground by the swings and flew away.”
Gabriel stared in astonishment. “An angel brought the body? Not a demon? Where was the fight with the demon?”
Demons devour, and not very many of them either, thankfully. If this man were to be believed, he had the sensory skill to know the angel died by devouring. But why would the body have been moved? Demons didn’t bother with that sort of thing, and the man had clearly said an angel had brought the body here.
“An angel,” the man said, his voice indignant. “I can tell the difference between an angel and a demon.”
“Then why would an angel bring the body here?” Gabriel wondered out loud. Without the actual crime scene, the angels investigating would have no way of tracking or tracing the offending demon. It was a wonder his brother had been able to find and dispatch the devouring spirit responsible. And it was no wonder the report had been so vague.
The old man shrugged. “Perhaps he did not want other angels sniffing around the scene of the death. Perhaps these angels have their own secrets to keep.”
Indeed. “What happened after, Abuelo?”
The man spat at the ground, carefully avoiding the banana and the thermos. “I could not believe he threw the body to the ground with all the care of someone tossing a cigarette end out a car window. Disrespectful. If my family treated the dead in such a fashion, I would be ashamed. After the angel left, I went to investigate the corpse. He was an angel, devoured straight from his physical being.”
Gabriel looked again toward the swing set. “Was he discovered by humans? Children?” He prayed that hadn’t been the case. Humans may have become detestable creatures, but a young child was still sacred and close to grace.
The old man laughed, revealing a set of loosely fitting dentures. “They would not have seen him. Only I saw him.”
Ah, so the corpse had been cloaked. Interesting that the angel dropping the body off had taken the time to cloak it from the humans.
“Another angel arrived to retrieve the body the next morning. I saw her arrive and had to hurry as quickly as I could to get a better look at what she was doing.”
The next morning? Someone was alerted then, and with angels, anonymous tips were not possible. Someone knew, and Gabriel was determined to find out.
“She stayed with the body until another angel arrived. I liked her. She grieved. Paced back and forth the whole time.”
“Can you describe them?” Gabriel asked, doubting the man could with his nonexistent eyesight.
“Of course! The angel that dropped the body off was soft and golden with wings of pale yellow edged in white. The woman angel was strong. Her eyes flashed with anger and sorrow. She had brown hair and wings like a barn swallow. Brown, with long white points at the end.”
Asta. He didn’t know the other angel, but Asta was one of the Grigori, an enforcer who’d been assigned only a few-hundred years ago. She was part of the first choir—his choir. Was her grief just sorrow over the loss of an angel, or did this one mean something special to her? Did she know the deceased and possibly the one who brought his body to this location? Asta was a promising young angel, one he could trust. She’d also be an ideal liaison for Tura.
“Gracias, Abuelo. May I restore your sight in gratitude for your assistance?” It had been centuries since he’d offered this sort of thing. Centuries since he’d felt inspired to offer.
The old man waved him off. “My eyesight is just fine. It’s these other humans you need to be worried about.”
He did worry. In spite of all his efforts not to, he worried
too much. And that was the problem.
16
It took me about four hours to reach Ahriman’s city house. He had residences everywhere, but this one was particularly imposing, rising high in a sheen of dark grey stone veined in red. It was visible from miles away. Patchine wasn’t the biggest city in Hel, but it was strategically located between the deserts of Dis and the swamplands. My house was closer to the swamplands. If I’d had my way, it would have been right in the marshes, but few demons would have agreed to follow me there.
Huge black metal gates rose twelve feet around the residence, separated from the house by a courtyard full of sculpted stone. Gates would never keep a demon out, but this one had a magical fire that licked along the decorative twisted bars and curlicues along the top. I eyed it, uncertain how I was supposed to get in. A small demon with backward-bent legs and a wart-covered body nodded in greeting as he strode by me, pushing the gate open and walking right through. The fire parted for him, and I assumed he was part of Ahriman’s household. I wasn’t. Or was I?
I approached the gate, suspending my finger above the fire. It didn’t move, and I was reluctant to risk a burn with my abilities on the fritz. Looking in vain for a doorbell, I was relieved when I saw the warty demon come back out and walk toward me.
“Hello,” I called. “Is Ahriman here? I’m Az.”
This whole thing was terribly awkward. How was I supposed to introduce myself or state my purpose? I didn’t feel right calling myself his consort when we hadn’t confirmed the deal face-to-face, and it would be weird to tell this little demon I was here to discuss a breeding contract with an ancient one. Suddenly I felt like I’d made a terrible misstep in protocol by not sending a proxy, or at the very least my steward to request an audience. Showing up at his door unplanned, with my hair half burned off, and my skin covered in blisters probably wasn’t doing much for my street cred. I’d be lucky if they didn’t run me out of town with a fireball launcher.
The demon hesitated, a look of surprise crossing his face as he quickly shoved a chunk of meat into a pocket. Great. He thought I was a beggar at the door. Impressive consort I’d make. Ahriman was liable to rip up the contract. The thought gave me hope.
The demon took a deep breath, as though what he was about to say pained him. “Niyaz, Az, Jahi, Ereshkigal, Malebranch, Mal Cogita, Samantha Martin, I welcome you to our home.”
He’d neglected to include one of my names. My very last one. I didn’t really want him to say it, though, didn’t even want him or Ahriman to know it. Only my angel called me that name. Only he had that privilege. No one else, ever.
“Ahriman is in Eresh at the moment, but I’ll alert him to your presence. Please come in and enjoy our hospitality until he arrives.”
I wondered how long this was going to take. Eresh was in the very north of Hel. Of course, a demon as old as Ahriman probably could transport himself just as Gregory could.
“Sure. Sounds good.” I waited for the demon to open the gate so I wouldn’t fry the shit out of my skin going through. He just stood there, cocking his head to the side as if perplexed with my delay.
“Since I’m not yet a member of your household, your alarm system doesn’t recognize me,” I told him, putting out a finger toward the flame as if to illustrate.
“I apologize,” he said, hurrying to open the gate. “By your appearance, I assumed you enjoyed a bit of burn.”
He wasn’t joking. Many demons did. I would too if I wasn’t in this terribly sensitive human flesh and completely unable to repair myself. I walked through the open gate and stood and waited while the demon closed it then followed him up the courtyard path to the house.
The term “house” didn’t do the place justice. Instead of doorways, huge broad-arched entrances, big enough for a being with significant wingspan, were strategically placed at all four stories. The upper ones had narrow cantilevered balconies to slow an aerial approach before entering. The entire building appeared to be shrouded in shadows, even with the bright sun above. The red veining pulsed slightly on the grey stone, giving the illusion that the structure was alive.
Interesting bone sculptures lined the path, which likewise seemed to be a mixture of crushed bone and shell. A few sculptures still had flesh clinging to them in shreds, surprisingly free from scavenging insects or decay. It seems Ahriman didn’t like to share his kills with anyone, even those assisting a natural process of decomposition.
The demon led me through the huge arch on the first floor and down a hallway to a small side room. It was oddly cozy, with seats in numerous shapes and sizes to accommodate a variety of demon forms.
“I’ll bring you some refreshment and entertainment,” he said, bowing as he backed out of the room.
The chairs weren’t the only interesting things here. Tables of different heights, covered with gouges and claw marks, sat against the walls. The ornate carpet design was complimented by a variety of blood spatter patterns. The walls looked as if they were finger painted with a grisly variety of bodily fluids. Ahriman’s decorating style appeared to be ‘early psychopath’. I sat on one of the chairs only to realize that the hide covering the cushions bore a striking resemblance to one of my old school mates. As I was wondered whether my contract period would end in my becoming part of the décor, the demon returned with another, both of them carrying trays.
Each sat a tray on a different table, then the demon who’d escorted me through the gate, and to the house, gestured to them.
“Refreshments,” he announced, as if I might be in doubt as to the purpose of the meat piled onto the metal disks. “And entertainment.” He gestured to the other demon.
I stood, shocked as he left the room, closing the door behind him. The other demon waited in front of the table, his arms clasped behind him, eyes to the ground in submission. He was a Low. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Elves might offer me a basket of rats for entertainment, but Ahriman’s was a classy household. I’d be expected to do whatever I wanted to this Low—break him, fuck him, kill him. Anything.
It had been too long since I’d lived this life, and I’d changed. I couldn’t hurt this little guy.
He stood in his servile stance for a few minutes before peeking up at me, a perplexed frown on his furry face. “Do I displease you in some way, Consort? Would you perhaps like to chase me?”
The familiar urge tickled like a faint memory in the back of my mind. I always loved to chase, but I couldn’t do any harm to him once I caught him. His expression turned to hurt, his posture drooping further. I was insulting him by refusing to harm him, implying that I felt him too weak and fragile for a demon such as myself to enjoy properly. I remembered the satisfaction of leaving a higher-level demon’s house; my limbs barely attached, and burns covering the majority of my body. I would leave my injuries unrepaired for weeks, proudly displaying that another demon had found me worthy and I’d been tough enough to survive it. I knew that’s what he wanted. It would raise his status with his peers, ensure his position within the household, give him a sense of pride.
I couldn’t do it.
“I’m sorry. You look like you’d be quite an enjoyable playmate, and there was a time when I’d happily chase you around the room and gnaw your flesh down to the bone, but I’m not that demon anymore. Why don’t you join me in eating some of this food, and we’ll chat.”
His shoulders drooped even lower, and he refused to look in my direction, but he nodded, walked over to the table and placed a handful of meat into his broad, flat, snout-like jaws.
“What is your name?”
He looked up at me with a startled glance before turning again to stare at the meat. “Bwoof.”
I wasn’t sure if his name really was Bwoof, or if his full mouth had garbled the word. I decided to go with it.
“What do you do here in Ahriman’s household, Bwoof?”
Again he looked at me, swallowing hard before answering. “I’m a Low, Consort. I do whatever I’m told.”
That w
as a bit snarky coming from a Low, but I hadn’t exactly done anything to inspire his respect, in spite of my honorary title. Bwoof’s posture returned to the traditional deferent pose, but he reached out and quickly crammed another handful of meat into his mouth. I wondered if Ahriman fed his Lows, or maybe this meat was of a much higher quality than he would normally be given.
“Nice weather we’re having, huh?” I wasn’t sure what to say to him. As a Low, his duties were to endure whatever the others in the household did to him, and run minor errands, usually ones that would result in either dismemberment or death. I could hardly ask him if he liked his service here, or if Ahriman was a good master.
Bwoof shot me another perplexed look. He clearly thought I was weird, and his initial dismay at my rebuff was ebbing away. It wasn’t him; it was me. There was obviously something odd about me.
“Wfthr hot nnn drwy,” he mumbled, stuffing even more meat into his already full mouth.
I contemplated making some comments about sporting events, or yet more observations concerning the weather, when I noticed faint black smoke spiral in a thin, twisted column. As I watched, it grew thicker and darker. I was wondering if something were on fire, when Bwoof noticed it too. He spat the contents of his mouth onto the rug and assumed a posture of servile attention, facing the smoke column.
The room dimmed in dramatic effect as the smoke billowed into a black cloud, swelling to the ceiling before swirling back down to the floor. It was thick and greasy, smelling of burning flesh and hair. My host had arrived, and he was making an entrance with style.
The oily dark coalesced in a bipedal shape with glowing red for eyes. Slowly, the smoke merged into flesh, equally black with the same oily sheen. Dusky wings snapped outward, flexing before they settled into a more restful pose. They were typical demon wings; leathery with claws along the edges, and prominent bones at the ridge and supports. Ahriman’s were black, with an unusual stippling that increased along the edge. As he walked toward me, I saw a small piece of black drift to the floor from the edge. A feather—a tiny remnant of the angel he used to be so long ago. I had a feeling that was the only piece of his angel-self that remained.
