by SM Reine
Raphael raised an eyebrow again. “Was it not? It seemed to test Lucifer and Beelzebub, I recall. Those two left too many Nephilim in the wombs of human women.” The healer smiled softly. “Michael, to feel conflict is to have a soul. Your guilt is a sign of goodness. Don’t worry. God still loves you, Michael.”
Michael fingered the filigrees in his armor. “Sometimes I wonder if God even exists. I know he speaks to you, Raphael. I know he speaks to Gabriel. God never talked to me.”
“God is not an old man with a long white beard, walking in sandals across the clouds, a staff in hand,” Raphael said. “He does not speak in words, but in whispers inside you. The fire in these candles, and the light in the sky, those are God’s voices that speak to us. He talks to you as much as he speaks with me. He is with you, and Heaven’s gates will always be open to you.”
Michael looked at Raphael, the sad archangel, the healer of swan wings and long brown hair, of tragic eyes. “If God speaks to you, Raphael... if you can speak back... then put in a good word for me.”
Without waiting for a response, Michael stood up, lifted his lance, and left the tent. He walked along the aqueduct, gazing at the dark sea, lance in hand, until sunrise glistened in his armor and wings.
13
Ash covered the stars, and the night was so dark, Laila could see nothing, even as her eyes blazed. The wind whistled through the trees, and as Laila walked through the forest, branches snagged her and smeared her with sap. Pine needles crunched beneath her boots, and roots and rocks tripped her. She was cold, and her cloak could not warm her. Volkfair padded beside her, his breath warm against her left hand. In her right hand, she clutched her new blade, Haloflame.
On this winter night, Michael had sent her into the woods with her blade and her wolf. “I want you to find me something there,” he had said.
“What,” she had asked, knowing his challenges all too well, “a particular twig you dropped there a year ago? Your lucky acorn? Maybe a pebble you carved your initials into back in biblical times?”
He had pointed with his sword toward the distant, forested hills. “Go and find in the darkness why you’re here. Why you really want to take over Hell. Find the reason and bring it back to me.”
“And then I’ll be ready to face the King and Queen of Hell?”
He had smiled crookedly. “Nobody is ever ready for that. But maybe, Laila, you’ll be one step closer.”
And so she walked now in the darkness, the winds creaking the pines around her, the roots tripping her, Volkfair at her side. She cursed under her breath, kicking aside acorns and rocks. What kind of stupid task was this? She didn’t have to go into the forest for this answer. Laila knew why she wanted to take over Hell.
“Because if Michael takes over Earth, Heaven’s godlight will burn me,” she spoke to Volkfair. “If Beelzebub wins, the hellfire would burn me. If I take over Hell, I can extinguish the fire, make it a home. It’s how I can survive. What other answer does Michael want?”
Volkfair was silent, padding beside her. The black wolf rubbed against her and licked her paw. She smiled despite herself and ruffled his fur. “You’re just a big puppy, aren’t you, Volkfair?” she asked him. Feral and ruthless was the wolf around angels and demons, but alone with her, he was just her shaggy pet. She leaned down and hugged him.
“That Michael is nuts,” she whispered into his fur. “He doesn’t understand me. Only you understand me, Volkfair.”
As the wolf licked her face, she sighed. After weeks of Michael’s training, her muscles ached, she was more tired than she’d ever been, and her stomach seemed to cling to her back with hunger. She had never been so thin and weary. For weeks now, she had fed on nothing but the morsels Michael tossed her way, and she missed the taste of hot, fresh blood and meat between her fangs.
Tell me why you want to take over Hell, Michael had said. That was easy. So she could make a home there. She had tried to tell him that, but he only said, “Wrong answer.”
How much longer would she have to stay in this forest?
Why, Laila? she heard Michael’s voice in her mind. Why do you want a home in Hell?
A twisting root rose ahead, triggering a memory she had thought long buried. She had tripped over this root once, twenty years ago, fleeing the farm, Eclipse’s body in her arms. Her bloody tears had wet her face then, and she felt them wet her face now. She stepped over the root and down a slope, the memory pounding through her, strong now, cold like the anguish of that day. Around a thorny thicket and three slanting pines she found it, the flat boulder she had placed there twenty years ago. “Eclipse,” she had carved into the boulder with childlike script. Her tears had stained the letters with blood the day she carved them, and now moss covered the makeshift tombstone.
Volkfair by her side, Laila knelt before the grave. Cyclamens grew around the tombstone. Eclipse would have liked that, Laila thought. He liked eating flowers.
“I thought I was a monster,” she told Volkfair, who looked at her with large eyes as if he understood. “It was difficult for me to befriend you, to have another pet. I didn’t want to endanger anyone else.”
Volkfair leaned his head against her. Often Laila thought the wolf had dog blood in him. She had found the beast wandering the desert—a burly European wolf lost in the Middle Eastern desert where his brethren were smaller, leaner, the color of sand. He too was an outcast, greater than other wolves, of mixed blood, a hunter with no pack. She had seen herself in him.
“I had to adopt you,” she said, running her hands through his fur. “I had to prove I’m not a monster.”
Laila sighed. Is that it, then? Is that what you want to hear, Michael?
Dawn was rising, and hunger grumbled in Laila’s belly. She rose to her feet. “Come, Volkfair. Let’s get something to eat.”
When she had been a child, boars and jackals were the only large mammals to wander these hills, but in recent years, goats and deer had returned here, reclaiming the habitat humans had once taken from them. It was not long before Laila found the tracks of goats. The animals moved in single file along recurring trails, leaving cloven paths. Laila followed the trail, and soon Volkfair and she sat by a fire, chunks of goat cooking atop flat stones between the embers.
Volkfair feasted upon raw meat from the carcass, but Laila waited for hers to cook, remembering that day she had met Beelzebub ten years ago, when she was seventeen. He had taught her to cook her meat, and she had fallen in love with him, because he tamed her. He denounced her feral ways, refused to see her as a wild animal, but as an unearthly being of great power, and as a girl who was frightened and lonely. It was with Beelzebub that she grew from a beast into a legend. He too showed her that she could be more than monstrous. He had loved her. More than anything, his love made Laila feel less like a beast and more like a woman.
“And now I want to kill him,” she said to Volkfair. The wolf raised his head from the goat carcass, bits of flesh dangling from his maw. “When the day comes, Volkfair... when I face Beelzebub in battle, will I be able to kill him like he killed my father?”
Laila lowered her head. Yes, Lucifer was my father. I am Satan spawn, a child of greatness. She had always known, deep in the whispers of her unconscious mind. How else could she be so strong? Why else would Heaven and Hell pursue her across the world? Lucifer, yes; he was my dad, and Beelzebub killed him.
“I’m not a freak,” she said to Volkfair. “I am descended from great blood. I might be outcast from Hell, banished from Heaven, hunted on Earth... but I am still Lucifer’s offspring.” She stared at her meal, still cooking on the fire, drying out, burning away. She was no longer hungry. “Once I rule Hell, no one will hurt me anymore. Once I rule Hell, all will know that I’m not a monster.”
So many times she had wanted to die, but now fire burned in her belly. She was done crying. She was done hiding. I am Laila, of the night. I am Laila, of godlight and of hellfire, of sins and of piety. I am Lucifer’s daughter. I am not a beast.
She tossed dirt over the fire, her meal untouched. The passion filled her belly, leaving no room for food. The dawn spreading around her, she bared her fangs and howled at the rising sun, wings unfurled. Volkfair howled with her.
“Let’s go back to Michael,” she said to the wolf. “My training is done. It’s time to invade Hell.”
+ + +
Bat El shifted in her shackles in the basement. The iron was cold and rough against her ankles, chaffing her, leaving red marks on her white skin. The shackles bound her to the wall, and the darkness was hot and thick around her. She was hungry and thirsty, and every part of her body ached.
Sometimes Bat El heard sounds from the fort above, screaming and creaking and thudding. The sounds of battle. Angels must be trying to reclaim this fort from Beelzebub. Yet whenever the sounds of battle rose, they faded quickly along with Bat El’s hope. No angels ever burst into the dungeon to free her; her only visitors were hoofed shades who brought her stale bread, water, and jeers.
“Beelzebub!” she tried calling once. “Beelzebub, I want to talk!” Yet none responded.
Since her scuffle with Zarel, Beelzebub kept her here in the fort’s dungeon, shackled. “I’m sorry,” he’d whispered into her ear as his shades first bound her to the wall. “It won’t be for long, I promise. Just until things settle down.”
Then he had left, sealing her underground in darkness. She had not seen him since.
Sitting here in the dark, chained and hungry, Bat El felt anger fill her. How could she have ever fallen for Beelzebub? She trembled when she remember how she had kissed him, how she had let him know her, how the lord of Hell became the first man to have known her. You’re a foolish, love sick girl, she admonished herself time after time. You fell to the devil’s charms like a weak-minded mortal.Of course Beelzebub did not care for her. Of course she was nothing but a hostage to him, a bargaining chip. How could she had ever thought he cared for her, loved her, even?
Yet for all her rage and despair, and there was plenty of both here in the hot darkness, she remembered his last soft words to her. “I’m sorry.” She remembered the last caress he had given her hair. And so, with her agony, lived the hope that someday he’d return to this dungeon and free her. It’s Zarel who made him chain me here, she told herself. It’s the Demon Queen who demanded I be locked underground. Beelzebub would never treat me this way if he could avoid it. He’s just trying to mollify his wife. It’s me he loves.
She hung her head. Despite it all, she still hoped for his love, and she hated herself for it.
Bat El did not know how long passed as she remained here in the darkness. She tried to count how many times the demons fed her gruel and dry bread, but soon lost count. Days passed, maybe weeks. Her hair grew knotty and ashy, and her skin itched. Her shackles chaffed her ankles, and sleep brought nightmares. Many prayers she whispered in the darkness, praying to Heaven, to God, to Michael. Yet when help finally arrived, it came from the devil.
She heard his footsteps walking downstairs that day, and knew at once that it was him. Demons walked on hooves, cackling and hissing; Beelzebub’s sandals made sounds like the song of angels to her. When he opened the door, she blinked in the light of the torch he carried, eyes stinging. Her hair covered her face, tangled.
She tried to speak, but her lips were dry. He placed the torch in a sconce in the wall and held a bottle to her lips. She drank the sweet water and tried to speak again, but words still failed her, not knowing if she hated, loved, or feared the lord of Hell.
He leaned in to touch her hair and kiss her cheek. She turned her head away. “How can you even think of kissing me,” she said in a cracked voice, tears in her eyes, “after chaining me down here?”
He spoke quietly as he unchained her. “It’s Zarel who ordered you chained in this dungeon, not I.”
She glared at him through her tears, her legs aching as she finally moved them out of the shackles. “Last I heard, it was Beelzebub, not Zarel, who was running this show.”
He helped her to her feet, and she stood shakily.
“She would have killed you if I hadn’t done it,” Beelzebub said. “She’d kill you if she knew the truth.” The torchlight danced in his black armor and dark eyes.
“And what is the truth?” she said, struggling to make her voice stern, though her throat was still parched.
“That we care for each other,” he said. “You and I. Maybe even love each other.”
She blew out her breath in frustration, tears still on her lashes. “I feel nothing toward you but hate, pity, and scorn that your wife rules you so, that you dare not defy her. I never imagined that the King of Hell would let himself be henpecked.”
He looked into her eyes, no anger in him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s all I can offer. I imprisoned you here to save you from Zarel, and my apology is all I can give.”
“So why do you unchain me now?”
He took her hand and began leading her upstairs out of the dungeon. She moved slowly, weak, her legs shaking.
“I sent Zarel south to train an army to reclaim the neighborhoods we lost in Jerusalem. She went gladly, hoping she might get a chance to kill Laila. If there’s anyone she wants to kill more than you, Bat El, it’s your half-sister.”
Bat El glared at him. “Laila will not die easily. I hope she kills Zarel.”
Beelzebub sighed. “You know what? Sometimes I do too.”
They reached the top of the stairs and entered the fort’s main hall. Afternoon light streamed through the windows and Bat El shut her eyes. I’m like Laila now, she thought. The sunlight burns me.
It was good to know that Laila still lived. Bat El had never seen much of her younger sister. When Laila had been born, Bat El was very young herself, only just blossoming into womanhood in Heaven’s meadows. She remembered holding the tiny, screaming baby with bat wings and fiery eyes. Laila’s skin had turned red in the godlight, and she had not stopped screaming until Bat El suggested bringing the child down to Earth.
Armageddon had just begun in those days, and Earth rose in flame, millions of angels and demons destroying it in war. Bat El had wanted to take Laila down to the world herself. “I need to look after her,” she said. Yet her father had refused. Gabriel had taken Laila down to Earth, where the baby’s skin healed and she finally stopped weeping. The archangel placed Laila in Raphael’s care, hoping that the great healer could cure the evil within her.
Instead, Laila escaped when she was only six, starting her long, lost exile. Standing in the fort’s hall, Bat El dared open her eyes, though the light still burned her. She looked at the wall where Michael’s portrait had once hung. The demons had removed it, but Bat El could still see the painting in her mind.
“Look after her, Michael,” she whispered. “Please, God, protect my sister.”
Beelzebub let her bathe then, and gave her fresh clothes and a hairbrush, and fed her grilled vegetables, cheeses, breads, olive oil, and wine. By evening, Bat El felt more like her old self, but worry for Laila, Michael, and the others still gnawed on her.
“Zarel converted your chamber into a guard tower,” Beelzebub said when night fell. “Come with me. Let’s get some sleep.” He led her down a hallway into a chamber that held an oak bed, a desk, and a nightstand topped with candles. Through stone windows, Bat El could see the sea.
“I think this used to be Michael’s bedroom,” Beelzebub said. “I’ve made it my own. The bed is comfortable enough for what you’d expect to find in an old fort. It’s large enough that we can share it, at least until Zarel returns.”
Bat El began to walk away. “I will not share a bed with you.”
“Wait, Bat El.” She paused and turned back to face him. “No funny stuff,” he said. “I promise.”
She shook her head. “You sleep on the floor.”
“Why should I have to sleep on the floor?”
“Then take me back to the dungeon,” she said.
Beelzebub sighed the deepest sigh Bat
El had ever seen. He began taking off his armor. “Fine. But I get the blanket, then.”
He lit a candle, and soon Bat El lay on the large oak bed. Beelzebub lay on the floor by her, covered in the blanket, his breathing deep and rhythmic. Bat El lay still, watching the candle. It had been so long since she lay in a real bed, and it felt heavenly, but she could not sleep.
“Beelzebub?” she whispered. “Are you awake?”
He did not respond, and the blanket rose and fell as he slept. Bat El shut her eyes and tried to count sheep, but the sheep became demons in her mind. An owl hooted outside, and Bat El started. She rolled onto her side and hugged herself. She was cold. Why did I let Beelzebub keep the blanket?
She stepped out of bed to close the shutters, and saw bats flying outside like tiny shades. She shivered, closed the shutters, and returned to bed, but could not sleep. Instead she found herself watching Beelzebub’s blanket rise and fall, rise and fall, like the waves outside the window.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, Bat El told herself as she crept out of the bed to lie beside Beelzebub on the floor. He seemed not to wake as she wriggled under the blanket to lie against him, her head on his chest, her limbs wrapped around him. She lay against him, warm, hating herself. She could kill him in his sleep, she knew. She could grab his sword from the wall and drive it through him. I could end this war right now.
Yet she only cuddled against him, eyes moist. She hated herself. She was weak. She was a betrayer of Heaven.
She was in love with Beelzebub.
+ + +
“It’s time to invade Hell,” Laila told Michael.
The two walked over the ruins of Jerusalem, bricks and dust and pebbles under their boots. Volkfair walked by Laila’s side, black and silent. Around them, angel troops moved about the wreckage, raising tents, digging trenches, clearing rubble. Since Zarel had destroyed the church, leveling half the neighborhood with it, Heaven had been fortifying these streets. Not much was left—only ruins and bodies—but it was enough. With Zarel fled, her demons dead, Heaven’s forces were spreading across the city, conquering street after street. Soon Jerusalem would be theirs.