Flaming Dove

by Daniel Arenson

  Demon prints covered the cobbled street, she noticed—slimy, smoking, hoofed. Bat El paused and stared at them.

  "Lieutenant," she said to Nathaniel, the tall, dour commander of The Wrecking Balls. "I thought this was Heaven's neighborhood. Why do I see demon tracks?"

  Nathaniel was busy grumbling something about dirty jobs, and how wingless angels always got them. At the sound of her voice, he shut his mouth, adjusted his eyepatch, and stared at the prints with his good eye.

  "All this city is disputed territory, Captain," he said, voice like gravel. He creaked his shoulder blades as if to shrug wings, those wings which had gone missing with his left eye, good manners, and sobriety. "Demons come, demons go. Most who enter these streets die."

  Bat El clutched the hilt of her golden sword. This sword can fire godlight a mile away and cut steel, she reminded herself, yet still she shivered. Why would Laila ever return to this city, if she could hide in the hills with that wolf of hers?

  "How old are those tracks?" she asked Nathaniel, struggling to keep her voice stern. She was Gabriel's daughter and a Captain in the ancient, fabled Heavenfire Division; she must never show fear.

  "Fresh," the wingless angel grunted. He pointed behind a toppled wall. "The bodies are fresh too."

  Bat El looked past the pile of rubble and covered her mouth, struggling not to gag. Two demon bodies lay there, rotting, seared with blasts of godlight. The demon's bloated tongues hung from their maws.

  "God," she whispered.

  Nathaniel spat. "As I said. Demons come, demons go. Demons don't last long." He hefted his spear.

  Glancing around, expecting more demons to emerge any instant, Bat El led her squad through brick alleys, past a toppled fort, across a stone square with burned trees, and finally into an alley in the shade of two hills. She saw it there, nestled between abandoned buildings, ash staining its tan bricks—the Silver Candle bar.

  "That's where I saw her," she said to Nathaniel.

  The wingless angel stared at the bar with one grim eye. He hefted his spear again. "I'll go in first," he said with a grunt. "If that wolf causes trouble, I'll spear the dog."

  And if you do, Bat El thought, Laila will kill you in a flash. There were few whom Satan's daughter could not kill, Bat El knew—not even a battle-hardened angel with no wings and more grit than a toppled church.

  "No," Bat El said. "I go in—alone. I don't want to startle her. If she sees a group of burly, armed angels walk in, blood will spill in the Silver Candle."

  Nathaniel gave her a shrug that seemed to say, Do whatever the hell you want, girl, but don't come crying to me later.

  "Very well, Captain," the one-eyed lieutenant said and slammed the butt of his spear against the cobbled road. "We wait here." He pulled out a cigarette and began to puff. Earth habits, Bat El thought with distaste. They do say angels become like humans once they lose their wings.

  Leaving The Wrecking Balls, Bat El stepped toward the dingy bar, trying to keep her sandals silent against the cobbles. The bar's iron sign hung crookedly, creaking as she approached. Bat El had little doubt that Laila would still be here, drinking, even in early afternoon. This was one of the few buildings in Jerusalem still standing; where else would a half-angel, half-demon spend her time? Bat El pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the shadows.

  For a moment she stood, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. The glow from her hair and skin brought scarce light to this chamber of spirits and survivors. Bat El discerned several humans seated at the bar, hunched over their drinks—homemade spirits made by fermenting anything the humans could still find and grow. The barkeep raised rheumy eyes, blinked at her, and spat.

  "I told you last time," he said. "We don't want no angels here."

  "And I told you last time," she said, tossing him a golden coin, "angels are all that keep the demons off this street."

  The barkeep pocketed the coin. He barked a laugh. "She is what keeps demons off this street," he said, gesturing with his head toward the darkest corner of the pub. "Angels would keep away too, if they were smart."

  He retreated into the kitchen, grumbling. The gold would silence him for a while, Bat El knew. Gold was valueless these days, of course—she could as well have tossed him a pebble—but gold's gleam was still worth some memories, some hope.

  She looked at the shadows at the back, where the barkeep had gestured, and swallowed. Her glow, the godlight of angels, did not pierce those shadows. If Laila preferred the darkness, Bat El knew, in darkness the half-demon would remain.

  Bat El forced her hand off the hilt of her sword. She mustn't look threatening. But as she stepped into the shadows, she kept hand and hilt close.

  A growl came from ahead, and the wolf's eyes and fangs glistened. Instinctively, Bat El took a step back, heart racing.

  "Don't be afraid," came a soft voice from the shadows. "Volkfair won't hurt you. Whether I hurt you remains to be seen. Come forward, half-sister. Sit at my table."

  Removing her hand from her sword—she had clutched and half-drawn it without noticing—Bat El stepped forward and saw a table and an empty seat. Laila sat across the table, hidden in a black cloak and hood, her wolf at her side. In the shadows, Bat El could only make out the red flame of Laila's eyes, burning like coals in her shadowy hood. Uneasily, Bat El sat at the table across from Laila.

  Bat El stared at her younger sister, this girl conceived when Lucifer raped her mother. Pity filled Bat El. You've spent your life running, she thought, gazing at those flaming eyes. When we brought you to Heaven, the godlight burned your skin.

  Memories of their childhood flowed into Bat El, fragments of a young angel, only just blossoming into womanhood among the meadows of Heaven, and a demonic baby sister, a twisted being of flame and shrieks. Yet despite her fear—after all, everyone feared Laila the half-demon—Bat El had always loved Laila. She hadn't seen her sister in years, but that love remained.

  "Hello, Laila," she said softly. "Welcome back." She did not know what more to say. She had spent all morning rehearsing words, but they all fled her mind at the sight of her poor, wretched, outcast sister.

  "The small talk first," Laila spoke in the shadows, voice smooth and dangerous as poison. "How is Heaven? How is Gabriel? How are you liking Earth?" With a dainty, clawed hand, Laila pulled a glass of spirits into the shadows of her hood. Strange that one of such power should have such small hands, Bat El reflected. A moment later, Laila placed the empty glass back on the table. "And now that we've got the small talk out of the way—why are you here?" She placed her clawed hand in the shaggy black fur of her wolf, patting it.

  "You know why I came," Bat El said softly, wondering how long it would take Nathaniel and his angels to burst into the bar if she screamed, or if she'd even have a chance to scream should that wolf leap at her.

  Laila pulled back her hood, and for the first time in years, Bat El looked upon her half-sister. Laila did not look like an angel, Bat El thought; her skin did not glow, her black hair did not shine, and no swan wings grew from her back. Nor did she look like a demon; she had no tail, no horns, no scales. In the darkness, she could almost be mistaken for a human, if not for her fangs, her bat wings, and the fire in her eyes.

  "You're wasting your time here, Bat El," Laila said. "Or should I call you Captain now? I hear Michael enlisted you, gave you some nice, lofty rank as befits a child of Gabriel." Laila's voice mocked her, but her eyes remained fiery and humorless.

  "Laila," Bat El said, "I'm your sister. I want to help you, I want you to—"

  "You've asked me to join you before," Laila whispered with a hint of menace, running her claws through Volkfair's fur. "Your people have spent years asking me to join you. I thought I made my answer clear when I ripped out Azriel's throat." The flames in Laila's eyes crackled, glistening against her fangs.

  Bat El winced. "My people?" she asked, pain filling her, pain she was surprised to still find in her. "Laila, you are one of us. You are Heaven's child. You a
lways have been."

  Laila removed her hand from Volkfair and tapped her claws against the tabletop. She had such fair hands, Bat El thought again; small, delicate. If not for those claws....

  "I grow tired of you," Laila whispered. "The only reason I don't kill you now is because we share blood. Michael must feel clever to have sent you here."

  "Michael did not send me," Bat El lied. "I came on my own."

  Laila laughed mirthlessly and refilled her glass. "An angel lying? Beware, sister, it might make your wings fall off." Laila outstretched her own wings—black, leathery. Demon wings.

  I have maybe another ten seconds here, Bat El knew. It was time to show her cards.

  "Laila," she said, "I thought you might help us fight Beelzebub if you knew the truth about your father." She took a deep breath, watching Laila for any sign of emotion. Laila's face remained still.

  "Laila," Bat El continued softly, "when Beelzebub killed Lucifer, you became rightful ruler of Hell." Tears filled Bat El's eyes. "I'm sorry we never told you. Your father, the demon who raped our mother, was Lucifer."

  Laila sipped her drink calmly. "I know," she said.

  Bat El shifted in her seat, taken aback. "You... know? But how? Only Gabriel and Michael knew until they told us this year. I thought...."

  Laila pulled the hood back over her head, hiding herself. "Old news," she said. "Now leave."

  Volkfair growled, fangs glistening. I will gain no more here, Bat El knew. Fingers trembling, she left.

  Chapter Two

  Beelzebub hammered at the marble statue, chiseling away a speck from the nose. He frowned, ran a finger along his own nose, and chiseled another piece. Candles filled the church belfry, dancing against the statue, burning low. He had been working for hours on his self-portrait; soon the light would be gone.

  "Your nose is bigger," came a voice behind him. "You're not that pretty."

  With a sigh, Beelzebub turned to see Zarel enter the belfry. The Demon Queen swayed as she walked, formed of endless curves, her red scales clinking. Her hair of flame crackled, and drool dripped down her fangs to steam against the floor.

  "All angels are pretty," he said to her. "We are beings of light and beauty."

  Zarel barked a laugh, smoke and flame rising from her nostrils. "You're a fallen angel, my dear husband, do you remember? It's been a long time since a halo glowed above your head."

  Beelzebub turned back toward the statue and took a step back, admiring his work. The black marble rose seven feet tall, just slightly larger than life, great bat wings spread. It's good, Beelzebub thought, nodding slowly. He especially liked how he had carved the armor; the stone breastplate, greaves, and vambraces glittered like the real armor he wore, old Roman pieces he had been wearing for two thousand years. I will gild the marble armor too, he decided. His own armor was black and gilded, and he wanted the statue to look as authentic as possible.

  "I'll mount this statue in the Armenian Quarter once we take it," he told Zarel. "Michael will like that."

  Zarel bared her fangs, and her hair of flame raised sparks. Her eyes burned like lanterns in the shadows. "Forget the Armenian Quarter. We have larger concerns today. Whispers fill the city. They say that Laila has returned."

  Beelzebub sank into a chair by his workbench. "Who says this, Zarel?" he asked wearily.

  His wife ran her claws along his arm, raising steam against his skin. "Humans. Who else? You know your lover. She consorts with them, so I listen."

  Beelzebub sighed again, a deep sigh that ran across his body. "She's no longer my lover, Zarel. That was years ago. You know that."

  She smiled with a hiss, drool dripping down her maw, flames burning in her eyes. More flames ran across her scaly body, a raiment of fire. She unfurled her great bat wings, horns and claws glistening. "The girl must die."

  Beelzebub rose to his feet, stepped toward the belfry window, and opened the shutters. He gazed out upon the ruins of Jerusalem, letting his gaze caress the toppled temples, fallen columns, cracked streets, the skeletons of demons and angels. Ash swirled across the sky, and he could see no life other than a vulture pecking at some bones. In the distance, beyond alleys and ruins, he could discern the glow of angels hunkered down in their trenches. Stubborn bastards, he thought. It's been twenty-seven years since Armageddon, and still they hold out. They don't give up on dreams easily, angels. Stubborn, stubborn.

  He turned back toward Zarel, letting his gaze move over her body clad in flames, her toothy maw, her flaming hair. She was beautiful, of perfect form and malice. He stepped toward her and embraced her. She struggled, trying to shove him back, but he held her tight and kissed her cheek.

  "My dearest Zarel," he said. "Don't be jealous, my queen. I have no more feelings for Laila, you know that. You're the only one I love."

  She hissed and scratched her claws against his nape, trying to hurt him, but could not penetrate his skin. Her claws could rip through stone and steel, yet some were still too powerful for Zarel the archdemon. "Then why did the sound of her name bring pain to your eyes?" she said, her voice half a growl.

  Beelzebub shoved her aside, and she fell back two steps, glaring at him, eyes aflame. She bared her fangs like a wolf.

  Pain. Was there still pain? Beelzebub turned back toward his statue and stared at it. A fallen angel was he, a being of beauty and power, a being who could claim any woman. His wings were no longer those of a swan, but of a bat, and no halo glowed above his head. Those had been stripped from him and Lucifer during their rebellion, when God banished them from Heaven to become demons. But his divine beauty and strength remained. I could have any woman, and I have found the one of my dreams, he told himself. Zarel is of great lineage, powerful and famous in Hell; she is my perfect match. Laila means nothing to me now.

  "There is no more pain," he said, still facing the statue, not turning to look at his wife. "Only old pain, long dissipated."

  "Then let me kill her," came Zarel's voice behind him.

  He shook his head. "We need her."

  Zarel leapt, flew over his head, and landed before him, smoking and flaming, fangs bared. She hissed, flames rose from her nostrils, and her scales glinted. "You need her, my lord? Do you miss your Laila's kisses? She must not live. If she returned to this city to join Michael, she must die. I will kill her myself. Many fear Laila the half-demon, but I don't."

  Beelzebub lifted his hammer and chisel. He chipped a speck from the statue's left wing, smoothing it to look like leather. "Laila would not join Michael," he said. "She hates Heaven more than she hates Hell. She is Lucifer's daughter. Heaven's holy water burns her, and its harps make her ears bleed."

  Zarel grabbed his arm, pulling his hand away from the statue. She glowered. "She hates Hell too. Remember when she visited? The hellfire burned her skin; she fled back to Earth half dead. Why do you let her live? Lucifer would have killed her."

  Beelzebub snarled, surprised at his sudden anger, and shoved Zarel against the wall. She hit the bricks, chipping off pieces of stone, and growled, drooling like a mad dog. "Lucifer is dead now," he said icily. "Hell is mine."

  She laughed mirthlessly, drool like lava falling from her maw. "Lucifer? Forget not, my husband. You killed Lucifer because he refused to let you marry his daughter. You killed him because you loved Laila, and he did not approve. So do not speak to me, your wife, of Lucifer dying."

  Gazing at his wife, Beelzebub felt his anger fade, felt guilt fill him. Of course this would be difficult for Zarel, and of course he loved his new demon wife. After Laila fled into exile, refusing to marry him, Beelzebub had chosen the greatest demon in Hell to be his bride instead. Zarel. She was unlike him in every way. He was a fallen angel, a cursed being of dark beauty, banished from Heaven, one of the original angels who rebelled against God. And she was an archdemon born in hellfire, forged in the deepest pits of Hell, an ancient evil of horns, scales, flame. Perhaps we will never fully understand each other, Beelzebub thought, but still he loved her; she was the mos
t powerful being he knew of, aside from himself and perhaps Laila. No one better to be his bride... after Laila fled, that was.

  Could Laila have truly returned now, after all these years? He remembered her last words to him. "I love you, Beelzebub," Laila had said, bloody tears on her cheeks, after he killed Lucifer. "But I'm half angel. I can never be yours."

  The candles guttering in the belfry around him, Beelzebub lowered his head. "Zarel, I'm sorry. I promise you, you are the only woman I love. Laila means nothing to me now."

  "Then let me kill her."

  He turned back to the window and stared at that distant glow of angels, those troops of Heaven hunkered down, waiting, still fighting after so long. "Zarel, this war has been going on for twenty-seven years. We are old and tired now, Michael and I, and we might never beat each other down. But Laila... with her power, she could change the tide. If she joins us, we can—"

  "She will never join us," Zarel said. "She is half angel, and Hell is poison to her. Isn't that why she left you in the first place? She will never fight with us, and I will not have her here, I will not have that woman in my court. Do you hear me, Beelzebub? If truly you have no feelings for Laila, then send me on the hunt. I will bring back her body, scorched and broken. I will feed upon her flesh."

  Beelzebub stared at his wife, gazing into those burning eyes, eyes full of hatred and love for him. He stepped toward her and kissed her. She struggled at first, then kissed him back hungrily, her body pressed against his old Roman breastplate, her claws in his hair.