by SM Reine
With stiff fingers, Bat El pushed the hair back from her eyes. Laila is in trouble, she knew. Laila is in pain.
Bat El rose to her feet, smoothing her nightgown. She gazed out the window of her chamber, and saw a thousand demons flying in rings around the fort’s tower, a constant vigil. Bat El wished she could fly to her sister’s aid, but there was no escape from this fort. She looked past the flying demons to the sea, and the waves seemed so beautiful to her, so close yet out of reach. I used to swim in those waves in the morning, Bat El remembered, the memory bringing tears to her eyes.
If Laila hurt, that was good, Bat El told herself; it meant the half-angel was still alive. Bat El had long known that she could sense the tribulations and heartache of her sister. Whenever Laila got in a fight, the pain pounded through Bat El’s head. Whenever Laila found comfort in a mossy cave or dry burrow, Bat El slept peacefully through the night, sweet dreams comforting her.
Laila hurt this morning, but in the deepest shadows beyond her conscious mind, Bat El felt the steady pulse of the half-demon. Laila was wounded, but strong, strong in ways Bat El knew she would never fully comprehend. Laila would live.
Bat El sat down on her bed, placed her hands in her lap, and stared at her fingers. Demon blood still dirtied her fingernails. Beelzebub had left her only a small jug of water, which she had drunk, leaving no water for washing. She had tried to sneak down into the bathing chamber at night, but demons patrolled outside her window, and her door was locked.
Beelzebub will visit me soon, she knew, and she hated that, strangely, the thought comforted her. He was the lord of Hell, the demon who had imprisoned her, who slaughtered angels around her; how could she feel anything but hatred toward him? Bat El sighed. As much as it shamed her, she did look forward to his visit, perhaps because all other demons here were twisted, scaly, cruel. Beelzebub was still an angel, albeit a fallen, demonic one. He was, she hated to admit, the closest thing to a friend—or at least a fellow angel—she had in this fort.
He was also, Bat El thought as she gazed to the shades out the window, the only one in this fort who didn’t want to rip out her throat.
Sure enough, she soon heard his footsteps climbing the stairs, and he unlocked the door and stepped in. As always, he wore his old Roman armor, blackened as by fire, filigreed with gold. The breastplate, vambraces on his arms, and greaves on his shins carried the dull sheen of two thousand years of use. Instead of a helm, he wore only his dark curls. He looked so much like Michael, Bat El thought; the straight nose, the strong jaw, those ancient eyes.
“Good morning, Bat El,” he said. “How did you sleep?” He carried a basket topped with cloth, and Bat El struggled not to sigh with pleasure, the basket smelled so good. She could smell fresh bread, oranges, and omelets, and her stomach grumbled. When she noticed that Beelzebub also carried a thermos of coffee, she couldn’t help but sigh; coffee would be heavenly. She quickly composed herself, struggling to hide her hunger and thirst.
“I slept fine, thank you,” she said icily, but he caught her eyes flick again toward the basket, and he winked. Bat El cursed herself and felt her cheeks flush.
“You must be hungry,” Beelzebub said. “I know I am. I have some omelets. I made them myself, with cheese and mushrooms and green peppers. And trust me, after twenty-seven years of war, it’s tough to find cheese, mushrooms, and green peppers. I thought we might have a picnic on the beach.”
Bat El stared at the wall. Why does he want my friendship? Why is he so pleasant this morning? Whatever he wants from me, I won’t give it to him. “I’m more than content to eat here,” she said, “and mushrooms or peppers won’t be necessary. I am on Earth for duty, not pleasure. Toast and water would suffice.”
“There will be no toast and no water in this fort. Come with me to the beach. I insist. If you agree, I’ll let you have a bath later. You must be wanting a good bath, at least.”
Bat El pursed her lips. A bath would be as heavenly as coffee; the demon blood and ash still coated her skin, and her hair had never been so dirty. She knew she had come to Earth for war, and had been prepared for it, but temptation was hard to resist. She looked out the window to the beach, and a longing filled her to let the sand touch her toes, the wind touch her cheeks, to escape from this fort which had become her prison.
She walked to the window. “Let’s go,” she said, placing a foot on the windowsill. I’ll humor him today, she thought. I’ll go with him to the beach. The real reason she kept to herself. Out there, at the beach, no demons flew in vigil.
There, outside the fort, Bat El could escape.
+ + +
Standing in the chamber with his picnic basket, Beelzebub took Bat El’s hand. She tried to pull her hand back, but he held her fast, and she finally capitulated and let him hold her hand, even squeezed back. She likes that I took her hand, he thought, surprised at how good her skin felt. Zarel’s hand felt like scales and fire; Bat El’s was soft and warm.
They leapt out the window and spread their wings, holding hands. Bat El’s wings were like a swan’s, wide and white, brilliant. His wings were leathery, black, bat wings. They flew down to the beach and landed in fluffy sand. Beelzebub let go of Bat El’s hand and let her take two steps away from him. The wind blew her hair back from her face, and she stared at him with a mixture of uncertainty, hatred, and hunger. She still wants that picnic.
“Before you try to escape,” he said, “let’s have our picnic. I can see you’re hungry.”
“I’m not planning to escape you,” she said, and Beelzebub knew she was lying. After millennia in Hell, he could always tell a lie.
He removed his armor and placed it in the sand, remaining in his tunic. Bat El still wore her night gown—a flowing piece of white cotton—and no armor. He removed the blanket from the basket and placed it on the sand, then set out eggs, breads, a jar of jam, and fruit salad. He poured mugs of coffee, and they sat down to eat, the sand soft, the waves whispering. Beads of light danced on the turquoise sea.
“Ah, a romantic picnic!” he said. “What a lovely first date for us.”
Bat El wiped egg off her mouth. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here for the food, not the company.”
“Oh, sure. Play hard to get. It only encourages me, baby.”
Bat El sighed and sipped her coffee. Gradually color was returning to her cheeks, and she even struggled at passing her fingers through her hair, untangling it. “You’re not a typical overlord of Hell, are you? I never knew the devil could make a decent cup of coffee.”
“Oh, the devil makes the best coffee. Now I’m thinking that instead of omelets, I should have made deviled eggs.”
“Leave the puns to the angels. You stick to cooking.”
“Fair enough.” He sipped his own coffee. “So tell me, Bat El, what are you doing here? You’re Gabriel’s daughter. You had a cozy job up in Heaven and more nepotism than anybody but Jesus. Why come down to this hell hole?”
She spread jam on her bread. “To fight the likes of you.”
“Ouch. Now I’m insulted. I’m thinking I won’t let you have any dessert.”
She stared at the waves, bread in hand. “Lucifer was nothing like you. I never heard of Lucifer making anybody breakfast. You’re more like... well, you remind me of your brother, almost. You do look like him.”
“Aside from the swan wings, the halo, and the godlight, you mean.” He leaned over and punched her arm. “Come on, Bat El. You don’t think I’m all that bad. Admit it.”
“Maybe,” she said, not looking at him. “When you’re not locking me up in a dungeon full of demons.”
“Hey, I’ll take a ‘maybe’. That’s more than I’d get from most angels.” He lowered his voice. “And you’re not like most angels, no more than I’m like most demons.”
Finally she looked at him. She bit into her bread. “And how is that, oh mighty Beelzebub, great King of Hell? How am I unlike most angels?”
“You’re good at heart.”
&n
bsp; “All angels are good. That’s why we’re not demons.”
He nodded and bit his own bread. “That’s what they teach you in Heaven. You must have been a good student.”
“Straight A’s, wouldn’t you believe it?”
“Maybe I can teach you a few more things.” He reached over to touch her hand. “Are you willing to learn? I can teach you a lot about both Hell and Heaven.”
She leaned over with a smile, as if to kiss him. “Oh, I’m sure you can,” she said... then punched him in the face.
He blinked, pain filling him, when her wings flapped, and she flew into the air.
With a curse, Beelzebub leapt up and flew after her, wings flapping. She flew fast, shooting into the clouds above the beach. He followed, eyes narrowed, face still tingling from her punch. Bat El flew like a bullet, clouds flurrying around her, but she was not fast enough. Not as fast as a five-thousand-year-old fallen angel who happened to be the ruler of Hell. He caught her leg among the clouds, and she kicked, but he would not let go.
She screamed and struggled, punching him. He pulled her toward him, wrapping his arms around her. She fought against him, and he refused to let go. He folded his wings against him, and dived down with her in his arms, falling through clouds until they crashed into the sea.
The waves flowed over them, and for a moment they held their breath underwater. Then their heads burst onto the surface, and they took deep breaths.
“Leave me alone!” Bat El said, but Beelzebub refused to let go until she ceased struggling, going limp in his arms. “Damn you,” she whispered, tears in her eyes, and let her head fall against his shoulder. The water rose to their necks.
He looked at her, still in his arms, and his grip turned into an embrace. At a whim, he touched her hair, then kissed her forehead as she cried, and without knowing how it happened, he found himself kissing her. She kissed him back, deeply, her hands in his hair, his hands around her waist. For long moments they kissed in the water, the sun twinkling around them, rising and falling in the waves. Her lips tasted like strawberry jam, the softest lips he could remember kissing, and Beelzebub had kissed many girls in his long life.
For a moment thoughts left Beelzebub’s mind, and he could not feel the cold water, or the sunlight in his eyes, or smell the salt. All he could feel was Bat El’s body pressed against his, supple and soft, and all he could smell was her hair; it smelled like flowers despite the war, fire, and seawater she had been through. God, that feels good. She trembled against him—from fear or excitement, he did not know—and he stroked her hair. He knew without having to be told that this was her first kiss.
If Zarel finds out, she’ll kill the angel and try to kill me too, he thought. He banished her from his mind. To hell with that. All he cared about now was Bat El, her scented hair, her arms around him, her body pressed against him.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” Bat El whispered, but she leaned her head against his shoulder and kept her arms around him. “You... you used to be my sister’s lover. It’s wrong.”
“Horribly wrong,” he whispered, and kissed her again, and kissed her until they trembled in the cold water and their fingertips wrinkled up. They swam to the beach, walked along the sand, and were silent for long moments.
Michael might have won one sister to his side, Beelzebub thought as he kissed Bat El in the sand, reaching under her tunic to feel her skin raise goose bumps under his fingers. But I have won the other.
+ + +
Laila stood in the burned battlefields of Caesarea, head lowered, her cloak wrapped around her. Strands of her black hair peeked from her hood, fluttering in the cold wind. Ash roiled in the skies above her, black and red, and swirled around her boots. Smashed columns and walls littered the landscape, scattered fires burning between them, and the bones of demons and angels peeked from the ruins.
Volkfair stood beside her, and Laila put her hand on his back, running her claws gently through his fur. Patting her wolf could always soothe her, ease the pain that forever burned through her veins. Since the hive collapsed above her, her bruises and cuts had healed, but fire still burned in her, the pain of her angel and demon blood warring, sizzling. My body is healed, but there can be no healing for this torn heart.
The wind was cold, and she wrapped her wings around her. She looked at the sky and saw vultures circling below the burning ash, occasionally swooping down to pick at a demon body. The battle for Caesarea had ended, and Heaven had claimed the city, but her war was far from over, Laila knew. Her Uzi hung over her back, a familiar weight. I won’t rest until Hell is mine. That’s the only way I can find a home, find a place to belong, find some peace, some end to pain. She caressed the grenades that hung on her belt. I ran from you last time, Beelzebub, but we’ll meet again soon.
“Laila,” came a voice behind her, and she turned to see Michael walking toward her, dust coating his sandaled feet. He stared at her, eyes hard. More dust filled those angelic curls of his.
“Hello, Michael,” she said softly, staring at him from within her hood.
“I hear you are healed, that you’ve been flying, hunting, running with your wolf.” He stood before her among the ruins, ash on his cheeks. “I’m glad you’re getting stronger. If you are fully healed, I have more work for you.”
She glared at him. He could always kindle the anger within her. “I work for no one. Remember, angel?” Volkfair growled by her.
Michael put a hand on her shoulder. She tried to shrug him off, but he kept his hand there. “You have rested here long enough, Laila,” he said. “There are more enemies for you to fight. Angor was just the beginning.” He turned to walk away, still talking, not turning to see if she followed. “We’re heading north. We have a fortress to recapture.”
Laila shook her head. “Forget the fort. Beelzebub won’t let you have it.” She smiled crookedly and pulled back her hood, her halo bursting into flame. “You want the fort back? You want Bat El? We’ll grab his church, and we’ll grab his wife. Then we make a swap. Come, Michael. We go to Jerusalem.”
+ + +
Beelzebub lay in bed, unable to sleep. No matter how much he tossed and turned, he was uncomfortable. His blanket was hot, yet whenever he kicked it off, he felt cold and pulled it back on, only to feel hot again. Memories of Bat El kept floating through his mind—the way her wet body had pressed against him, the taste of her kiss, the blue of her eyes. How could one sleep this way? Finally Beelzebub stepped out of bed and lit a candle.
In the flickering light, he surveyed the chamber he had chosen for his bedroom in this fort. It must have been Michael’s bedroom once; the bed was wider than a simple soldier’s cot, and a heavy desk stood in the corner, topped with bristly papers and pens. His brother never lived anywhere without a desk, Beelzebub knew.
No paintings hung on the walls. No photos stood in frames on the bedside table. Beelzebub sighed, suddenly feeling sorry for his older brother. Michael lived for this war, nothing more; he never got married, never raised a family.
Why not? Beelzebub wondered. In the old days, Michael had known his share of women, Beelzebub remembered—both angel and human. In the old days, before the rebellion, they used to sneak down to Earth, Michael and him, Gabriel too, and make love to mortal women. When had his brother become so austere, so... dedicated?
At the thought of women and lovemaking, Beelzebub found his blood heating, and the image of Bat El filled his mind. At the memory of her soft lips on his, her wet body in his hands, his pulse quickened. He sighed. I’ll get no sleep if she doesn’t leave my mind.
Beelzebub left his chamber, carrying the candle, and wandered through the fort. A thousand years old this fort was, crumbling and dank. The angels had tried to reconstruct as much of the ruin as possible, but they could not hide the age and decay of this place. Knights had built this fort during the Crusades, a foothold in the Holy Land; what would they say now, if they saw the devil wandering its halls? The thought tickled him.
Should he visi
t Bat El’s chamber? Would she welcome him? She had been quiet on the walk home from the beach, and had refused to look at him, as if embarrassed that she had kissed him, that she had allowed him to touch her. When she did meet his eyes, just briefly as she stepped back into her chamber, they had said, I made a mistake.
Still, Beelzebub found that his feet led him past the fort’s chambers, across its hall, and toward the tower where Bat El slept. She still hated him, he knew. She would still escape in a heartbeat if given the chance. But a part of her is mine, and will remain mine. Beelzebub had known enough women to recognize the first glimmers of love. Laila, Bat El’s younger sister, had been the same.
Without meaning to, Beelzebub found himself walking up the tower toward Bat El’s chamber. If he could kiss those lips once more... lie in bed with her, teach her all the mysteries of love making.... To lie with Bat El in bed would make Earth almost bearable, he thought. He would sleep like a baby, if he could sleep beside her. It had been many years since a girl stirred his blood like Bat El. There’s just something irresistible about taking this innocent, virginal angel and showing her all the pleasures of Hell.
A smile spreading across his face, Beelzebub reached Bat El’s door, unlocked it, and stepped in.
Once inside, his smile vanished.
The window was open. The chamber was empty.
9
“How do you even know Zarel is still at the church?” Michael asked Laila as they flew toward Jerusalem, thousands of angels flapping wings behind them. “She could have joined Beelzebub in the fort.”
Laila smiled as they flew over dunes, burned hills, and ruined towns. The Holy Land was small; she could see half the country from here under the clouds, from Caesarea behind to the hills of Jerusalem ahead. Such a small land, she thought, yet for thousands of years humans fought over it, and now we creatures of Heaven and Hell destroyed the planet in our own war to claim it.