Once You Go Demon (Pure Souls)

by Killian McRae

  Ramiel stepped forward, his eyes turned toward the floor. “Sire, I’ve served as the Pure Soul’s liaison in your absence. Most of the time has been standard fighting, but some recent events … Well, we should meet with the council so you can be caught up, especially about the last few months.”

  “In time, Ramiel. In time.” The senior angel mussed Ramiel’s hair. “I’ve missed out on my daughter’s life, and you and I know once I’m back in Heaven I’ll be bombarded with supplications by too many voices. For a time, I wish to remain here. In fact, it is my intention, now that the prescribed time has elapsed and I am free to come and go from this dimension at will, to resume my post as guardian.”

  Ramiel shifted his posture. “Sire?”

  Michael shooed his hands in the air. “Be off then, and give me a chance to come to know these three better. If they or I have need of you, you will be summoned. Until then, I would appreciate a little privacy.”

  The smile Michael gave her she somehow found unnerving. The newly-arrived archangel buttered the gap he’d left in her life, sinking and melting into all the cracks, giving a lubricated surface for her rationalizations and explanations to sink into unseen crevices. He claimed her mother’s recollection was wrong, and after having felt what she did last night, Riona could only imagine that her rebellious Mom would have been all pitchforks and fires if Michael’s story was true. She wasn’t exactly comfortable with the idea of him hanging around, but did she have a choice?

  Ramiel must have read the contemplation in her features. “Riona,” he said, grabbing her gaze, “are you okay?”

  “I guess.” She shrugged. “I guess we should spend a little time getting to know each other. Thanks, Ramiel.”

  “No problem.” With a bow, Ramiel turned toward Michael. “Sire, welcome back. I’ll tell the council you will appear at your convenience.”

  “Do so.”

  “Well, good-bye then. Dee, Jerry, Riona.” She saw him swallow, and in a cracked voice, add, “Persephone.”

  His edges shimmered, the lights she’d come to expect arced up behind him, and he was gone.

  Chapter 26

  He glanced at his watch: thirty-eight minutes. Lucifer noted the time in his journal, picked up the board that had heretofore been resting on his bedside table, and set it aside.

  “I don’t care what they say,” he thought to himself. “Watching paint dry isn’t as tedious as it seems.”

  Over his mantle, the gilded frame of his mirror shone. The light caught his eye as a smoke swirled in the center, preparing to display for his information and amusement a potential mortal sinner. The enchanted looking glass had come with the apartment, and he was so glad he’d kept it, despite Azazel’s insistence that it was an evil pagan relic.

  An all too familiar face took form. When he made out the lick of red hair and pouty lips, he felt himself go hard in response.

  “Well, well, Miss Dade. Nice to see you again. A penny for your sinful thoughts? What is it you’re thinking of today?”

  Damn, how he wished he still had an agent with an active audibilious charm on her. Riona had been turning up in the glass quite a bit since her wannabe lover had offed himself. A fact that set Lucifer giddy. He was growing anxious, knowing that Marc would soon be back in play and his best shot of dragging the witch to Hell.

  “No pots for you, sweet,” he spoke to her image, reaching out fingers to touch the glass. “The moment you arrive, I’m making you corporeal and taking you over and over. Embrace those damning instincts. You belong here with us. With me.”

  The witch in the glass smirked, almost like she had heard him. He wondered for a moment if his voice had crossed Styx when she moved across the room and stood next to…

  “Michael?” Lucifer hissed the name out like a curse. “But, that’s impossible! You’re supposed to be dead. You’re supposed to be…. AZAZEL!”

  Azazel strutted through the corridors of Upper Hell, making his way toward the craggy, twisty labyrinth of fire and lava the Grigori had come to nickname, “the kitchens.” He rounded the last tenement housing the damned and saw the landscape open up before him; a sea of soot-ashen kettles floating over crimson embers, a mist of evaporating purity trailing from the churning surface, and a dozen or so minions on rotation, tending pots.

  Other than Lucifer, fallen angels rarely visited this area of the Underworld. So little scope for the eye’s enjoyment. In other parts of Hell, mortal men condemned by the malfeasance of their own misdeeds endured multiple forms of torture. The select few whose souls found their way to the pots, however, represented a special breed of sinners. Here, the inferno roasted from them the last traces of redeemable goodness until their evil essence ripened.

  A cacophony of suffering and remorse compromised a symphony of sorrow all about him. As Azazel strode further into the pits, where the fires simmered gently, the pots grew quieter; first sobs, then whimpers, and finally the pots in the last stages of preparation, pots with souls ready to be reincorporated into demon flesh so that they might again walk amongst mortal men. The newer pots shrieked and yelped, the souls within still feeling too much the compassion of mortal souls, the loss of their own salvation. Or, heck, maybe they’d just realized they were now stuck in one of the few places left in existence without a Starbucks on every corner.

  The head cook looked up from his post amid a sea of pots to see his Grigori overlord nearing. Domuskin fell into a demonstration of obeisance. “Lord Azazel.”

  “Where is the Pure Soul pot?”

  Domuskin’s eyes darted from side to side. “Sir?”

  A backhanded encouragement brought the servant’s palms to the floor. Fires licked his fingertips, setting him hissing.

  “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about,” warned Azazel. “The custodianship of the fallen Pure Soul has been awarded to me, by none other than Lucifer himself. Now where is it?”

  Scattering to his feet, Domuskin flitted away to a distant fire on which a single pot sat, its gray-purple contents bubbling and popping.

  “It’s very quiet.” Azazel worried for a moment if he was already too late, if somehow this was Lucifer’s test to see if his long-festering suspicion of brewing betrayal had a basis. “How long has it been cooking?”

  “Almost long enough,” Domuskin answered. “Right on schedule, he is. A few more days is all. By then all the compassion, self-sacrifice, and love ought to be gone. Been boiling him over here on this fire alone. It’s hotter than the rest. Been resistant to let go of love, he has. Toughest thing to boil away from any soul, but still.” He arched his arm and brought his knobby fingers to the token tuft of brown hair still sprouting from his exposed skull. “Maybe ‘cause he’s one of ‘em Pure Souls, I guess. But this one’s been peculiar the whole time. He ain’t screamed but the once, when he first went over the flames.”

  “His resilience is strong. That pleases me.” Azazel leaned in over the pot, bringing his face down. A deep breath through the nose tickled his senses. Aromas of passion, determination, and a spicy undertone of darkness comprised a formidable bouquet. He tapped the edge of the pot, causing a bubble tittering near the surface to burst. “Marc, that was your name, right? Well, Marc, I have some good news. I’m going to be your master once you’re remade. At the top of my list once you go topside is arranging for you to meet up with that smoking hot piece of ass you deserted on Earth. Sound like fun?”

  Liquid Soul Marc gurgled, the viscous collection hazing over to bright red.

  “I thought that might excite you.” He turned back to Domuskin. “Remove him and take the pot to my quarters, but tell no one you have done so.”

  “But, Lord Azazel, I took his measurements this morning. He’s not ready. He’s still got a nasty bit o’ love intact, perhaps even empathy.”

  “All the better. A demon who can still feel love is the most dangerous and capable kind of all,” Azazel answered. “I’ve learned that much from experience. Passion without penance will make the
world burn.”

  If there was one major success story since the Grigori had seized control in Hell, it was the demon engineering program. Recruitment numbers soared. Men became more and more corruptible with each eon. “Misery loves company” was more than just a cliché catchphrase in Hell; it was a guiding principle. Like the other Grigori, nothing made Azazel’s fallen angel heart go pitter-patter like a moral soul corrupted. If he, one of Big Boss’s most awesome creations and beloved beings, was to be denied the light forever, he was sure as heck going to make sure enough of those damned humans suffered that fate with him.

  The previous management had sucked at recruiting. Hades was more of a “sit back and let them come to me,” type of overlord, too concerned with his genitalia to worry about fucking the rest of the world. Business as usual under the Grecian management team meant no more than seeing to housing the condemned. While Hades had had occasion to throw a soul back to Earth to perform a temporary possession—it was a favorite party trick of his when interacting with mortals, it was said—the nephilim lacked the necessary power needed to mold flesh and spark life. Azazel sometimes wondered if Big Boss ever regretted gifting the archangels with that ability.

  Likely not, he reflected. Regret would imply a mistake, and Big Boss didn’t cop to mistakes. “Everything has a purpose.” Yeah, right …

  Domuskin proved an obedient little shit. Not twenty minutes after Azazel had issued the order, a cooling pot of Pure Soul goo sat on his kitchen table as the cook waited patiently by the pantry.

  “You’ve never been in here,” Azazel concluded. It wasn’t like he kept track when minions came and went. “You seem surprised.”

  “It’s very …” Domuskin search the air around him for the proper word. “Domestic. You’ll forgive me, Lord Azazel. I know you and the other Grigori can manifest whatever domicile you wish here in the Underworld. This seems very … tame.”

  Azazel thought of Lucifer’s decked out bachelor pad, with its black satin sheets, modern chrome and glass features, and hot tub. He didn’t visit the other Grigori’s self-made abodes often, but he recalled those were manifested with similar taste.

  He gave no heed to the minion’s comments. “I want the clay harvested from Canada, not that cheap shit my brother slaps on the half-ass efforts he has vulgarity to call demons. You have any of that?” Azazel blamed that second grade grub for the reason so many of their recently-crafted minions on Earth rarely lasted more than a few years.

  “Yes, of course, sir. I’ll fetch a bit o’it immediately.”

  Shortly, the mound of mud began to take shape under the influence of his pushes and pulls. Every inch, meticulously honed and smoothed, must be perfect. This demon was going to harbor a whole heap of fate on his shoulders, and the body must be appropriate to the task.

  Never would Azazel have anticipated that his artistic natures would flourish in, of all places, damnation. When he’d been of the Light, Big Boss had called on him specifically to help spark inspiration for several creatures. Of course, he was quickly taken off duty when his designs didn’t exactly meet with the Creator’s vision. Was it his fault he couldn’t come up with something as bland as the ox or the muskrat as had his brothers? Seriously, the platypus and monk fish demonstrated how leaps and bounds above the others he was.

  Still, the task before him curbed his imagination’s scope. Azazel knew he had to be pragmatic on this. He needed to create a task-driven demon, and the task he would be driven to wouldn’t allow for such vagrant peculiarities as a duckbill or ram horns.

  Meaningless minutes ticked away in bulk. Hours later, Azazel looked down at his creation and grinned, pride and accomplishment making him one hell of a cocky bastard. He should have a photo prepared and diagramed for textbook documentation. Marc’s new body was a perfectly-rendered tool for inspiring sin. Azazel’s eye traced over the contours of his muscled biceps, the flat expanse of his clay abdomen, the exceptional girth and prominence of the part of this body that rendered it unquestioningly male.

  Domuskin examined the disanimus with equal parts of confusion and awe. “Sir, are not demons still enabled the ability to glamour, or has that privilege been suspended?”

  “You don’t care for my design?” Azazel’s voice held no contempt. Unlike some other of his pay grade, disagreement did not equal criticism in his book.

  “Just different from them ones Lord Lucifer readies, is all. Not really what one thinks of when he thinks demon, now is it?”

  A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I know this doesn’t conform to my brother’s usual formata. Luc thinks the body should represent the spirit it holds; in the case of a demon, that means ugliness, deformity, rot. But I think the human form is already the epitome of evil incarnate. Big Boss did good work on him the first time. All I’ve done is enhance a few unfortunate consequences of human genetics and make his body a little more … efficient.”

  Domuskin pointed to the high noon the clay man sported. “I don’t think that’s what all them bleedin’ Darwinist were talking about when they came up with the term homo erectus.”

  “Necessary tool for the job before him is all, Domuskin.” Azazel had been certain to make sure Marc’s hammer was sufficient to hit one out of the park. Not that that should be a general issue, as demon flesh and demon magic were finely tuned to facilitate the physical, but would this body do the trick for the intended victim? That was the question.

  “Let’s do it then.” With a grunt, the fallen angel rapped his hands over the edges of the cooled kettle. The dark blue liquid, slinking across the clay chest, trailed a line of moisture from the Adam’s apple, over the deltoids, into the crevice between the scrotum and the thigh, and lower over the hips. Slowly, the blue grayed out, until its color matched that of the clay. Then the glistening pools dulled as the clay absorbed the liquid, bonding the soul into the dust from whence its ancestor first was drawn.

  Azazel extended his hand to push his fingertips into the demon’s chest. Closing his own eyes and reaching into that place in his soul that once funneled the goodness and light, Azazel tapped to the regretfully familiar dark expanse of hellfire and used it to fleck the spark. The energy charged his frame from tip to toe, sent his self-conjured hair pointing toward the sky, before obeying his command and bridging into the connection he held with Marc.

  Beneath his fingers, the molded form of earth and water he had crafted shivered. The toes and fingers were the first things to move, then his newly sired demon’s head began a slow semi-circle as its eyes flickered open. The demon awakening sent waves through the newly animated body, and when Marc began to moan and then gasp as his senses became engorged with pleasure, Azazel felt in tangent the aura of bliss.

  Over the next few minutes, the awakening began to ebb and the demon’s self-awareness came online. When the brown orbs finally found him, Azazel drew back his hands and planted his fists on his hips, a grin fueled by pride smacked across his face.

  “He’s perfect,” the fallen angel declared.

  Barely had his boastful laugh rumbled from his chest when his progeny leapt to its feet and circled hands, made powerful by Hell, around Azazel’s neck. With all the might the muscles could muster, Marc squeezed, the glare in his eyes rivaling the tension in his biceps.

  Azazel bore the assault without injury. Instead, he threw back his head, easily breaking Marc’s grasp, and crowed, further bolstered in his own self-assurance. Pushing the rampaging demon in submission on the floor, he laughed in his delight. “Fucking, bloody perfect.”

  Chapter 26

  “No, you can’t make me! I won’t betray her. I won’t – ow!”

  The basement floor, cold and clammy, slapped Jerry’s backside into consciousness. Writhing amidst sweat-drenched sheets, his legs flailed, his arms anchored to the ground, trying to stabilize his perspective. He could see his own breath materialize in the sliver of moonlight that sneaked in through the ventilation window. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness and his surroundings reacquainted
themselves, Jerry settled himself, realizing it had been a dream.

  Or more appropriately, a nightmare. Another nightmare.

  It wasn’t like Jerry hadn’t suffered through bad dreams before. It just had been a while. Like, thousands of years. Back when he’d been the Keystone, nightmares were par for the course. Being tapped with magic made your mind prone to pick up certain heretofore invisible signals. The yin to the yang of awesome power was a life spent as an insomniac.

  But even remembering those horrible visions from his first go-round as a human, this one had seemed different. It wasn’t the usual seeing something hideous through someone else’s eyes. It was reliving Hell in the flesh, feeling the heat of the fires tickle the hair on his arms, feeling encompassing, disabling rage and the desire to kill, feeling both empowered, and completely powerless. Feeling … demonic.

  Jerry rose to his feet and made his way to the bathroom. Just a flashback, he told himself as he flicked on the light. It’s just the way human minds work. What did that yahoo on NPR call it? Oh, yeah! ‘Post-traumatic stress disorder.’ Don’t mean a thing but that I’m human again.

  Which reminded him of something else: how much human bodies sucked. Seriously, the upkeep of this damned mortal corpus made him doubt the concept of “intelligent design”. If his stomach wasn’t growling, his nose was running. If he wasn’t dying to sleep, then he was restless from knocking back one too many. If he wasn’t thinking about sex, he was …

  Well, he didn’t know. The occasion had yet to occur.

  A demon’s earthly body was barely a step above a zombie’s in terms of the required TLC. Though, thank the goblins, demons could partake of some mortal joys that were pretty damned sweet without the fear of finding limbs and other appendages falling off mid-coitus. Sex, after all, was a demon’s pocket knife in the making-humans-damn-themselves toolbox.

  The splash of water on his face started his body into a downward shift, letting the tight and corded muscles in his neck and shoulders unwind. His back felt like it had been an extra in a Lizzie Borden reenactment. The anxiety of la vie humane he’d experienced the last few days had him wound up tighter than a Mormon’s alcohol budget. Had his own original human body been so prone to this torment, or was Marc’s recycled mass just that out of shape? It had been so long since he himself had been mortal, he couldn’t recall anymore.