Sinners & Sorcerers: Four Urban Fantasy Thrillers

by SM Reine

  “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 leathery 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 most 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.

  “I love you,” he said.

  She ignored him, turning her head aside, eyes shut. “You say she might change the tide. If she returned to join Michael, she might help him win this city. If you won’t let me kill her for my own vengeance and hatred, let me kill her for that reason, to make sure she never joins Heaven.”

  Beelzebub shook his head. “Zarel, my love, my life. You are wise and strong, maybe wiser than I am. But you don’t know Laila. She d
id not return to this city to join my brother. She did not return to pursue my love.” Beelzebub, the fallen angel, the new Lord of Hell, smiled sadly. “Laila returned to Jerusalem because she is lonely.”

  + + +

  Dust fluttered across cobblestones in the night, murmuring, the only sound to disturb the silence.

  Nights were so silent these years. Black. Empty.

  Like my own heart, Laila thought, walking through the darkness, her cloak wrapped around her. Black and empty, filled with naught but the whispers of dust.

  Alley walls surrounded her like catacombs. Jerusalem was more graveyard than city these days. Her feet were silent upon the cobblestones, and Volkfair trailed behind her, a shadow. Laila held her Uzi like a child holding a doll, seeking comfort from the cold, oiled metal. She kept no bullet in the chamber, but knew she could load and fire fast. She had learned that many nights in these alleys. I’ve been away for long, but I still remember some things.

  Volkfair growled softly, as if hearing her thoughts. So often, the wolf seemed to read her mind. Laila patted him.

  “Yes, dear Volkfair, I know,” she whispered. “I know you can lunge forward and kill any alley demon as quickly as I can get a shot off.”

  The wolf looked up at her, yellow eyes glinting. The beast weighed twice as much as she, and was longer than she was tall, but still she thought of him as her baby. She knew that Volkfair, in turn, thought of her as a mistress of infinite power and wisdom; there were none in Heaven or Hell with as much loyalty as Volkfair, Laila thought. She knelt and kissed his black fur like midnight, and he licked her cheek.

  “Sweet Volkfair,” she whispered into his ears, lowering her head, that old anguish creeping into her throat. She hated that anguish, hated the fear that forever coiled within her, hated the tears that fell in darkest, loneliest nights. So many of those tears had fallen into Volkfair’s fur, and so many had he licked from her cheeks. “You are all I have, my friend,” she whispered, embracing him. “You are all I need.”

  Volkfair nuzzled against her, making soft sounds of affection.

  “Do you think it’s true, Volkfair?” she whispered. “Was my angel sister speaking truth?”

  He looked at her, eyes large, and Laila leaned her cheek against her wolf’s shoulder. Angels, she knew, could be as deceitful and conniving as any demon, if it served their purpose. They would lie, swindle, or kill whoever got in their way when they wanted something—even the pure, beautiful Bat El. She, Laila, Lucifer’s daughter? Laila ran her claws through Volkfair’s fur.

  “Beelzebub would have told me,” she whispered to the wolf. “He was Lucifer’s first lieutenant and knew all that Lucifer knew. He would have known if it were true. He would have told me.”

  And yet her words did little to convince herself. She knew Beelzebub. He had wanted her love, her kisses, her innocence, her dependence on him. He would have hidden this if he’d thought it could give her strength, give her a reason to leave his comforting embraces, his power.

  “Dear Volkfair, could it be true?”

  When she had pretended to know, sipping her drink nonchalantly, Bat El had seemed taken aback. It had taken all of Laila’s strength to keep her face blank and emotionless, to keep sipping her spirits. Yes, Bat El had been shocked, genuinely so. True or false, Bat El believed it, believed that Lucifer himself had raped their mother.

  Laila looked up to the sky, pure black, ash hiding the moon and stars. She had always known her father must have been of great power—how else could she, Laila, have been born with such malice, such might, with claws and fangs that could tear most demons and angels apart? Yes, Laila had always known great demon blood flowed through her, twisting and burning against her angel blood, filling her veins with fire.

  Her demon blood, mixed with her angel blood, set her innards aflame, igniting terrible power within her, making her greater than most demons and angels would ever be. That this constant war within her blood tore at her soul and mind, few seemed to care. All they want is my power. Nobody knows the Laila who weeps at night, who runs, who wanders the world. They want Laila the spy. Laila the soldier. They want a Laila that I cannot, will not be.

  Shoving down the anguish into her belly, Laila straightened. It would not do to sink into despair in this alley, not as angels and demons lived behind shuttered windows and in sewers, not as the hosts of Heaven and Hell still hunted her. Are you growing weak, Laila? she asked herself, tightening her grip on her Uzi. Five years ago, you would never let down your guard. That is how you survive, Laila. Never let down your guard.

  “Let’s go, Volkfair,” she whispered. “We’re almost there.”

  As she continued walking down the alley, she lowered her head. For ten years had she been fleeing the brothers—Michael of Heaven, Beelzebub of Hell, opposites but each horrible to her. She had returned to Jerusalem only to find more booze, more forgetting, to find numbness in the shade of pubs, surrounded by other souls who drank to forget. She had returned because in the deserts and forests, she had found only anguish, only coldness and pain. I returned only to escape. And now she was seeking the Lord of Hell himself, seeking Beelzebub, the one who had stolen her heart all those years ago.

  But she had to know. She had to. And Beelzebub would have the answers.

  For a long time she walked between crumbling walls, toppled buildings, and structures that still stood, their windows boarded shut, survivors huddling inside. Past abandoned market squares and smashed statues, she climbed a hill overlooking the Ancient City. A church loomed above, its soaring walls blackened with brimstone. Its belfry glowed red, scratching the ashy night sky. Cold wind rustled Laila’s frayed, dusty cloak. She would find Beelzebub here. She trudged up the hill, moving through twisting streets, heading toward this church of Hell.

  Demons scuttled in the shadows around her, hissing, eyes glinting. Laila could not see them, but she heard them sniff and scratch their claws against the cobblestones. Thousands filled the shadows, the windows, the rooftops, snorting and cackling. Laila bared her fangs and with a hiss, a halo of fire ignited around her brow, as ever when danger lurked.

  “Angel blood,” rose the demon hisses, over and over like a mantra, high pitched, a thousand demons whispering. “We smell angel blood, yes comrades, the stench of angel blood enters these streets.”

  Volkfair growled, bristled, and showed his fangs. Laila spun to see a shadow lunging her way.

  Volkfair leapt, grabbed the demon, and shook his head, sending scales flying to all sides. From the rooftops, three more demons came swooping down, shards of black in the night.

  Laila fired her Uzi. The demons swooped toward her on leathery wings. The shots rang out, lighting the night. Blood flew, and the demons crashed against the alley walls, riddled with bullets. Their shrieks shattered the buildings’ cracked windows, scattering shards of glass. A thousand other demon eyes lit the darkness. Lightning rent the sky, lighting the scaly forms of countless demons upon the rooftops, hunched like gargoyles.

  “Still your wings!” Laila cried. “Move and I’ll have your blood, demons. I do not tire of killing your kind.” Those demons she had shot lay on the ground, bleeding. Volkfair was moving between them, snapping their necks.

  The demons’ hissing rose like waves, covering the rooftops. Their fangs and claws glistened like a field of glass shards, and smoke rose from their nostrils.

  “An angel speaks with demon tongue,” rose the screeches. “A half-breed enters our realm, brothers and sisters, yes indeed. Laila has come! Laila the half-angel.” Their tongues lolled and their eyes dripped lava. “All hail Laila, hail the half-breed!” Their cackling mocked her.

  Laila stared around at the thousands of demons who covered the roofs. She wondered how many she could kill if they swooped toward her. She would kill many, but even she could not defeat an entire army of demons.

  “Take me to Beelzebub,” she demanded, Volkfair at her side, demon blood dripping from his maw. “I seek your lord.”

 
A thundering voice came from a roof to her left, a voice like an echo, a voice which sent the lesser demons cowering.

  “You found him.”

  Laila turned and stared, eyes narrowed. She could see only a dark shadow, like a great man, standing by a chimney above. Crouching, Laila aimed her Uzi at the burly, shadowy demon on the rooftops. This figure had no hooves, horns, or scales; shaped as a man he was, with great bat wings. A fallen angel, Laila knew.

  “If you are Beelzebub,” she called, “show yourself, and do not hide in the shadows.”

  As the fallen angel stared down toward her, Laila grabbed a grenade with her left hand, keeping her right hand on the Uzi. A machine gun could take out the lesser demons—the shades, those spawn of Hell coated with scales and horns. The fallen angels, banished from Heaven during Lucifer’s rebellion, were tougher and smarter. These demon lords could take a lot of bullets, Laila knew, so she always kept a few grenades strapped to her belt. A grenade could confuse them, even hurt them enough to let her use her claws and fangs.

  She had killed fallen angels twice before—one in Bethlehem six years ago, and one in the Valley of Hinnom last winter. To kill the first took seven magazines of bullets, five grenades, and a duel of claws that lasted all night. The second fallen angel had made the first battle seem easy. They are tough kills, Laila thought, hand on her grenade. But I can still take one on.

  “As you wish, Laila, daughter of Hell,” came the echoing voice from above. The great demon outstretched his wings, swooped down into the alley, and landed before her. He stood, clad in old Roman armor, black and gold, an ancient being of dark beauty.

  “Beelzebub,” she whispered.

  The old trembles took her heart, and the memories pounded through her, old sweet memories of his kisses, his strong hands on her body, his vows of love. The grief and memories were suddenly so great, Laila struggled to curb her tears. She had been seventeen, scared, innocent; he was millennia old, endlessly wise and strong, whispering in her ears promises he could never keep. Yes, she had fallen for him then, thought that he could save her from the turmoil within her. But that was a decade ago, in a different time, before he took over Hell. We were both different then.