by SM Reine
“Don’t you want a fire?” came a sudden voice ahead, and Laila raised her bloody face from the goat, staring into the darkness, heart racing. She snarled and bared her fangs, her halo bursting into flame. Laila the half-demon had sharper ears than any beast in these hills, and she had heard none approach.
“Don’t be scared,” said the voice in the darkness. “I won’t hurt you.”
Laila growled, blood dripping down her fangs, and unfurled her wings. “It is you who should be frightened,” she said. “Few interrupt Laila of the night as she feasts—and live.” She rose to her feet, claws glinting.
A figure stepped out from the shadowy trees. The flames of Laila’s eyes and halo lit his black Roman armor, his black curls, his dark eyes. Great bat wings he had, and when he smiled, Laila saw fangs. A fallen angel, she knew.
“Are you really going to eat all that yourself?” the fallen angel asked, looking at the goat. “I’ll teach you how to cook a mean steak if you let me share the meat.”
Laila stared at him over the carcass, its blood staining her face and tattered cloak. She had never seen a fallen angel before, but all knew of them. Here were those ancient angels who’d rebelled against God thousands of years ago and lost. God had banished and cursed them, removing their halos and swan wings, granting them bat wings, fangs, and claws instead, marking them forever as wicked. They are like me, feral, banished from Heaven. They had created Hell and styled themselves demon lords, forging scaled shades from the hellfire, arming themselves for this war, for Armageddon. Laila felt both fear and fascination seeing such a fabled creature before her. Many whispered that her own demon father was no lesser, scaly shade but one of these great fallen angels. Perhaps this one can teach me some things beyond goat cuisine.
“I like my meat raw and bloody,” she said to him.
“It tastes better cooked. Come, I’ll build us a fire.” He opened his palms to show that he carried no weapons.
She flexed her claws. “Fires summon curious angels and demons. I prefer to live in shadows and silence.”
The fallen angel began to collect firewood. “This fallen angel found you even in the shadows, and you don’t need to fear if any other souls approach. Few can harm me, and few can harm Laila the half-breed.”
She watched silently as the fallen angel collected branches, stacked them, and lit the bonfire with a spark by snapping his fingers. The flames lit the trees and tossed a thousand shadows into a dance, like an army of demons. When the flames were lower, the fallen angel produced a grill from his backpack and cooked cuts of goat. The smell was good, and as the meat cooked, Laila’s mouth watered.
“You know my name, fallen angel,” she said, watching the fire. “Before we enjoy your amazing goat dish, tell me yours. There were a hundred and thirteen fallen angels; which one are you?”
The meat was ready. Her companion removed the grill from the fire and handed her a chop. “I don’t have a plate,” he said, “but you’re used to eating with your hands. Go on, taste it. It’s good. As for my name, I’ve had many in my life. Thousands of years ago, some would call me Baal and mistake me for a god. Others call me the Lord of the Flies, not a name I especially favor. God used to call me the Unpious, while the archangel Michael would often just refer to me as ‘my knuckleheaded kid brother’.”
Laila took the meat and bit into it. It was pink and juicy. It had been ages since she’d eaten cooked meat, not since she had escaped Mamma and Papa’s farm. The bonfire crackled, reflecting in her companion’s gilded breastplate.
“So what is the mighty Beelzebub, field commander of Hell’s army on Earth, doing wandering the Carmel mountains alone?” she asked over her meal. “Shouldn’t you be off marshalling armies and killing angels?”
She examined him closely in the shadows. It was not every day that one met such a legendary being. He was not what the stories described. In Heaven’s paintings, Beelzebub always appeared ugly and hook-nosed, groveling under the heel of this or that archangel, begging for mercy before the coupe-de-grace from angel lances. In Hell’s lore, Beelzebub was always portrayed as wrathful, wreathed in flame, ten feet tall and terrible. While the fallen angel before her impressed in his own way, with his tall frame, strong jaw, and exquisite armor, he was anything but beastly or monstrous. He looks more like one of those movie stars in old human posters, Laila thought. A guy you’d want to have a beer with, not a demon overlord who’s after your soul.
When he smiled, Laila realized she had been staring, and she returned her gaze to the fire, feigning nonchalance.
“I do marshal armies and kill angels on most nights,” he said and passed her a bottle. “Try this pinot, it’s good. You know what they say about pinot, don’t you? ‘God made cabernet while the devil made pinot.’ Truth is we from Hell taught humans how to make both; before us, all they drank was fresh spring water. Horrible, isn’t it?” When Laila had sipped, he took the bottle back and drank himself. “Now where was I? Oh yes, we were discussing the purpose of my excursion into these woods. Truth is, Laila... I came here to find you.”
She finished her meat and tossed the bone aside. They had not touched most of the carcass, but Laila knew the jackals, crows, and bugs would consume the rest. “I came to this forest to avoid Hell and Heaven,” she said, wiping her lips with the back of her palm.
Beelzebub gazed around at the trees. “A fine home it is, I don’t deny it. But don’t you want more? Walls around you, fine meals, real clothes? You are of Hell’s stock. I came to offer you a home with us, an education, a place to belong.”
Staring at Beelzebub, Laila indeed felt a moment of envy. The fallen angel wore fine armor, fine leather sandals, and his hair was combed and neatly cropped. She herself wore a tattered cloak, a rope for a belt, and her hair was a great knot of leaves and twigs. Blood and dirt smeared her, and while Beelzebub sported a fine golden ring for jewelry, she wore a string of boar tusks around her neck. What would it be like to live in splendor, with fine clothes, fine wine, fine company? Yes, for a moment Laila was tempted, but the moment vanished. Hell was not for her. She was half-angel, and hellfire would burn her, and demons would drool over her as over a good meal.
“I belong in this forest,” she said. “I need no more.”
“I’m sure you don’t need more, but you must want it. Won’t you let me help you, Laila? You are well known in Hell, and we want to care for you.”
Laila rose to her feet. Her boots, clunky leather things she had stolen years ago, seemed so tattered compared to Beelzebub’s fine sandals. “When I was a girl, angels tried to raise me, to tame me. They could not bring me to Heaven. When they once did, the godlight boiled my demon blood, burned my skin, and nearly killed me. So they raised me in the trenches of Earth, and tutored me, tried to make me wear dresses and read scripture. I ran from them early, and have been living alone since. I have no wish to be tutored again.”
Beelzebub blew out his breath. “I assure you, our camp is nothing like that. Among the demons of Hell, there is just good booze, and song, and merriment.” He leaned over the bonfire, the flames painting his face red. “And we can train you, Laila. Train you to discover the great strength of your blood, to become a warrior of legend. Don’t you want to learn such power?”
She turned and began to walk away. “Goodbye, Beelzebub.” Who needed him? She had enough of other people. Wherever she went, she was the odd one out, the freak. Wherever she went, she ended up hurting those she loved. Her back turned to Beelzebub, she remembered her dog Eclipse and bit her lip to curb her tears. She did not deserve civilization. Here in the forests she could hurt no one, but live wild and bloody and dirty, the only way a half-breed could live. To humans she was a monster. To demons she was angelic, and to angels she was demonic. I don’t need them. I’m a lone wolf, and that’s fine with me.
Beelzebub spoke behind her in the shadows, voice soft. “Do you ever feel scared at night?”
She paused. Something about his soft voice made a tear escape her
eye. She felt it flow down her cheek, and she tasted it against her mouth, bloody.
He kept speaking, voice still soft. “I know what it’s like, Laila. To live banished. In exile. Cursed and monstrous and hunted. I too was exiled from Heaven, demonic. You are not alone, Laila.” She heard him step toward her. “You no longer have to fear the dark, lonely night when your tears fall, when your loneliness and despair creep out of shadows to claim you.”
She turned to face him, fangs bared, face bloody with tears. “You know nothing!” she hissed, stretching out her wings.
He took another step toward her, eyes like lanterns. “I know that you hide here. That you run. I know that you hurt, that you are confused, not knowing who you are, what you’ll do with your power, or once Hell wins this war. Laila, I knew your mother. We were friends long before the rebellion against God. We became enemies—she was an angel, I a demon—but I want to help her offspring, for the sake of the friendship we once had. I want to help you, Laila, because I was once like you. I can help you feel less scared and confused.”
His eyes were kind, his hands opened, and Laila felt a sob escape her. She hated that she wept, that her knees trembled. She turned her head to hide her tears. “Leave me,” she said. She tried to growl, but could not, only weep.
She felt his hand in her hair. “Poor child. How old are you? Seventeen? Eighteen? A mere child, and yet you carry the weight of Heaven, Hell, and the war between them on your shoulders. All your life, the angels treated you as a monster. So did the humans. I know what that’s like, Laila.”
Without knowing how it happened, Laila found herself in his embrace, weeping against his shoulder, hating herself for it. He kissed her forehead and smiled upon her, all smooth words and soft caresses, and Laila fell for him that night. Yes, I fell for him during those dark years of my youth.
And so he taught her. He brought her to the old tower where he lived in those years, rising over the ruins of Jerusalem. He taught her about the angels of Heaven, and the demons of underground, about war, and about love. All the secret ways of kisses, caresses, and unspeakable nights did he teach her, of forbidden pleasures Heaven would never know. In his arms, she had come to love him, her mentor, her wise old lord.
Yes, I loved him then.
Lying on the forest floor, Laila blinked, gazing up at the canopy, shifting in pain, bruised. “I still love you, Beelzebub,” she whispered. “I always will.”
She shut her eyes, a bloody tear trailing down her cheek. Someday, very soon, she would have to kill him and take his throne... and Laila did not know if she could.
+ + +
As Michael flew, following Zarel’s fiery trail, he caught sight of the Demon Queen. A fireball in the sky, she fluttered several miles ahead. She saw him too, then turned to flee, heading west to Hell’s garrison at the fort.
Let her flee, Michael thought in disgust. He didn’t want to be anywhere near his demonic sister-in-law. He wanted to find Laila. Where was the girl?
A ball of smoke hung in the sky ahead, slowly dispersing in the wind. The duel between Laila and Zarel must have been fought here, though Michael could not see the half-breed. He scanned the trees below and spotted a black cloak upon the branches. Laila’s cloak.
The sight of her cloak, like a body upon the trees, sent a cold jab through Michael. Would he find Laila’s body below? Eyes narrowed, Michael descended toward the trees, lifted the cloak from the canopy, and examined it. Blood covered the cloth. Michael dropped through the canopy toward the ground and there, upon a carpet of pine needles, he found Laila.
The girl lay on her back, limbs sprawled to her sides, black hair spread around her. Her skin was pale, blood trickled from her nose and lip, and claw marks ran down her arms. Her eyes were shut. Fingers of light fell through the trees upon her, mottling her with patches of light. Damn you, if you died on me, Laila....
Michael knelt by her and placed his ear near her mouth. She breathed, and when he checked her pulse, it seemed strong. Michael blew out his breath in frustration. Laila was bashed up, bruised, and bloody, but aside from a swollen lip, a headache, and perhaps some stitches, she’d be fine.
You scared me, stupid girl.
He bound her wounds with strips from her cloak. She mumbled, shifting, blinking, struggling to wake up, still half-asleep. “Volkfair,” she mumbled. “Is that you, Volkfair?”
Michael sighed. Pea-brained, wretched little devil. He couldn’t decide what he felt more toward her: pity or anger. He nudged her with his foot.
“Get up,” he said, not bothering to mask his disgust.
Laila opened her eyes, blinked, and winced. “Ouch. I have a headache.”
Michael grunted. “You’re lucky to have a head period. Get up.”
Wincing, Laila stood up. Her knees wobbled and she rubbed her temples. She tested her wings, flapping one at a time, and winced again. “My whole body hurts. Owie.”
“That’s what happens when you attack the Queen of Hell by yourself with no backup. You should know better.”
Laila struggled to focus her gaze on him, blinking, rubbing her eyes. “I could have taken her if you hadn’t interfered.”
“Like hell,” Michael said. His own wounds still hurt, and he wanted nothing more than a long bath and a good sleep, but he was not done with Laila. Somebody needed to beat some sense into her; if Zarel’s blows hadn’t done that, perhaps his words could. “You faced Zarel once before, and she nearly killed you. You should have known better than to face her alone. She is the Queen of Hell, a thousand years old. You’re twenty-seven and stupid to boot.”
Laila’s halo of fire ignited, and her eyes blazed, some of their strength returning. Her cheeks flushed. When you were Laila, a legend in Heaven and Hell, you weren’t used to people calling you stupid. “To hell with this.” Laila spat and turned to leave, cursing. “Damn it, if I’m so pathetic and weak, why the hell did you pursue me all my life? Since I was a girl, you and your brother have been chasing me, trying to get me to join you, telling tall tales of how I’m some super warrior. And now you tell me I’m weak?”
“I didn’t say weak,” Michael said. “I said young. And stupid. And inexperienced.”
“Gee, thanks, mister.” She started to walk away, pine needles crunching under her boots. “I quit, jerk. I’m out of here. Goodbye.”
He grabbed her arm, digging his fingers into her. “Where will you go, Laila?” he said, holding her fast as she twisted. “Back to living in the forest like a stray dog? Wandering the desert like a hermit? Moaning and weeping until Heaven or Hell takes over Earth and fills it with godlight or hellfire, either one of which would kill you? What happened to your plan of taking over Hell and extinguishing the hellfire?”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“Zarel gave you a few bumps on the head, and you decide to give up and run away? You abandon all your plans, leave Zarel to rule in Hell, leave your sister imprisoned?”
She tugged her arm, but could not free herself from his grasp, and her eyes blazed. “Back off, man. You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve been through, okay?” Bloody tears ran down her cheeks.
He still would not let her go, refusing to pity her; pity did no good to Laila of the night. “Do you still want to kill Zarel?” he said. “Do you still want a home in Hell?”
“I thought I was too stupid and inexperienced to kill Zarel. You said so just a minute ago.”
He stared at her. A tear of blood flowed along her lip and entered her mouth. “Too inexperienced now, yes. But I’ll train you.”
She glowered. “I don’t need training. I know how to fight.”
“By firing an Uzi? Please. Any common human infantryman learned how to fire a gun at his first week in basic training. Did your bullets do Zarel any harm? Did your grenades so much as dent her scales? We’re talking about the Queen of Hell here, and you’re using weapons designed for killing humans. And when you do scratch your claws, you’re slow, and clumsy, slashing like you’re tr
ying to carve up meat rather than harm an archdemon.”
She snickered. “And you, the mighty warrior Michael, will teach me?”
“I, the mighty warrior Michael, the archangel, the Lord of God’s Hosts, will teach you to fight. Not with guns, not with grenades, but with heavenly blades of light, and with speed, and with cunning. You’re strong, Laila. You have the strength of a great archangel or archdemon. You are stronger than Zarel, than me, maybe even stronger than Beelzebub. But you lack training. I will train you.” He tightened his grip on her arm, leaning forward. “And after I train you, Laila... then, the next time you meet Zarel, she will fear you.”
She yanked herself free at last and glared up at him. “I did defeat Angor, you know.”
“And nearly died in the doing, if I recall correctly. And Zarel is more powerful than Angor tenfold, and Beelzebub is stronger than Zarel. And you hope to usurp them?”
She gave him her best glare, eyes like lanterns. “And you think you can teach me new tricks.” Her voice was half dismissive, but Michael heard the undertone of interest.
“I’ve been a soldier for thousands of years, Laila. You learned how to fight by hunting boars in the hills.”
“I’m not using a sword.”
Michael turned and started walking away, the pine needles crunching under his feet.
“Fine, fine!” she called after him. “Sheesh. But at least don’t give me a sword with swan wings etched into it or something. I want a black blade, with a skull on the pommel, or maybe devil horns. Please just not some heavenly weapon.”
Michael suppressed the small smile that curled his lips, then turned back and stared at her. “Get your rest tonight, Laila. Meet me at Caesarea at dawn, at the amphitheatre. We start your training then.”
12
Laila arrived late at the amphitheatre. Dawn was several hours past when she fluttered down into the ancient Roman structure and found Michael standing there, arms crossed over his breastplate. Her wounds from dueling Zarel ached, and she still felt weak and battered.