Infernal Angel

by Edward Lee

  “From plague?” he asked.

  “Villagers could set upon you,” Sherman reminded. Immortality was one thing, disfigurement was sorely another. Why was it that he, one of the wisest beings of history, hadn’t thought of that? In an earlier time, he would’ve destroyed Sherman for suggesting something so offensive but over ages, he’d matured as well. Satan had become a sensible monarch. “Let me go with you, my lord—at the very least,” Sherman entreated, “or several of my best-trained Flamma-Troopers.”

  “No, there isn’t sufficient power.”

  “The sorcery is so new. At least test it first, on someone else. On me, anyone. I implore you, lord.”

  “No.” Lucifer smiled at this disheveled general who had slaughtered thousands without compunction. “The Capnomancers at the Synod have assured my safety.” But for a moment, he felt neutered. All his power, and the limitless-ness of his kingdom—and he had to worry about energy constraints. It didn’t seem fair. “Dear general, there’s husbandry in Heaven,” Lucifer took the line from Shakespeare, “and here too.” At least he was good-natured enough now to admit that his power wasn’t absolute.

  He’d agreed to the Oni. It was indestructible—and smarter than a Golem-forged of black granite carved out of Hell’s deepest and most cursed quarry, and made malleable by the most ingenious Animation Spells. No one would be “disfiguring” the Morning Star while the Oni was present.

  It stared at him—with no face—as he continued his secret vigil. The dead were piling up now, in human drifts. Good, good, he just kept thinking, good, good...

  A little girl staggered down the dirt road, sucking her thumb and in rags. Her face was a pie of bubos. A masked man raced up, hit the girl in the head with an iron bar, and threw her onto the next death-cart. In the distance, the todesfalls that had been filled to capacity were set ablaze. Lucifer could smell it.

  An astonished voice surprised him.

  “Who ... are you?”

  Another man, another death-carrier. Fleas churned in his black hood, and the cloth covering his mouth billowed as he spoke.

  Satan looked at the man and smiled warmly. “I am the light of each morning that you will see, for the rest of your life.”

  “How many more such morns will there be for me?”

  Iblis extended his hand to the great morning sun. “Just this one, my friend.”

  “You are a soothsayer?”

  Eosphoros’ voice suddenly bloomed into white light. “I am an angel.”

  “Will you save me?”

  “No. I can’t. You can only save yourself. You wonderful pitiful people will just never understand that, will you?”

  The man trembled in his black garb. “Will I die hastily?”

  “You will die a slow death. You will die in utter agony. Then you’ll come to me.”

  “Christ, have mercy—”

  “He won’t.”

  The Oni walked around behind the man, somehow without making a sound. It picked him up, threw him into the todesfall, and closed the door.

  Christ didn’t save me. Why should he save you?

  “Halt.”

  It was someone else, a knight, in chain mail and a white tunic emblazoned with a cross and the crest of the Council of Lyons.

  “I’m not moving, am I?” Lucifer asked.

  “Who are you?”

  “Like you, I’m a Crusader.”

  “Your voice is strange.” The knight unsheathed his broadsword. “You’re no knight of God.”

  “Well, let’s just say that I used to be.”

  “Are you a priest?”

  “In a sense.”

  “I have no time for riddles. Evil is upon the land. There is a scourge.”

  “Yes. And what do you do about it?”

  “I save souls. I end the misery of the children of God after hearing their confession.”

  “You think that saves them?”

  “I know it does. The Holy Father says it does, and the Holy Father is infallible.” The knight’s smudged face looked suddenly confused. “You needn’t fear me. My sword will save your soul.”

  “You’re a little late for that.”

  “Have you been touched by the pestilence?”

  “I am the pestilence,” Satan said.

  “You’re an acolyte of the Devil. Let me hear your confession and I will save your soul. The Lord God forgives everyone.”

  Lucifer’s voice turned so soft it could barely be heard. “Are you certain of that?”

  The knight stared. He was shaking. “I’m looking right at you, yet ... yet I can’t see your face.”

  “My visage is too perfect to be looked upon. You are incapable of reckoning my perfection...”

  The shadow loomed as the Oni stepped out from behind the todesfall.

  “God in Heaven,” the knight croaked.

  This is so petty, Lucifer thought, but it’s so much fun... Then he spoke words in a language unknown to this world. His breath flowed out as luminous mist. It was a simple Possession Invocation, child’s play, but it seemed appropriate. With the arcane words, the knight’s will was polluted by a hundred insanities.

  “Crusader of Lyons. There are still some women and children alive in the village. They need to be raped. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes...”

  “They need to be dragged into the open street and raped as the others look on. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes...”

  “Every survivor in this town needs to see your red Crusader’s cross as you are raping the women and children. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes...”

  “Then go.”

  The knight turned and headed for the village square.

  All in a day’s work. But was it possible for the First Fallen Angel to be queasy? Gastric distress? The Lord of Darkness’ graceful hand came to his abdomen. When he frowned, a hedgerow of budding pink flowers died at once.

  The White Stone, he realized. Of course. He chuckled aloud, and the sound rattled across the continent. All that God in me right now. Of course it makes me sick...

  There’d been seven such stones, set into the Twelfth Gate of Heaven, the highest gate, so high that only a handful of Angels were allowed to pass through it. Seven stones to exist as the perfect number, and all white: the color of perfection.

  Lucifer had pilfered three of the stones just before he’d been cast out.

  A great shadow fluttered at the tree tops. Then he knew—it wasn’t the stone in his belly that was making him sick, it was the sudden presence.

  A blond angel—a Hermaphrim, part man, part woman—floated on great white wings above the trees, looking down. Its lambent face, at first, looked sad, then it glowered at Lucifer.

  “You’re a disgrace,” the angel said, the voice a deafening hush.

  “Not enough of one!” Lucifer blared back. “But soon I will be! Soon I’ll show you disgrace!” The concussion of the Morning Star’s words shook the birds out of every tree in the forest. The birds fell dead at once.

  The angel maneuvered closer and cast a hateful glance at the Oni. Then came the strangest grinding sound. The Oni shuddered, and turned into black-flecked salt. A moment later, it collapsed to a pile of granules.

  “Do that to me!” Lucifer yelled upward.

  The angel just glowered back at him.

  “You can’t! It’s because you cant!”

  “Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Better for you to fester in your infinity.”

  “I adore my infinity! You’re jealous of it!”

  A rabble rose aside. “An angel!” a voice cried out. “An angel’s come to bless us!” and several villagers straggled out of their homes into the street. Two men hauling a death-cart stopped, looking up. They all stared up at the angel.

  One woman held a dying child in her arms, her smudged face shiny with tears. “Help my daughter, I beg of thee,” she wept up to the angel.

  The angel smiled in spite of the distress on its incalculable face. “Your daug
hter will live to be a hundred,” it said softly.

  The child squirmed in the mother’s arms, dropped to her feet, and scampered off, laughing, clean. The woman fell to her knees before the angel’s great shadow. All the villagers in the street were staring up.

  “It’s God,” someone whispered.

  Lucifer gagged, ran out, pointing. “That thing is not God!” he roared. Houses shook. “I’m more of a god than that!” Lucifer’s eyes brightened in their hatred, or was it really just despair kept hidden for millennia? He challenged the angel: “Heal them all! Make them all clean—all of them! Heal the continent!”

  “Heal us, God—”

  “Save us from the plague—”

  “We believe in you...”

  The angel’s aura lost some of its luster. Was it crying? “I’m not allowed. But you will all be saved, through your faith in the Almighty Father...”

  “Bullshit!” Lucifer raved, still pointing up. “That thing can’t heal you! If God’s so powerful, so benevolent, how is it that He even let this happen? Answer me that!” Then Lucifer rushed forward—“Watch me!”—and approached the death-cart. He looked at it and shouted, “Get up!” and the dying were restored and the dead came back to life. He looked at the crowd, and at the many more pouring out onto the street, and he shouted at them, “You’re ALL HEALED!” and their festering bubos all disappeared, their infections were cleansed, their eyes cleared of hemorrhage.

  “Worship me,” Lucifer beseeched them. They all circled around him and fell to their knees. He held out his hands of light. “This entire town is healed...”

  “Deceiver. Light of the Morning, you’re weakest in your darkness,” the angel spoke. “I can’t wait to watch you burn for a thousand years.”

  Lucifer smiled up at the entity, yes, a smile just like Christ’s as He prepared to begin his Sermon on the Mount. “Fuck you,” Lucifer said.

  The angel was flying away.

  He should feel victorious, shouldn’t he? Lucifer felt crushed. With the angel gone, his pride felt useless. There was no one to show off for. He pushed through the throng of his new followers, ignoring their praise, not even seeing them, and he staggered to the pile of salt that had once been the Oni. The stone, he thought, the stone. He mustn’t forget the stone. He dug through the salt and found it at the bottom. It was tiny, smaller than a marble, and pure white, perfect white. From the pouch on his belt he withdrew a pinch of Enguerraud Dust—a cosmic emetic agent—and placed it on his tongue. In a moment, he vomited into his hand, and the instant the second White Stone was out of his belly, Lucifer opened his eyes—

  Take me back...

  —and found himself standing in the great Scarlet Hall, before the open balcony at the 666th floor of the Mephisto Building in the heart of downtown Hell.

  “Welcome back, my lord.”

  Sherman, with his elongated cranial transfigurations and implanted horns, stood timidly in black hexated armor. His pinkened face seemed to burn above the same beard he’d stroked while watching his troops, upon his order, rape and kill everything that moved in a city called Atlanta. “We were concerned.”

  Lucifer didn’t hear him, didn’t care what he had to say. He sat down on the throne of pure quartz, looked out into the crimson sky. “Lord of Darkness, what a joke,” he sputtered and sighed. A lack of self-esteem was not his element. He felt puny and weak.

  “Did you say something, my lord?”

  Lucifer stared. I don’t want to be the Lord of Darkness. I want to be the Living Lord of the World. A mile in the distance and down, he could see the ill-colored surface of the Lake of Great Mistakes, where he’d scored his greatest victory against an army of anti-luciferic insurgents, reducing them all to putrefaction with one viral spell. It was not water which filled the lake, but pus. Gazing out now at this achievement, the man in the crystal throne should’ve felt contentment.

  But he didn’t.

  “My lord,” Sherman said, “you’re disconsolate. What can I do to allay your despair?”

  “Go down and out and have yourself quartered in the Square, where I can see.”

  Sherman turned to leave.

  “Stop.” Lucifer put his head in his hand. Can’t anybody take a joke? They do anything I say because I have willed them to do so. Is that really power?

  No.

  “Shall I order 50,000 Imps to be summarily drowned in the lake, my lord? Perhaps that would improve your spirits.”

  The idea sounded tantalizing but even the monarch of all of Hell had to be sensible. “We need them for the Atrocidome—for the next Merge.”

  “Of course.”

  He handed Sherman the two White Stones, whereupon the general gave them to an underling demon dressed in a cloak of flensed skin. The stones were then locked up in a Psychic Vault. Lucifer looked at Sherman, almost as one would look to a friend—even though Satan had no friends.

  “I want power, General. I want what I’ve deserved for eons.”

  “You shall have it, my lord. Soon. And I have good news.”

  Lucifer’s eyes widened in black light.

  “While you were away, the Unholy Bearers arrived, just moments ago.”

  Was it hope that flared in the First Fallen Angel’s heart?

  “The Merge is done?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it successful?”

  “As your Mancers swore, my lord. It was more than a success. It was a triumph.”

  Lucifer was shaking. “And Zeihl is—”

  “Dead by his own hand, Lord Lucifer, as he too swore.”

  Cloaked and hooded Levitators advanced into the room at Sherman’s beckoning. They’d cut off their own feet upon their own ordinations from the Conditioning Academy. They floated across the onyx tile, a scuffed container like a small suitcase floating behind them. Red lights blinked on the edge of the suitcase, an electronic lock.

  “Such technology,” Lucifer remarked.

  A Fourth Level Biowizard garbed in white stepped forward. “Open it,” Sherman ordered. The Sorcerer merely looked at the case’s sophisticated lock mechanism. The light went out. The case opened.

  Please, please, Lucifer pleaded.

  “Zeihl is a hero to history,” Sherman uttered. “He’s made the ultimate sacrifice, for your glory, my lord...”

  Yes. And better him than me, the Morning Star thought. He’d promised his most loyal Fallen Angel that he’d never forget him, and with that promise, now, Lucifer would forget him forever.

  Lucifer rose, levitating himself in his bridled joy, when he looked into the case ...

  (III)

  Walter awoke about 10 p.m. He felt shellacked in sweat, and exhausted from the evil dream. He’d slept all day, hadn’t he? After seeing that man get killed by the drunk driver yesterday, and the continuously grim revelations about Candice, his mind and body had shut down. He’d missed some classes but didn’t care. I’ll be dead tomorrow so what’s the big deal? By now, yes, he was certain. Without Candice, there was no reason to go on living.

  But he at least had hoped that the long sleep would leave him feeling better, if only topically. Instead, he felt devitalized, drained. He struggled out of bed and took his iron pill, but they never really made him feel better either. He thought that eating something might help but he knew that if he did he’d just throw up.

  An accidental glance in the mirror showed him a skinny, dorky eighteen-year-old, with dark circles under his eyes and clown-orange hair sticking up. Skin pale as vanilla ice cream. Slack Fruit of the Looms hanging off his bony hips.

  “Yeah, you’re a real prize,” he said to the reflection.

  The message light was blinking on his answering machine. Not really caring, he pushed the PLAY button.

  “Hey, Walter, it’s me, Colin. Haven’t heard from you in a while so I thought I’d give a call. Just wanna make sure my Buddy-bro is okay—”

  Please, Walter begged the fates, please don’t say anything about Candice—

  “Hope yo
u’re not still boo-hooing over that pea-brained hose-bag jock-fucking blond bitch. Forget about her, man. Shit, I just saw her blowing some guy behind the bleachers at the baseball game. Gimme a call, Buddy-bro.”

  BEEP

  The next message: A voice he didn’t recognize, some guy’s voice. “Hey, geek, listen to this, I recorded it last time I was giving it to her,” and then he heard a switch pop, someone no doubt pushing the play button on a tape recorder. First the faintest hiss, then a steadily rising crescendo of moans and shrieks. It was clearly a woman in the throes of orgasmic bliss.

  Walter knew at once that it was Candice.

  Must have been one of the jocks, Walter reasoned. Why would somebody do that, something that cruel? he wanted to ask himself. But he didn’t bother. People were cruel, that’s why. Candice was cruel. Reality had set its teeth now. He knew. All Candice cared about was having sex with as many empty-headed college sports stars as possible. Never mind how he felt. Never mind that Walter was the only one who truly loved her.

  His despair was growing vibrant, it made the hairs on his arms shiver, like static. He eyed the shotgun in the corner, then eyed the framed picture of Candice which he’d propped up on his study desk. There was also a picture of Colin on the wall and he supposed a good thing to do would be to see his brother one last time before he did the deed, but he couldn’t contemplate that. He didn’t want to see his brother ever again because there’d just be more wisecracks about Candice. Next he spied one of his textbooks lying opened on the bed, Measurements of Sheer Viscosity: Principles of Fluid Dynamics. Quite unlike him to be impulsive and disrespectful, Walter peed hard on the open book. What did it matter?

  His appetite remained non-existent yet he left the dorm anyway, and headed for the Student Union snack bar. A last meal seemed appropriate, even conventional, and Walter was certainly a young man devoted to convention. It was late now, the mixer parties could be heard from afar. Parties that Walter never had been and never would be invited to. He trudged on through the night, along the curving sidewalk lit on one side by the lights from the undergrad library, dark on the other. Walter took intermittent glances over into the dark side ... and swore he saw things. Shapes. Figures that seemed to be following him, that seemed to be smiling, drifting along, but when he strained his eyes he saw no figures.