Inside Lucifer's War

by Smith, Byron J.

  “It’s going to be one of those runs, huh?” he asks.

  “No. No. I am just working on some theories and papers, and I wanted to get your perspective.” And that’s partially true.

  “Well,” he starts, “it says a lot of things. You aren’t expecting precise verses while we run, are you?”

  “Of course not. Just some high-level thoughts,” I say, indicating that this conversation is no big deal.

  “Well, for the most part, demons are believed to be the fallen angels that chose to rebel with Satan against God. Satan, if you will, is their leader. They were determined to be guilty, cast out of heaven, and thrown down to earth, where they will live until they rise up one last time in an attempt to defeat Jesus and his angels. They will lose, of course, and be destroyed in the lake of fire. Their fate is already sealed.”

  I ignore his last statement. “So they live on earth?” I ask.

  “Yes, but they are not bound by our earthly limitations. What I mean by that is that they are not subject to the same physical laws that we are.”

  Momentarily we are running single file as some other runners pass us in the opposite direction. I catch back up to him, and he continues, somewhat huffing throughout his talking.

  “We also know that though Satan’s permanent dwelling place is on the earth, he is still allowed to visit and talk with God in heaven. The book of Job provides a good example of that. Along with some angels, Satan presents himself to the Lord. That’s a difficult one to get my hands around. It also appears that Satan still acts as some sort of chief accuser in front of God. Demons aren’t bound by physical laws, either. The Old and New Testaments are full of stories of demons possessing people and animals.”

  “Hmm,” I mutter. I think about the accuser role. When I was with Satan, he mentioned how he accuses individuals.

  Mike takes my muttering as a verbal indicator to keep going. “Some are much stronger than others. There is a verse in the book of Daniel where an angel tells Daniel that he would have answered Daniel’s prayer sooner, but he was busy fighting with a demon—the demon prince of Persia, I believe. He was stuck and couldn’t get past this demon until Michael came to help him. That kind of stuff blows my mind. That means they are still engaged in warfare. The demons are constantly trying to prevent the angels from doing what God asks, and there are some demons and angels that are stronger than others. Of course, Michael is the one that no one wants to mess with. Michael is the one that threw Satan to Earth.”

  “How do you know which ones are stronger? Do they have ranks?” I ask.

  “I don’t have a good answer for you on that, Thomas. There isn’t a single section or book in the Bible that specifically addresses angels and demons, but there are references spread throughout. It is more of a puzzle that you have to put together. The Bible does talk about some of the different classifications of angels, but I can’t recall the specifics. My guess is that it would have mirrored the society under Joshua. I can look some stuff up if it will help you.”

  Mike’s comment “if it will help you” amazes me. He often amazes me by doing stuff like that. He knows that often I am trying to discredit the one thing he holds more dearly than anything, and still he is willing to help me—to offer me assistance without any strings attached. He could easily have said, “I’m happy to get this for you, Thomas, but I would appreciate it if you at least addressed a section of your paper from a Christian point of view.” Yet he has never asked that of me.

  “No. That’s perfect. Thanks.” That is all I can tell him. Quietly and without thinking, I say, “There is evil in this world. Real evil.” I think he doesn’t hear me, and I’m a bit relieved. I’m not sure I’m prepared to talk about this.

  Then Mike quietly responds, “That’s true, Thomas, but I’ve told you that.” Then he winks at me, ”But you’re not. Otherwise, I wouldn’t invite you to dinner.”

  At that moment, a woman not more than five yards in front of us steps awkwardly and rolls her ankle. She stumbles for a moment, catches her balance, and stops. She immediately bends over, clutches it with both hands, and grimaces in pain.

  Mike and I stop and ask if she needs help. She looks up with some sad, pain-filled eyes and says, “I should be all right. I think I just twisted it.” She tries to take a step, but it is clear that she isn’t going to make it very far.

  “Where are you parked?” Mike asks. We are close to our finishing spot and near the trail to my condo. I’m selfishly concerned that she is parked far away.

  “Just over there,” she says, pointing to a spot near the park entrance. I’m relieved to know it isn’t very far. It’s much easier to drop twenty dollars for a waitress than carry someone a mile.

  “Ah, that’s not too far from where we are walking. Why don’t you put your arms around our shoulders and we’ll walk you to it,” I say, looking at her.

  She looks back and gives me a warm smile. That’s when I notice she’s attractive, and I can tell that she thinks I am as well. She is probably in her midtwenties with long, straight brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. I think it odd I didn’t notice her when we were running behind her. I usually applaud my ability to fixate on nice bodies as we run. It keeps me entertained and distracts me as well. However, I don’t recall seeing her.

  “I’m Paige,” she says, looking at me and putting her arms around the two of us.

  “Hi, I’m Thomas. And this is my friend Mike.”

  Mike gives a quick smile.

  Presently, we walk her down the trail. My shoulder is growing hot and sweaty where her hand rests. I am on her left side, so I am bearing most of her weight. The trail isn’t quite wide enough to accommodate three people, and I find myself stepping on the grass and cracked earth. Paige apologizes several times, with both Mike and I responding that it’s really not a problem. She isn’t very sweaty, which leads me to believe she hadn’t run very far when she twisted her ankle. She may have been out walking just to improve on her tan.

  We make it to the parking lot and stop at the edge, where she points to a red BMW coupe.

  “That’s mine. I think I can make it from here,” she says.

  The vehicle matches her. It is smooth and sporty. She is probably the type of person BMW had in mind when they designed this car. She tries to take a step toward it. It is an awkward step, though surprisingly cute. I grab her arm and tell her I will help her to her car. Mike waits at the edge of the parking lot as she and I move toward her car.

  “I bet your wife or girlfriend would be upset if they saw you rescuing a girl at the park,” she comments.

  “I have neither, so it’s really not an issue,” I reply.

  I help her into the driver’s seat. “Good thing it’s not a standard,” I say. Seeing that she is positioned to drive, I turn to go.

  “Wait, Tom,” she responds. “I usually don’t do this, but here’s my card. You may call me.”

  The card reads: Paige Darby. Interior Designer. Austin Design and Décor.

  I wink at her and repeat her words. “I may call you? I see. If I’m in need of interior decorating, I’ll make sure to call you.”

  I turn and walk back to Mike. He shakes his head at me.

  “I have to hand it to you, Tom. You could turn a train wreck into an opportunity to meet a woman. I’ll see you tonight?”

  “Absolutely!” I reply. “I’m looking forward to it. I’ll bring over some wine.”

  Mike gets into his car and is gone. I stand there alone. For the past fifteen minutes, I have forgotten about last night. It feels like nothing has happened. However, as I stand there, fear comes rushing back to me. I look over at my apartment and down at my wrist. The mark is still there and still tender to the touch. I have to face it. Last night, or whatever the time, was not a dream. It was real. I have been selected for a purpose. I have to deal with this reality. Whatever I believed in was gone. Yesterday will never return. Now is all I know, though I don’t understand. Tomorrow is too scary to consider.

>   CHAPTER 8

  The Fischers

  I feel a sense of relief when I drive up to the Fischers’ house. I look down at my dashboard. It is six forty-five, which is much earlier than they expect me. I’m usually the last to arrive at these types of things. Tonight, though, is different. The odd thing is that nothing odd happened at my apartment after the run. I kept expecting to be transported away at any moment or for someone or something to visit me, but nothing out of the ordinary occurred. All the same, I was happy to get out of there.

  The Fischers have a beautiful two-story Hill Country home. It has wonderful stone architecture that matches the walkway leading to the porch and front door. The porch is inviting. It’s big with wood trim and wood columns, and it has two oversized and welcoming rocking chairs. The ceiling fans over the porch are running at a slow speed. The yard, though still green, looks strained because of the drought. It’s a fairly good-sized yard, with an open space to the right of the house and patches of live oaks throughout the rest. Two bikes are propped against a tree. No doubt they belong to the twin twelve-year-old boys. The flower beds in front of the porch are well maintained.

  The sense of peace I have felt since the drive over is more present as I approach the house, but it is shattered as I step onto the front porch. I suddenly feel a chill across my neck and hear a faint whisper of my name: Thomas Fields. It’s so faint I would have thought I imagined it except for last night’s events. I look to my left, and an isolated breeze sweeps through a few flowers and bushes and then is gone. I think I hear my name whispered again in the breeze.

  I knock on the door and then open it slowly. I am anxious to get inside. The two boys are the first to greet me. One of them is holding a football and the other is trying to pry it away from him. Their scream pierces my ears.

  “Mom! It’s Dad’s friend.”

  To hear me referred to as Dad’s friend touches me. As I peek around the door, I see Theresa approaching. She wipes her hands on a dish towel and smiles.

  “Hello, my dear Mrs. Fischer,” I say, kissing her on her left cheek. I instinctively try to hand her something, and then I realize I didn’t bring the bottle of wine I had intended to bring.

  “Hello, Thomas. Mike mentioned that you were coming. What a lovely surprise. I didn’t expect you so early. You did see it was still light outside, didn’t you?” she says with a tender laugh.

  “The world famous Fischer barbecue and a lovely hostess! How could I possibly be late?” I reply. “You certainly are lovely tonight.”

  Theresa smiles. “A lesser woman might fall for such words, but I know you too well, Thomas.”

  “And who am I?” I ask quietly, so quietly she can’t hear.

  Mike comes in from the backyard carrying a beer and a Texas-sized spatula. “Come on in, Thomas. I wasn’t sure you’d make it. It’s great to see you. The men are out back. I’ll take you out there and introduce you, though you probably know most of them.” He, of course, is wrong. I don’t know any of them. In fact, I doubt I will remember their names a few seconds after being introduced again tonight. If I felt they would be of some use in my life, I would make a point to remember them. As it stands, though, they are just Mike’s neighbors to me.

  Mike gives me a hearty handshake and then goes into the kitchen. He reaches for a bottle of bourbon, which I know is for me, causing me to speak words I never thought I would utter: “I’ll just take some tea or Coke if you have it.” Tonight, I want to stay sober. So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours that I want to stay grounded tonight, and I don’t want to lose the peaceful feeling I have felt since entering their home.

  I go out back with Mike and exchange random and meaningless pleasantries with the other guests. I hover by my host’s side for a while, watching him work the ribs, sausage, and brisket on the grill. I faintly hear someone mention the game has started, and I notice the men migrating into the house. I hear some commotion and excitement, and I assume the game had an exciting start. I’m grateful the men have gone in to watch the game. I enjoy being outside with just Mike. My thoughts are elsewhere, though, and I remain relatively quiet.

  I head inside to fetch a platter for the meat, and then I see a Texas wind blow open the back door. Stacie bursts into the backyard, catching everyone’s attention, including and especially mine. Energy explodes from her. She is simply beautiful, but not in a supermodel way. Hers is a simple beauty magnified by her personality. She wears dark capris that fall just below the knees and a collared, sleeveless white shirt. Her arms are tan and muscular, and the capris accent her athletic calves. She can turn heads in the simplest outfits.

  “Hello, big brother,” she says with a wonderfully slight Texas drawl. Mike gently leans to his right, and she throws her arms around his neck and gives him a hard kiss on the cheek. She gently smiles at some of the ladies in the backyard and gives them a little wave before turning toward me.

  “Ah, if it isn’t the distinguished and charming Professor Fields,” she says as she glides toward me.

  I smile, but the only words I can find are, “Hello, Stacie.” With that, I take her outstretched hand and kiss her cheek. I touch her right arm as I give her the kiss. It is lean yet strong. She isn’t wearing perfume, but her hair smells like a little mint and flower mixed together. I silently take a deep breath of it as she pulls away. I can’t get over how she has captivated me. I’m accustomed to manipulating women, yet here I am completely out of my element, and she isn’t even trying.

  “Of course, you weren’t so distinguished and charming the last time I saw you,” she continues.

  I stare blankly at her, trying to recall our last encounter. Surely it was not something I would have forgotten.

  “Ah, he doesn’t remember,” she says, turning to her friend, whom I just now notice. “You see, Liz . . . Oh, I apologize, Liz, this is Dr. Thomas Fields. Thomas, this is my very dear friend, Liz Dunning.”

  Regaining my composure, I look a moment at Liz. “How do you do. Please, call me Tom.”

  She looks down and then back up to my eyes and smiles. My ego tells me that I could easily get this poor girl to fall for me. It might take some money and fancy engagements, but I could do it. Fortunately, she has Stacie to protect her.

  “You see, Liz,” Stacie goes on, “the last time I saw Thomas, he was making a jerk out of himself at The Oasis. Let’s just say he had a little too much ego, a little too much alcohol, and a little too much female companionship. Although I have to say, I doubt all of those women were natural.”

  It is unlike Stacie to leave an opening like that for me. Having my footing again, I say, “You know, Stacie, if I didn’t know you any better, I would swear I detected a hint of jealousy in that remark. Surely, I must be mistaken.”

  Like a well-practiced dancer, she doesn’t miss a beat. “Surely, you are,” she says as she turns back to the house, bringing Liz in tow. Her two nephews see her as they bound out of the house. They simultaneously jump on her, but she maintains her balance. She messes up their hair and tells them they are getting too big to be jumping on her.

  I try to recall the night she mentioned. The only part I can remember is seeing her there with some colleagues and her baseball friend. I’m sure that put me over the edge, and I wanted to show her exactly what she was missing. In retrospect, my guess is that she felt like she wasn’t missing anything when it came to me.

  I spend much of the evening in front of the television but not watching the game. I feign an interest to disguise what I am really watching, which is Stacie. Everything Stacie does draws me to her. The way that she flirts with some of the men, the way she joins the women in the kitchen to laugh about what men do. I love it all. Though she does a perfect job of giving me no more or less attention than the other men, I feel as though she knows she captivates me. It is probably obvious to everyone. As much as I try to disguise it, I can’t help but think that everyone knows.

  Finally, I see her alone in the kitchen, nibbling on some chips and g
uacamole. Feeling oddly nervous, I join her, grab a chip, and smile at her.

  She speaks first. “You aren’t yourself, tonight.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “You know what I mean. You’re quiet, unassuming, and up to this point, you haven’t approached me. Near as I can tell, I’m only one of two available women here tonight. You haven’t attempted to woo either of us with your charm. Very uncharacteristic of you.”

  “Don’t pretend you know me,” I say in a sharp tone, not actually knowing where my edginess comes from.

  “Fair enough,” she replies, turning to leave, obviously put off by my tone.

  Before I have time to think, I call out, “Wait . . . Stacie.”

  She turns. Her blue eyes match my stare. She is beautiful, standing there with an intense expression covering her face. Her cheekbones are strong, and her jaw muscle twinges slightly before she relaxes and gives me an opening.

  “I didn’t mean to be sharp,” I tell her.

  She says nothing, but her eyes flash a quizzical look and her head turns slightly. This is a side of me she hasn’t seen. I didn’t want her to leave.

  “I’m not sure you . . . I’m not sure anyone would understand. I’m not sure I understand,” I say, trailing off.

  She slowly walks back, kneels beneath my stare to catch my downcast eyes, and slowly rises, pulling my eyes up with her. Clutching my left arm with a gentle but firm grip, she says softly, “Look, Thomas. Let me be honest with you. I don’t trust you. I’ve known men like you. Still, you are a dear friend to Mike and Therese, which makes you a friend to me. If you need to talk, I’ll listen. If you don’t want to talk here, Mike has my number. Call me anytime you need to talk.”

  She stares a bit longer to make sure that I am going to be okay, and then she walks away. For the first time in my life, I feel love for a woman. It is a strange feeling, and it makes me nervous. I have known lust. I own lust. I can control my lust. This feeling I can’t control, and that scares me. Yet, as scary as it is, it is a feeling I hope will stay with me.