Dancing on the Head of a Pin

by Kiernan Kelly

  “Nope. Wrong on all counts. You’re the demon,” Malak said, drawing his sword. The steel sang as it slid free of its sheath. “I’m one of the good guys.”

  With a dramatic whoosh, Malak’s wings sprang into view, sweeping up to their full impressive span, a gleaming expanse of white feathers.

  A collective gasp from the audience loosened Kincaid’s tongue. “What utter nonsense! You think you can come in here, before these good people, with a pair of dime-store wings and….”

  Once again he fell silent as Malak rose from the stage and gracefully circled the studio, coming to hover just out of Kincaid’s reach.

  “Do you know how I know what an angel of the Lord would or would not say? I know because I am an angel. And as an angel, I can recognize a demon on sight, even when he’s hiding in a human skin!”

  Darting in, Malak touched his sword to Kincaid’s head, darting away again just as quickly.

  Bellowing, Kincaid grabbed his head with both hands. Smoke began to drift from his scalp. His entire body trembled as he sank to his knees, spontaneously shifting into his bear shape. Roaring, he stood up on his hind legs, lips pulled back to reveal long, daggerlike yellow teeth. Two thousand pounds of muscle and fury, he charged Malak.

  In the audience, bedlam erupted. Screaming, clawing at one another in their panic, people fought to get out of the way of the rampaging demon bear.

  “Hey! You! Yogi Bear!” a new voice called from behind Balam.

  Cael hovered a dozen feet off the floor, his leathery wings beating to keep him aloft. He had his Škorpion trained on Balam, his lips curled into a predatory grin. “I recognize him now, Malak! He’s Balam, one of the worst of Lucifer’s generals! You were right!”

  Security personnel charged the stage, their bodies shifting as they ran. The Hounds of Hell, black as night, bared their venomous fangs and howled as they ran to protect their master.

  “No, Cael! He’s mine!” Malak cried, darting through the air toward him. He slipped in front of Cael, blocking his shot. “You get his lieutenants!”

  Cael turned his firepower on the charging Hell Beasts, spraying them with bullets. Blood soaked the stage as the Hounds were felled, their snarls turning to whimpers as their bodies disintegrated.

  Balam rose on his hind legs, foam dripping from his jaws as he roared his fury. One thickly muscled arm swung at Malak, his long, sharp claws reaching to strip meat from bone.

  Malak dodged the blow, feeling the rush of air as Balam’s claws narrowly missed him. Swinging his sword in a wide arc, he sliced into the juncture of Balam’s head and neck.

  An unearthly scream overpowered the sounds of the Škorpion as Malak’s sword bit deeply. Balam fell to all fours as smoke and black blood poured from the ghastly wound.

  Still screaming, Balam’s body exploded into a foul-smelling cloud of red and yellow sparks and oily black smoke. Within moments, all that remained was a charred streak on the floor of the stage.

  Malak felt his strength wane as the adrenaline surge of battle drained away. He floated to the ground, then collapsed into one of the theater seats, staring at the spot where a moment ago he had battled a general of Hell. It was hard to believe that it was Balam who’d been vanquished and not himself.

  “You okay?”

  He looked up at Cael, who stood on the stage. Splattered with the black blood of the Hounds, he looked as tired as Malak felt.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “You did good, hon.”

  “I think I’m going to throw up, Cael.”

  Cael laughed and hopped down off the stage. He leaned down, kissing Malak’s lips gently. “Good. If killing someone—even a demon bent on ending the world—didn’t make you physically sick, I would be worried about you, angel.”

  “What happens now? All those witnesses….”

  “Don’t worry about them. Eventually they’ll convince themselves that it was nothing but special effects. Even if they don’t, it doesn’t matter what they believe. It’s over. One Horsemen down, three to go.”

  “Take me home, Cael,” Malak whispered, wiping a weary hand over his face. “I want to go home.”

  “Me too. I want home, a shower, and you, in that order,” Cael said. “I think we’ve earned it.”

  BOOK THREE: THE RED HORSE

  And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword.

  —The Bible, King James Version, Rev 6:4

  Chapter Twelve

  IN HELL’S throne room, extravagance and elegance were incongruent bedfellows with the thick, choking smell of brimstone. Gilt and crystal formed a glittering, brittle veneer that veiled the fetid reality of Hell, posh superfluities mirroring the outward beauty that masked the inner ugliness of its King.

  Lucifer sat on his throne, his tapping fingers the only outward sign that he was displeased. His golden hair cascaded in a shimmering sheath about his bare shoulders. Eyes that were the same blue—and held as much warmth—as a deep shelf of Arctic ice gazed unblinkingly at the demon prostrated before him. Of course his calm exterior would not deceive anyone who knew him.

  Balam knew the real Lucifer all too well.

  “How,” Lucifer said in a deceptively smooth, calm voice, “did a pathetic excuse for a demon and an equally useless angel manage to defeat one of my generals?”

  Balam quailed before him, huddled on the floor before Lucifer’s throne. Anyone who had ever quoted the proverb “Hell hath no fury” didn’t know Lucifer. Scorned women had nothing on him. “Someone tipped them off, Sire.”

  “Someone? Which someone?”

  “I don’t know,” Balam croaked, a strong shiver twisting his spine. “But I suspect Asmodai.”

  “And I suspect,” Lucifer said, his fingernails digging into the arms of the throne, leaving gouges in the burnished mahogany, “that you were weak and careless. That you waited too long to make your move, were too arrogant. I don’t tolerate failure well, Balam.”

  “Please, Lightbearer,” Balam begged, using one of Lucifer’s preferred monikers. “Forgive me!”

  Sitting back, Lucifer smiled. It was a cold, reptilian smile, and it chilled Balam to the bottom of his black and withered heart. “Balam,” he purred, “My faithful general, when have you ever known me to forgive?”

  Soon Lucifer’s harsh laughter echoed throughout the circles of Hell, matched in volume only by Balam’s screams.

  MEPHISTOPHELES GRINNED as his fingers danced over the strings of his trademark blood-red electric guitar. Behind him, towering video screens flickered with his image. On each side of the stage enormous speakers throbbed, the volume set for just under the decibel level that would shatter a human’s eardrum.

  On stage, Mephistopheles was not merely a demon, he was a god, and he reveled—no, wallowed—in his growing infamy.

  The notes of his complicated riff spiraled up at a dizzying speed until at last he reached the end with a flourish and a fiery blast of pyrotechnics. The final note hung in the air like a solid entity, pulsing.

  In the audience, women and men alike screamed, tore at their clothing, and convulsed in an animalistic orgy of biblical proportions unseen since the days of Sodom and Gomorrah. Blood flowed. Mephistopheles’s fans were often driven to acts of extreme violence by the twisted, angry notes he played.

  He enjoyed every minute of it.

  He took a deep breath, scenting the blood on the air. The dirt of the field that had served as the venue for Mephistopheles’s concert became a solid mass of writhing bodies as his fans clawed and bit one another in their sexual frenzy. Blood flowed as freely as the booze and drugs had before and during the show.

  Mephistopheles soaked it up, all of it, the sex and the rage and the hate. His cock filled as he watched his fans literally tearing themselves apart before him. Many tried to storm the stage, only to be beaten back by Mephistopheles’s security. Han
dpicked by him for their violent propensities, his bodyguards were brutal, adding to the bloodshed.

  Unzipping his black leather pants—all he ever wore, onstage or off—he released his straining organ. Fisting himself, his foul-smelling black semen spurted to the stage in front of him, sizzling as the acidic droplets ate into the metal platform. His head flung back, tendons in his neck bulging, his howl of pleasure blended in horrific harmony with the screams of the crowd.

  Breathing hard, sweat beading on his brow, Mephistopheles tucked himself back into his pants and took leave of the stage without another thought to his fans. Most would not survive the concert, but he wasn’t concerned about them in the least. There were always more. For every one that fell tonight there would be hundreds more to take their place tomorrow.

  Mephistopheles’s music, composed in the deepest bowels of Hell, was both seductive and addictive. His fame was spreading as his songs were played in underground clubs and over the Internet, his music shared digitally. Once heard, it burrowed into the listener’s mind and heart like a parasite, feeding on the soul until there was nothing left but a gaping black hole.

  Concerts such as this one were impromptu, arranged and executed in a matter of days, publicized through chat rooms and message boards before the authorities could sniff out the location and stop them. A few spells now and then cast on unsuspecting members of local law enforcement helped. By the time the police realized what had happened, all that was left for them to do was clean up the mess and bag the bodies.

  He had to admit that this was the sweetest gig he’d ever had. Mephistopheles smiled to himself, remembering that he’d almost choked on his own bile when Lucifer had given him this assignment. The Red Horseman of the Apocalypse should be a warrior, he’d protested, not some longhaired pussy musician. But, as always, he’d obeyed. One simply did not tell Lucifer “No.” Not if one wanted to keep one’s pretty head attached to the rest of one’s body.

  Mephistopheles had to admit he’d been wrong about the musician thing. He was doing far more damage with a guitar than he had ever done with a sword. The concerts were really only gravy. His music was responsible for hundreds, if not thousands, of less impressive violent crimes across the planet every week. Best of all, plans were being finalized to broadcast his music worldwide via satellite. Every radio and television station would be preempted. Every iPod, cellular phone, and computer system would distribute his music, all at the same time.

  He grinned as he thought of the global riots and mass murders his songs would incite, especially his latest composition. It would be the last song he would ever play and the last one mankind was likely to ever hear—at least until they heard the encores in Hell. That particular song was special and dear to him. It would bring about the Apocalypse. Once the lyrics left his lips and his fingers coaxed the last note from his guitar, worldwide war would erupt. Armies would march. Buttons would be pushed. The world would end in a fiery cataclysm as he stood by and watched, the strings still thrumming on his guitar.

  He was still smiling and humming R.E.M.’s “It’s the End of the World As We Know It” under his breath as he entered his enormous bus, converted into a plush mobile home. Inside, he leaned his guitar against the wall and conjured up an ice-cold beer, one of the few human concoctions he enjoyed. Sitting in a cushy recliner, he put his feet up, sighing contentedly. The insulated walls of the bus muted the screams of the crowd outside to relaxing background noise, and he reached for the remote and flicked on the television set.

  The announcer was reporting on a bizarre event at the Right Arm of God Ministry in Georgia and the subsequent disappearance of Most Reverend Randall Kincaid. According to eyewitness reports, a bear had somehow entered the building and gone on a rampage.

  Mephistopheles snorted, nearly choking on his suds. “Balam! Why Lucifer ever chose him for a Horseman is beyond me,” he said with a chuckle, draining his beer. He flung the bottle away, conjuring another. “I told Lucifer he only needed one Horseman—me. Balam is a brainless, overconfident asshole. He was bound to fuck up.”

  “The same might be said of you. Does Faust ring a bell?”

  Mephistopheles’s ice blue eyes flicked away from the television screen. “Asmodai,” he hissed. “Shouldn’t you be in a petting zoo somewhere?”

  “Cockiness lost you Faust’s soul, and it could be the means to your end here too,” Asmodai answered, his bull and ram heads nodding in agreement.

  “You smell like a fucking barnyard,” Mephistopheles snorted, dismissing Asmodai with an imperious wave. “Besides, Faust reneged on his contract. That’s common knowledge.”

  “Really? Because the story I always heard was that he put one over on you. He jerked your chain, ’Lees. Enjoyed the high life and then flipped you the bird on his way into Paradise.”

  Mephistopheles flung his half-empty beer bottle at Asmodai. It caught and shattered on one of Asmodai’s bull head’s horns. “Get out before I send your triple-headed ass back into the Pit!”

  “You couldn’t send a telegram, never mind me. Look, I’m only here for one reason. Has Lucifer told you about Cael and Malak?”

  “Who?”

  “Shit! That’s what I thought. Lucifer is the king of arrogance, ’Lees. He won’t admit that those two could throw a serious kink into his plans, even after what they did to Balam.”

  “Balam is the worst kind of screwup. I’m not. Whoever these two are, I can take care of them,” Mephistopheles said, conjuring another beer and settling back into his recliner. “Now take a hike, beastie boy. I just gave a brilliant performance and I want to relax.”

  “Funny, that’s just what Balam said, right before they cut his black heart from his chest and sent him back to Hell.”

  “I’m not Balam. All I need to do is hit a couple of notes on Old Faithful over there,” Mephistopheles said, gesturing toward his guitar, “and I’ll have them tearing each other’s throats out.”

  “Don’t underestimate Cael and Malak. You need to make your move now, before they zone in on you, ’Lees. Don’t delay because you enjoy getting your rocks off during these concerts of yours, or you’ll find yourself playing chamber music in the ninth Circle.”

  “You’re fucking up my good mood, Asmodai. Get out!”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  As Mephistopheles roared and reached for his guitar, Asmodai disappeared.

  Mephistopheles tried to dismiss Asmodai from his mind. He had more important things to think about than the drivel of a demon that belonged in a carnival sideshow. After a few minutes, the sweet strains of mayhem from outside calmed his jangled nerves, and he returned his attention to the television screen.

  But it was no use. Asmodai was nothing if not a buzz kill. Frustrated, Mephistopheles flung his bottle at the television. It shattered the screen in a shower of amber liquid and bright, sizzling sparks, a finger of smoke curling up toward the ceiling. Small flames licked at the exposed circuitry and casing of the set.

  Throwing his head back, he bellowed, “Nybras! Attend me at once!”

  The smoke from the destroyed television that pooled along the ceiling swirled and took shape. A woman’s face, darkly beautiful, stared down at Mephistopheles with flashing almond-shaped eyes.

  “What’s the emergency?” she asked in an irritated voice. Demoness of Technology, Nybras was rather new to the ranks and prone to impertinence. “Dick caught in your zipper again, ’Lees?”

  Mephistopheles shot up from his chair, his fists balled at his sides. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m in a foul mood, Nybras. Don’t push me, or I’ll have your pretty ass back in the Pit before you can say ‘You’ve got mail,’” he sneered. “I want an update on our progress.”

  Nybras sighed, exhaling a plume of smoke that wreathed Mephistopheles’s face. “I’ve just about got the programming done. It’s a matter of waiting until the satellites are aligned so that we can bounce the signal.”

  “When will that be? I can’t afford to wa
it much longer.”

  “We’ve been over this a million times already, ’Lees. The Andromeda satellite is due to be launched within the next few days. It’s the last piece of the puzzle. Once it’s in orbit, we can transmit our signal, and your music will broadcast over the whole planet simultaneously,” Nybras replied in a bored voice, rolling her smoky eyes.

  “You’re in charge of the technology, Nybras. Can’t you do something to hurry those melon-headed humans along? I want that satellite up and functioning yesterday!”

  “Patience is a virtue.”

  “I’m a fucking demon. Virtues are not my forte. Now get out of my sight and get moving on that satellite, or I swear I’ll have a different piece of you residing in each of the nine circles.”

  Her laughter mocked him as she disappeared, leaving him alone with his impotent anger.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “HUNGRY?” CAEL asked Malak as they landed on the second-floor balcony. Both were bone weary; the last few miles had been a true test of endurance. More than once Cael had been tempted to drop to the beach, pulling Malak down with him, and burrow into the warm sand for about a month’s worth of sleep.

  The fight against Balam had taken its toll on both of them. What worried Cael was the knowledge that three more Horsemen remained, and that each would be more powerful than the last.

  Plus, with Balam they’d had the element of surprise. Cael was certain that Balam and Asmodai would both have reported to Lucifer about their interference. The next Horseman would surely have been warned about them and would be ready for them.

  Of course that would only matter if he and Malak could locate the Red Horseman before he struck, which was a little like finding one red M&M in an ocean of brown ones.

  “No, I’m too tired to eat,” Malak replied. His wings sagged as he shimmered them into invisibility. He looked as tired as Cael felt, bedraggled and splotched with Balam’s blood. The stench of Balam clung to both of them like a greasy, malodorous cloud. “All I want is a shower, Cael.”