by C. F. Waller
“Seems too good to be true,” he snorts, then raises his chin and glares at me. “What’s the task?”
“Right, yes, this is the tricky part,” I stammer, then plant my feet firmly on the walkway, clearing my throat. “I have to free Rhea. Gabriel’s boss doesn’t want her down here for eternity. It would seem he feels the punishment has served his purpose.”
Balthazar pauses, as if he’s waiting for me to laugh. When I don’t, he grins, tapping the pipe on his nose.
“That’s rich. The almighty casts her out, then sends her down to Earth to clean up his mess, before allowing her to suffer in a place no Angel has ever gone—.”
“One Angel has,” I interrupt, suggesting the Devil’s angelic beginnings.
“Yes, yes, but now he decides to bring her back at the final hour. How typically sentimental of him.”
“And yet, it’s an opportunity for you.”
“Rubbish,” he grumbles. “Rhea is Satan’s most prized possession. You want to know what’s standing between me and him getting bored? It’s almost certainly the fallen Angel. He loves messing with her.”
“Eternity.”
“Her presence will buy me quite a long time.”
“And yet the word implies an infinite timeline.”
“Even if I get topside, then the trumpets sound and door slams shut,” he shakes a finger at me. “I can’t go to heaven, and the clock’s ticking on the Son’s return. I’d be trading eternity for a handful of years. Crappy tribulation years at that.”
“Gabriel said everyone who helps and comes back gets a free pass, but even in that scenario, the door slams between you and the agony of endless torture.”
“Just the fact that I listened to this will get me boiled in oil.”
“How about the fact that I came down and you didn’t know,” I press, feeling the momentum swing back and forth. “What are the odds Grimlock keeps this to himself? Imagine the wrath if your boss hears about me from someone other than you?”
This is yet another thought that hadn’t occurred to him. His pipe flicks to the side, then Grimlock pops into full view a few yards down the walkway. He’s mid-conversation, but shakes off the confusion of being snatched away and teleported here after a moment.
“What’s the deal Balt—.”
“Hush,” Balthazar snorts, flicking his pipe and creating a gag in Grimlock’s mouth. “Allow me a moment to think.”
Slipping onto the bench running down the river, I watch the wheels turn in his head. To the left Grimlock stands frozen, chains around his legs and arms appearing from thin air when he tried to walk closer.
“Rhea has to get topside?” he asks. “Not just free, but up?”
“Yes, he also inferred they’d prefer her not be on fire.”
“Even if I let her out of the cage, which is what I assume you need,” he offers, sitting down next to me. “She’s wingless. Rhea cannot leave Hell and the Almighty can’t reach down and take her by force. She’s got no dead body topside or a soul for Jennifer to manipulate. What did he give you to solve this little dilemma?”
“Still working on that,” I admit.
“No, wait a minute. If his offer was genuine, then he had to give you something. He’s well aware of the circumstances.”
“Like what?”
“You recall when my boss made the deal with you that brought her here?” he asks. “He sent you back with hellfire. Gabriel must have made arrangements?”
I shrug.
“Then this is a waste of my time. The task is impossible, because she can never leave. I am afraid the great Gabriel is just having a little fun with you. It’s probably not even the End-of-Days. Maybe he decided to send you to Hell early, for laughs maybe.”
I ponder this, trying to determine if what Balthazar is suggesting can be true. Lord knows Angels have lied to me before. After a moment he stands, chuckling quietly, but a thought comes to me.
“He didn’t send just me. One of the others isn’t a dammed soul,” I argue, thinking of Annie. “They would never send one of their faithful servants to burn for eternity just to prank me.”
“Interesting, how many did he send? Anyone else I might know?”
“Edward Grey.”
“Oh wonderful,” he nods. “I warned him to be nicer to me. Anyone else?”
“Just the faithful servant, a girl named Annie.”
“Well, well, so it’s a fair notion that Gabriel sent something to take care of the little wing problem,” he asserts, using air quotes on the word wing. “Now, the question remains as to my inclination to assist you or remain loyal?”
Crossing my legs, I watch him. I am tempted to speak or otherwise plead my case, but the moment seems to have passed. Any further babbling by me would be interpreted as desperation. Make your case, be clear, then sit tight and pray. Although pray seems like an odd word choice at present. He sits down to my right, then nods at Grimlock.
“And him?”
“Do you trust him?” I ask.
“Interesting question, but down here everyone ultimately answers to the Dark Prince,” he sighs. “A better question might be if his absence will be missed?”
“Ab-sen-ce,” Grimlock mumbles through the gag.
“Yes, my friend,” Balthazar replies, waving his pipe hurling Grimlock into the river of sludge. “I’ll gamble this debacle will be over before one low level demon is reported missing. Besides, that report will come to me.”
“Ouch,” I grimace, watching his yellow hair sink in the muck.
“Now, we need to figure out how your Angel is going to get her wings back?” Balthazar hops up. “Tell me more about your Agreement.”
Chapter Thirteen
Edward Grey
Bea dozes, her head on my chest. The candle on the bedside table has burned down to the pewter candlestick, a trail of red wax tracing a long line to a puddle on the floor. I’d not be able to see at all, were the door not so poorly fitted. Yellow light from the hall peeks from under the bottom through a gap that must be two inches. A similar situation occurs at the top, although the gap is only half as wide. I kick my left foot out from under the sheet, dangling it over the side of the bed. Bea is warm like a furnace, her considerable brown curls draped over me like a bear skin rug. And yet, there’s no place I would rather be.
“Edward old chap,” Dorian’s voice precedes three knocks on the door. “Everyone decent in there?”
I don’t reply, hoping Bea wasn’t disturbed, but she flinches, then her eyes flicker open. Three more knocks guarantee she’s wide awake.
“Go away Dorian,” I bark, given the sheet is all either of us are wearing.
“Good,” he shouts, then opens the door and strolls to the foot of the bed. “Rahnee’s back.”
“If you don’t mind,” Bea grunts, dragging the sheet up to her neck.
“I did knock.”
“A person knocks, and then waits to be invited in,” Bea growls.
“So, got it half right then,” he nods, then repeats his announcement. “Rahnee is back and she’d like to speak with Edward, if he can tear himself away from your company.”
Bea groans and buries her face in my chest. Talking to Dorian can be a frustrating endeavor. She hugs tight to me, while Dorian leers over the end of the bed.
“Get out,” she yells, pulling the sheet over her head.
“Just go,” I nod at the door. “I’ll be out presently.”
“Excellent, I’ll put some water on for tea.”
He goes, leaving the door half open behind him. Bea hugs me tight and shakes her head, choking me with her hair.
“No, no, no, you can’t go. I waited ever so long to see you.”
“I feel the same, but if either of us wants to get out of here, then I need to see what she needs.”
“Do you really think I can go with you?” she begs, sitting up and releasing me.
“My understanding is both of you can come,” I explain, pushing myself up and searching for m
y pants on the floor.
“We can leave that Peeping Tom to burn for all I care.”
“You’d miss him,” I chuckle, buttoning my pants and searching for my shirt.
She utters an exasperated huff, and then climbs out of the bed completely naked. I’m pulling on my pants, but freeze. She closes the door, then with eyes locked on me, bends over and picks up my shirt. I’m stalled, watching her as she pulls it over her head, then holds her arms out to her sides.
“How do I look?”
“Like a very good reason to stay in bed,” I mutter, finding my shoes and sitting on the edge of the bed to pull them on.
“Not good enough though,” she sighs.
When I stand, she has my vest dangling off one finger, the light from the door revealing more than her silhouette under the shirt. I take the vest, but shrug, still shirtless. I hold out my hand, nodding at the shirt.
“You’re just trying to get me naked again,” she whines, crossing her arms over her chest in a theatrical way. “You’re a beast, a masher, an insatiable monster.”
“I am a man without a shirt,” I snort, kissing her on the forehead.
“Fine, be a beast then,” she huffs, pulling the shirt over her head in one swift motion, then tossing it on top of my head. “You’ll get nowhere with me acting like that.”
By the time I clear my eyes of the shirt, she’s walking to the bathroom. She pauses in the doorway, her skin bathed in light, watching me put on the shirt and vest. Before I can reach for my jacket, she rolls her eyes and disappears. I wobble there for a moment, committing the previous moment to memory. If we don’t free the Angel, these moments will be at an end. Just remember this moment.
Everyone is sitting around the dining table. Dorian scoots his chair closer to Annie’s, but she puts her arm out straight, stopping him in his tracks. Looking undeterred, he smiles and leans back in his chair. I’m expecting a scathing remark, but Annie speaks before he can.
“I made tea,” she chirps, nodding at a steaming cup in front an empty chair. “It’s just how you like it.”
“You’re a saint,” I answer, taking a seat.
Rahnee is seated on the end of the table, leaning there with both elbows on the surface. I flinch subconsciously, having been raised to keep elbows off tables. I blow on my tea, then take a sip. Cream and sugar have been added in just the right amount.
“Rahnee has a plan,” Annie blurts excitedly.
“Excellent, let’s hear it.”
“I talked to Balthazar,” she begins. “He might—.”
“You what?” I explode. “Why would you reveal our presence to him?”
“Calm down,” Annie begs. “Just listen to her.”
Stunned, I shrug and wave for her to continue.
“He might be willing to open the cage for us.”
“Might be?”
“His participation is contingent on us being able to get her topside.”
“My understanding was that she’d be needing her wings for that?”
“Which why we need to figure that out before he will commit to our cause,” Rahnee explains.
“Can’t Balthazar just give them back?” Annie asks.
“He didn’t take them,” I frown, then point at Rahnee. “Our fearless leader burned them off with hellfire.”
“And they didn’t grow back?” Annie sighs, looking sad.
“No, but I figured out what the Bible verse means. That is to say, I may have.”
I cross my arms and nod for her to continue. Am I crabby because I was drawn out the bed or because she spoke to Balthazar without asking? She is not the only one with eternity at stake.
“Tell me the verse again,” Rahnee demands.
“I tell you the truth, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you cannot have eternal life within you. But anyone who eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life and I will raise that person on the last day,” I recite, unsure how it helps our band of misfits.
“I like that one,” Annie smiles, as she does when any Bible verse is uttered aloud.
“Rather cannibalistic,” Dorian chimes in. “Although, it does bring to mind a rather interesting theory I have about Jesus being a vampire.”
“Oh stop,” Annie groans, covering her face with both hands.
“No really,” he continues. “All this drinking his blood nonsense. He’s probably in a tomb under the Vatican waiting for an altar boy to deliver a snack.”
“Stop it,” I bark, wondering how he thinks the Almighty would let him into heaven after saying such things. “You had an idea?”
“Yeah,” Rahnee shakes off Dorian’s interruption and continues. “It reminded me of something that happened the morning I left for New York. When I got in my car there was a tiny bottle with a note.”
“In your car?” I ask. “What did it say?”
“Yes, on my dashboard. It said Drink Me.”
No one speaks, her words floating in the air around us. I am at once reminded of the Lewis Carrol novel, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. More contemporary versions of the title dropped the word Adventures, but the manuscript I read in the eighteen-hundreds had the full title. In the book, Alice was left a tiny bottle with a similar note. Upon drinking it, she physically shrunk.
“Did you?” Annie gulps.
“Yeah, I figured it was a going to a crazy day. What did I have to lose.”
“And you think it contained what?” I ask.
“Remember when I met you,” she points at me, turning her head sideways. “I had this red fluid seeping out from under my fingernails.”
I nod, it was fairly grotesque, but turned out to be very helpful.
“Balthazar and I shared a bottle of wine the night before I came back,” she reveals. “That’s probably how he snuck the hellfire inside me.”
“And you think Gabriel sent you with a secret weapon?” I ask. “You’re not leaking anything as far as I can see.”
“I’ll agree, it’s not as obvious,” she says. “But what if it was holy water or something?”
“Or the blood of the Son,” Annie gasps, then covers her mouth with her hands.
“Or, maybe it was Gabriel’s way of giving us an advantage?” Rahnee purposes.
“It’s the best we have,” I sigh, thinking it’s still a bit thin. “Do you think Balthazar will go for it?”
Rahnee shrugs.
“Trying to make a deal with the Devils’ errand boy?” Bea’s brash voice thunders. “That hardly sounds wise?”
“When is Rome,” Rahnne shrugs.
“Ah, Rome,” Dorian mutters wistfully. “I miss the bathhouse parties—.”
“Hush,” Bea scowls, pointing a finger at him as she sits, wearing a long nightshirt. “So, our ultimate fate lies in the hands of Balthazar?”
“So it would seem,” I sigh.
“We should go back to bed while we still have time,” she grunts. “As soon as he learns of our location we will be overrun by his minions.”
“He already knows,” Rahnee reveals, reaching over the taking Annie by the hand and rolling her wrist over. “We don’t have any more time to mess around.”
On the bottom of Annie’s forearm the clock reads 0:38 in yellow.
“So, it would seem,” Bea frowns. “The end is nigh.”
Chapter Fourteen
Balthazar
Level Seven, The Office
I pace the waiting room frustrated that any matter could be more pressing that this. Worse even, that anyone other than me could have his ear. The room is small, maybe twenty feet square. Maybe not overly small, but with all the wide-open spaces down here, it feels that way. Orange shag carpet adorns the floor, the walls covered in tacky wood paneling. Four leather bean bag chairs lay unused on the carpet. An elevator door on one wall, faces a matte black iron door on the other. A cardboard box is pinned on the iron door, the word WAIT illuminated by a series of Christmas tree lights poking through the card board.
> “Maybe she was right,” I shrug, horrified to think this is my eternal future.
The lights flicker off, then yellow lights flash the word NEXT on a similar box several inches under the previous sign. A bell dings on the elevator, the doors sliding open revealing the inside to be empty. Before I can get to the steel door, it’s pulled inward, revealing Grimlock. He’s covered in sludge, possibly having been recently pulled from the river. How did he get here?
“No hard feelings,” I offer, trying to keep things civil.
“Of course not,” he grunts sarcastically as he passes.
“I’ll make it up to you.”
“Oh really?” he chuckles, putting a hand on the elevator doors to hold them. “Who says you’re going to be able to help anyone?”
“Meaning what?”
“Enter,” my boss’s voice echoes out of the inner office. “Let Grimlock go on his way.”
The demon lets go of the door and it slides shut. Before he disappears from view, I receive a toothy grin and a wink. Good lord, what did he say? Taking a deep breath, I steel myself for whatever may happen. I am after all, the right hand of the Dark Prince. I’m second in command down here. No silly demon is going to mess that up.
“Balthazar,” his voice booms again.
“Coming,” I sigh, stepping through the steel door, pulling it shut behind me.
Satan is as he has recently appeared to me, a tall lanky man in a silver suit. He changes his appearance on whims of fancy, or mortal television shows. The jacket is silk, as is the perfectly pressed white shirt. A thin blue tie hangs down, disappearing behind the buttons of the jacket. The patented leather footwear glows white, the only blemish a thin black sole that frames the bottom. His hair is blonde, pulled back in a man-bun. He appears as would any well-dressed human, if not for the short black horns protruding from his forehead and the glowing crimson eyes. He can change into any form he chooses, but these two items the Almighty forces him to wear.
“Grimlock tells me Miss Ben-Ahron has returned.”
This room is round, about the same size as the waiting room in diameter. A battered grey metal desk sits on one side, a bent black file cabinet on the wall behind it. On the wall behind the desk, a picture frame dangles from a rusty nail. An orange kitten hangs from a rope in the picture, a popular image up top. Under the kitten, the words GIVE UP, I OWN YOUR ASS are printed in red block letters.