by Marie Sexton
They’d both be lost forever if they went down this path.
“Seth? Where are you?”
It was Zed’s voice, ripping through the trees, tearing Seth from his arms, leaving Abaddon off-balance and weak-kneed. Seth was bent over, his hands on his thighs, the red scarf like a flag, trailing from the fingers of his left hand. He took a couple of ragged, gasping breaths. He stood and stuffed the scarf into his jeans pocket, his hands shaking. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and thick with the same arousal that thrummed through Abaddon’s veins. “I have to go.”
“I know.”
“Tell me you’ll come back tomorrow.”
“There’s nothing in Hell or on Earth that could keep me away.”
He just had to hope Heaven stayed out of the equation.
Chapter Seven
On the Highway Subway to Hell
Abaddon returned to Hell that night. He could have lingered near the revival, drifting in the abyss, out of sight of human eyes but near enough to keep an eye on Seth, but eventually, even devils needed rest.
And he needed time to think.
His apartment felt smaller than ever. Tenements in Hell had one window, all with a spectacular view of a brick wall six inches away. Sounds echoed through the hallways at all hours of the night—screaming, pounding, radios turned up too loud. Sometimes the sounds of babies crying, even though no infants resided in Hell. Sometimes dogs barking or roosters crowing, even though no Earthly animals resided in Hell either. Sometimes the Hounds of Hell brayed all night, chasing some doomed prey. The clamor changed every other week or so, in an effort to keep the locals from growing complacent. Still, after a few decades, there wasn’t much that could surprise Abaddon.
He couldn’t blame his lack of sleep on Hell.
He turned the revival and the snakes over and over in his mind, picturing the scars on Seth’s neck. He considered the unnatural brightness of Seth’s soul, and his claim of being able to heal people.
There was something going on here. Something Abaddon hadn’t quite recognized until now. He needed to talk to Baphomet, and the only way to do that was to go back to work.
Traveling on the mortal plane was easy, but by design, traveling in Hell was…well, it was hell. The subway smelled, as usual. The exact odor varied from day to day, but it was never pleasant. Today’s aroma seemed to be a blend of vomit and rotting fish. Also as usual, there were no seats available. They were all taken by mimes, surly teenagers, or large purses that bit your hand if you tried to move them. The one seat nobody was sitting in contained a noxious puddle that was undoubtedly the source of the stink du jour.
Abaddon hung onto the overhead loop and wished for a cup of coffee.
When he finally reached his office, he took the stairs to the hundred and thirty-second floor (the elevator was always broken). He had to stop to catch his breath midway up, even after all these years. His luck was with him, though. He found Baphomet almost immediately. He was at his desk with a three-foot-high stack of “You’re pre-approved!” announcements, ready to be folded and stuffed into envelopes. And when it came to sealing envelopes in Hell, there were no shortcuts. Each envelope flap had to be licked by some poor devil.
Baphomet put the most recent envelope aside and looked up with a smile. “Abaddon! Where have you been?”
“Topside.” Abaddon scrubbed his fingers through his hair as he glanced around, making sure no managers were nearby. Most of the cubicles around them were empty, so he grabbed a chair and pulled it up next to Baphomet’s desk.
“What in the world are you doing?” Baphomet asked, his voice an urgent whisper as he leaned toward Abaddon. “You’re already on probation. If they catch you—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Abaddon patted the air, trying to quiet his friend, even though they were already speaking in hushed tones. “Listen, I need to talk to you.”
“Is this about that perfect soul you’re trying to bag?”
Abaddon winced, hating the way it sounded. “It’s about Seth, yes.”
Baphomet lowered the envelope he’d been about to lick. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“The way you said his name just now.” He shook his head. “Abaddon, you need to stop seeing him. Nothing good can come of this.”
“Will you shut up and listen to me?” At least that question didn’t have to be whispered. It was okay to sound angry. He grabbed the top two inches of papers off the top of Baphomet’s pile and began folding them, happy to have something to concentrate on while he talked. “Last night, I watched a goddamn river of snakes slither up the center aisle of a revival, like the motherfucking Pied Piper was leading them.”
“The motherfucking Pied Piper led rats, not snakes.”
“Whatever. They went straight up the aisle and straight to…” He had to take a deep breath and focused on the paper in his hands. Fold the top third down. The bottom third up. Add it to the stack waiting to be stuffed into envelopes and move on to the next form. “Straight to Seth. They swarmed all over him, like bees on honey.”
“I’m not sure bees actually—”
“Listen to me! They crawled up his arms and into his lap and around his neck. He was covered. It was like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
“Did they bite him?”
“No, but apparently they have before. I saw the scars. He’s probably been bitten nearly a hundred times over the years.”
Baphomet sat still, a folded form in one hand and an empty envelope in the other. “Was he controlling them?”
“I don’t think so, no. But he says they come sometimes. He’ll wake up with them in his bed.”
Baphomet paled. “Abaddon, that’s not human.”
“There’s more.” He glanced around again, making sure nobody was nearby. “When I asked him which instruments he could play, he said, ‘All of them.’ And I think he meant it, although he’s better at some than others. And I have this feeling he can see me. He’s blind, but I swear, he senses me. He can follow me through the woods. His eyes always find me in the crowd. And when I granted him sight—”
“You gave him sight without trading for his soul? You know that’s against the rules!”
“It was only for a second. My point is, he said my eyes were wrong. He said he could see the abyss in them. And he says…. Well, he says he can heal people.”
Baphomet hadn’t moved. “Is that all?”
“No.” He was hesitant to say the last bit, but it seemed important. “He says when the snakes bite him, it’s…”
“Arousing?”
Abaddon jerked his head in a nod.
“Hell’s bells.”
“What does it mean?”
Baphomet swallowed, his eyes wide. He set his forms aside and steepled his fingers, thinking. “The music doesn’t tell us much. The ability to play any instrument with adequate skill could come from either an angel or a devil.”
“And the ability to play some of them exceptionally well?”
Baphomet waved his hand dismissively. “Pure human tenacity and a lot of practice.”
“What about the rest?”
“Well, angels can heal. You know that. Devils can too, but only in exchange for a soul. And being able to see you as you really are? That’s definitely an angelic trait.”
Abaddon heard the “but” coming. He waited for Baphomet to go on.
“On the other hand, snakes have been connected to Satan since the Garden of Eden. Angels may be immune to their venom, but they don’t enjoy it.”
“But he has a soul.” Not just any soul, either. A soul that burned hot as the sun against Abaddon’s devilish senses. “That means he can’t be an angel, or a devil.”
“Angels don’t have souls, but you know as well as I do that devils can’t ever detect that lack of soul. It’s part of how they stay hidden from us.”
“Yes, but I’ve met angels. They may throw up some kind of blinder—”
“It’s more like a decoy.”
“Fine. A decoy then. But it’s never strong. It always feels common. Pedestrian. It’s designed not to attract attention. But Seth’s soul…” He shook his head. “Believe me, it’s extraordinary.”
Baphomet nodded, scratching his chin. “So how can this boy have a soul, yet display traits of both angels and devils? That’s the question.”
Abaddon’s head jerked up. Their eyes met, both of them reaching the same conclusion at the same time.
“No,” Abaddon said, shaking his head. “How could an angel and a devil reproduce together?”
Baphomet looked amused. “In the usual way, I suppose. If they were in human form, there’s no reason they couldn’t do a little horizontal tango.”
“Could it have been rape?”
Baphomet frowned. “I don’t see how. No devil could rape an angel. They’re stronger than us. And no angel would rape a devil, because angels just don’t do that kind of thing. Rape is, you know, pretty un-angelic, any way you look at it.”
“And regardless of which one was the victim, they could always just give up their human form and return to Heaven.”
“Or to Hell.”
“Right.”
“And one more thing you’re forgetting.” Baphomet put his elbows on the desk and leaned closer. “Both of them had to be in human form when the baby was conceived. And a human pregnancy is forty weeks long. Whichever one of them was the mother, she chose to remain on the mortal plane that entire time. She could have returned to the abyss, or to Heaven, and that would have been the end of it. But she chose to have that baby.” He leaned back, picking up another of Abaddon’s folded papers and stuffing it into an envelope. “Sounds like love to me.”
Could it be true? And if so, what did it mean?
Maybe nothing.
Maybe everything.
“One thing’s for certain,” Baphomet said, interrupting his thoughts. “If he has a soul, you’re right. It’s probably worth a promotion, at the very least.”
Abaddon’s heart sank. “Yeah. Great.”
“So get back up topside and claim it already.”
* * * * *
The trip to Hell took far longer than he intended. The revival had already started by the time he returned to the mortal plane. Even with the band playing and Thaddeus preaching, Seth looked up when Abaddon walked in, his blind eyes seeming to find him as he claimed an empty seat near the back. It seemed Abaddon’s presence tickled Seth’s angelic senses, the same way Seth’s mortal soul teased his. Abaddon felt the way Seth’s heart skipped into a quicker tempo. He tasted the warmth that spread through the boy’s chest. He closed his eyes and savored the undercurrent of longing that flowed over him. Seth’s quiet joy at Abaddon’s presence seemed to caress him, whispering of trust and devotion, the tang of his soul made sweet and syrupy by the sheer innocence of Seth’s heart.
How could Abaddon betray that?
Was it possible those currents flowed both ways? Maybe Seth detected Abaddon’s turmoil. Maybe he knew how much Abaddon struggled, torn between his ridiculous feelings for Seth and the knowledge that his probation was almost up. He had only a few days left. If he didn’t meet his quota, he’d be stuck in Hell forever, far enough away that even Seth’s light wouldn’t reach him.
He had to act now, but the thought of trying to bargain for Seth’s soul again almost made him sick to his stomach. Seth deserved better than that. But if he was too sentimental to do what needed to be done, what in the world was he doing here at all? He needed to be someplace else, looking for victims. He was being reckless and stupid staying here, gambling on the Holy Grail of souls when he could have been bagging half a dozen actors or athletes, but he couldn’t help himself. Nobody excited him the way Seth did. No regular mortal soul would be enough to satisfy his hunger. And so even though it was foolish, Abaddon didn’t leave. He stayed rooted to his chair, watching Seth.
Thinking.
He was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t hear the commotion begin near the door of the tent. He became aware of the snakes not because of the tumult from the crowd, but because the flavor of Seth’s soul suddenly shifted, becoming both smokey and bitter as excitement warred with a surprising abundance of fear and anxiety.
Why was he afraid?
Seth left the keyboard, pulling his scarf from his neck and tossing it aside as he descended the steps. The snakes surged toward him. Abaddon rose to his feet, trying not to be alarmed.
The congregants were all moving toward the center aisle, some of them standing on their chairs, anxious for a view. Zed stood in his usual place at the foot of the stage, on the right-hand side, ready to head Abaddon off if he tried to reach Seth. But now, with Seth in the center aisle, he was closer than ever.
Abaddon went the other way. He jumped over the river of snakes and crossed all the way to the far side of the tent, working his way slowly up the left-hand aisle to the front of the tent. Zed watched him, his eyes hard and angry. Abaddon held up both hands, doing his best to look innocent.
It wasn’t something devils excelled at.
He didn’t approach Seth though. He found a place where he had a clear view, but stayed back and watched.
The snakes swarmed up Seth’s arms and legs, just as they’d done the night before. They moved slowly over Seth’s flesh, sliding seductively under his shirt, their tongues tickling his soft skin, caressing him, whispering songs of seduction into his ear. Abaddon felt Seth’s fear begin to drain away, fading beneath the surge of desire that filled him. It poured off him so strong Abaddon wondered that no other devils or angels poked their heads into the tent to investigate. It was a delicious tang of arousal and longing mixed with the bitter acceptance of shame and surrender. It was a taste devils knew well. It was the seductive blend of men unbuttoning their jeans and sliding their hands inside, torn between arousal and embarrassment at their baseness. It was the secret thrill some women felt as they wedged a pillow between their legs and began to move, hoping the kids didn’t hear. It was pure sexual energy, but with a tantalizing hint of guilt.
The first bite came slowly. Not a fast, lunging strike, but an exquisite nudge, fangs easing into the flesh at the base of Seth’s neck like a groom between his bride’s virgin thighs, pushing deeper, strength and tenderness driving for some wondrously sensitive spot. Then another snake, on the opposite side. A third, nearer his ear, pumping venom sinfully into Seth’s veins. Then more of them, the strikes coming faster, rattlers with tails thrashing, the hissing of the multitude becoming a moan, all of them writhing in their excitement, biting over and over, driving toward some unknown release.
Seth cried out, his arms flung wide, and Abaddon wondered if he and Seth were the only men in the room whose cocks were hard and erect. He wondered if any of the women in the tent were hot and wet between their legs.
The snakes began to leave, slow and listless now, as if they’d been sated too. Seth rose slowly to his feet, blood running in narrow streams down his pale neck, blossoming in patches on his white shirt from the bites on his stomach and back. Pricks of red lined the inside of his pant legs. He turned slowly to his left. His eyes never gained focus. They stared into some unknown place, but he held out a hand and moved forward, his steps slow and sure.
“Let him pass!” Thaddeus cried into the sudden silence. Even the band and the choir had stopped. Everybody watched Seth with the same bated breath. “My brother is searching for somebody special now. Let him by. Make room for him.”
He needn’t have bothered telling them. The congregants shrank from Seth as he neared, backing up hurriedly as if he might bite like one of his snakes. He moved down the third row of chairs, finally stopping in front of a middle-aged woman. He held out a hand to her.
“I can heal you.”
Fingers flew to shocked lips. The woman’s eyes went wide and she sank into a chair. “What? B-but I’m not sick.”
She was though. Abaddon let his senses crawl over her, and knew immediately what Seth had obviously sensed as well. Cancer lurked in her breasts and ovaries. It crawled toward her uterus. It reached slender, treacherous fingers toward her heart and lungs. It was like bitter dark chocolate on Abaddon’s tongue, thick and heavy. He might have pegged her as a prime target, if he hadn’t been too focused on Seth to notice the souls of mere mortals.
“You are,” Seth said, his voice gentle. “You’ve suspected for a while, but you’ve been too afraid to make an appointment.” He moved closer, his fingers brushing her hair away from her temple, soothing her like a mother would a child. “It’s okay, though. I can make you better.”
The woman closed her eyes. The crowd around them took a tiny step forward. Seth placed both hands on her head.
There wasn’t much to see. There was no chanting. No praying. None of the theatrics Abaddon had come to associate with faith healers. Seth simply stood there, stock-still, his head bowed.
But Abaddon didn’t have to rely on his eyes.
Seth was no charlatan. He really could heal. Abaddon felt the slender tendrils of sickness in the woman’s body begin to wither. He stood amazed as unhealthy cells died and were reborn healthy. The chocolate tang of her soul receded, becoming bland and dull as iceberg lettuce. Death was receding. Fear was dying.