Dancing on the Head of a Pin

by Kiernan Kelly

  “That’s all you want?” Cael asked. He was weary but not that exhausted. As far as Cael was concerned, he could arm himself with only a toothpick, fight every demon in Hell twice, and still not be too tired for sex with Malak.

  After nearly three thousand years of wanting, the luxury of being able to enjoy Malak’s body was too new to him, too precious to be passed over simply because he wanted a nap.

  Malak gave him a sideways glance. Despite his fatigue, there was a spark of interest flickering in the dark depths of Malak’s eyes. “That depends. Can we do two things at once?” he asked, his full lips tilting in a mischievous, if weary, smile.

  “Eating in the shower is not pleasant,” Cael teased, dumping his guns and ammo on the floor of the bedroom. “There’s nothing more disgusting than wet, mushy tuna fish sandwiches.”

  “The only thing I’m interesting in eating is located between your thighs, Cael,” Malak said, leaning in for a kiss. “And I don’t think that particular part of your anatomy will ever get mushy.”

  “Well, not with my horny little angel around, it won’t.” Cael laughed, helping Malak shed his blood-splattered chain mail, letting it clatter to the floor along with the rest of their clothing. “We’re going to have to burn this stuff, you know,” he said, wrinkling his nose at the reeking pile that lay at their feet. Loath to touch any of the garments again, he kicked the pile out of the door onto the balcony.

  “Hey! Watch my armor! That’s irreplaceable, you know!” Malak protested as his chain mail came to a stop outside.

  “Haven’t you ever heard of Kevlar? Sheesh, Malak, forget it for now.” Cael shook his head. “The shower is calling.”

  Naked, he led Malak directly into the bathroom and twisted the controls until the water steamed. Pulling Malak inside the shower stall with him, Cael leaned his forehead against Malak’s and sighed in near ecstasy as the hot water sluiced away the blood and grime of battle, easing the ache in his sore muscles.

  Malak moved to grab the washrag, but Cael was faster. He snatched it off the shower bar, along with the soap. “Stand still.” He grinned, urging Malak to turn to face into the streaming water. Damn, even my fucking cheeks are sore. His head felt like it weighed a ton, his neck straining to keep it from tilting over to the side. But Cael’s other head—the one whose only thoughts were of the lustful variety—was full of energy and raring to go.

  As usual, Cael’s small head silenced any protests that might be rolling around in his big one.

  He picked up the bar of soap from the small fish-shaped dish that sat on the side of the tub and worked up a rich, foamy lather. Sandalwood scented the steam of the shower into aromatic clouds that cut through and finally erased the stench of death that clung to both of them.

  Working slowly, Cael slid the soapy rag over the smooth skin of Malak’s back, rinsing away the filth. He could feel the muscles begin to relax under the hot spray of water as he worked the rag over Malak’s body.

  Malak was incredible, Cael thought, strong and capable, his movements as graceful as they’d been deadly. Even though he hadn’t had much experience in warfare, Cael’s angel had proved to be a helluva warrior.

  Now that he could love, Cael found he had an ever-replenishing supply. Opening up his heart, he let love flow over Malak with every touch of the rag against that beautiful skin, every brush of his lips across Malak’s neck and shoulders.

  After three thousand years of admiring Malak’s body from afar, he knew every inch of it. He knew the graceful curve of Malak’s spine, the full swell of his buttocks, the way the strong muscles of his thighs moved under his skin. But now he was also beginning to know the way Malak felt, how warm his skin was, how silky sleek under his fingers, and the way Malak sounded when Cael touched him, the way his chest rumbled with an angelic purr.

  But more than any of that, Cael knew what it felt like to be loved, to feel a wave of warmth wash over him, calming, soothing, making him want to submerge himself until he drowned in it.

  That was Malak’s greatest gift to Cael.

  Malak could inspire emotions in Cael that he’d never known he could possess—even with a soul. Love, compassion, and most of all, hope. When he was in Malak’s arms, Cael could almost forget that he was a fallen angel. In Malak’s arms, Cael could remember what it was like before the Fall, before the Pits, before Hell had ripped away his dignity and replaced it with a pulsing core of pain.

  “Malak? Want you, baby. Want you so badly that it hurts,” he whispered against the skin of Malak’s shoulder. He slipped his arms around Malak’s waist, rubbing his hard length along the crease of Malak’s ass. So sweet, that ass, so tempting, and all his, he thought, possessiveness making him growl. Mine.

  Malak twisted in his arms, facing him, wrapping his arms around his neck. “So, what are you waiting for?” he grinned.

  Ooh, his tempting, teasing little angel, pressing that cock against Cael’s, two iron-hard swords ready to duel. Cael could swear he could almost hear them clang as they touched. With soapy hands, he gripped them both together, stroking them in tandem.

  Malak’s throaty moan did more to excite Cael than Cael’s hand on their cocks. It heated him to the boiling point, until his lust bubbled over, hips pumping, hand fisting them both wildly.

  He couldn’t hold it back, didn’t want to, as his orgasm exploded in a tendon-straining, eye-rolling release. His knees went weak with the force of it, and he caved instantly, falling to the floor of the slippery porcelain tub.

  Malak’s cock was full, fat, and ready. He could tell by the look on Malak’s face and the tremors that rippled Malak’s flat stomach. Without pausing, as his own body still quivered, Cael took Malak into his mouth, refusing to a let a single drop of Malak’s ambrosia be wasted in the swirling water.

  Malak’s taste was potent, salty-bitter on his tongue, but that cry of ecstasy was sweeter than any music in Cael’s ears. He drank Malak dry, ignoring the beat of the shower on his head and face. His Malak. His. Mine.

  He barely had the strength to catch Malak as he too collapsed, legs finally giving out. Together they sat in the tub, letting the shower wash away the last of the grime and the stickiness of their lovemaking, until at last the water ran cold.

  They made their way into the bedroom. Falling onto bed, their arms and legs entwined around each other, wet and dripping, and the warmth of each other’s love lulled them to sleep.

  “DAMN IT, Cael! How many times do I have to tell you to quit downloading porn onto the computer! Honestly, I don’t understand this fixation you have with naked bodies. They don’t look any different than us. If you’ve seen one dick, you’ve seen them all!”

  Cael chuckled, his handsome face bathed in the pale light given off by the screen. “It’s not what they look like—trust me, sweetheart, none of them can compare with you—it’s what they do. I’m a visual sort of guy, that’s all. Nothing to get jealous over, cupcake.”

  “Sweetheart, cupcake… don’t think your little pet names are gonna soften me up, Cael.”

  “God, I hope not. I like you hard,” he replied. He licked his full lips, sending a shiver dancing down Malak’s spine.

  “You know what I mean, Cael!” Malak growled. Or at least he tried to growl; it came out as more of a moan. Damn it, but Cael could reduce him to a quivering pile of need with just a look, even when Malak was in the throes of righteous anger.

  “I know. But come on, Malak… look at them. All sweaty and groaning, flesh smacking flesh… besides, they give me ideas.”

  “Ideas?”

  “Yeah, ideas of what I’d like to try with you,” Cael said. His grin was absolutely lecherous.

  Malak’s body’s reaction to it was positively salacious. His erection pressed against the thin sweats he wore, outlined clearly under the fabric. When he felt Cael’s gaze drift to his crotch, it twitched hungrily. Malak’s body was simply traitorous where Cael was concerned, refusing to obey and behave itself.

  “Please,” Malak squeaked.
He cleared his throat, then tried again. “Please. There’s nothing you can see on there that we haven’t already done a half-dozen times.”

  “Oh really? Looky here.” Cael laughed, pointing at the screen.

  Against his better judgment, Malak leaned in over Cael’s shoulder. On the screen, a man was bent over a table while another pushed an entire hand inside his body. His entire hand! Fingers, knuckles, palm… up to the wrist!

  Malak shivered, and although his mind said it was because he was appalled by the images on the computer screen, his cock said otherwise.

  “Good Lord! Doesn’t that hurt?”

  “He seems to be enjoying it. At least he’s not protesting. Nothing keeping him there either—it’s not like he’s tied down. Shit, Malak. Imagine! My whole hand inside you….”

  “Not a chance, pal. No way. Nope. Not gonna happen. Don’t even think it,” Malak said, even as he tried to remember how much lube they had left and if he was going to have to conjure more. “What’s that?” he asked. He pointed to a small rectangle that stretched across the bottom of the computer screen, where words were flashing, wanting to get his mind off the image of Cael slipping inside him up to the forearm and trying to imagine the fullness.

  “Chat room.”

  “Chat room? Oh my God, Cael! Don’t tell me you’ve been talking to humans! Do you know how dangerous that is?” Malak was horrified and, if he wanted to be perfectly truthful with himself, which he didn’t, a little jealous. Cael was his and his alone, and he wanted to selfishly keep everything about his demon to himself—even his words.

  “No, I haven’t typed anything. I’m just reading it. Gives me an interesting insight into the workings of the human mind. You wouldn’t believe what they talk about, Malak. They’re quite the little perverts, and coming from a demon, that’s saying something.”

  Malak leaned in closer, reading the conversation that flowed across the bottom of the screen. “That doesn’t seem too perverted, Cael. They’re talking about music.”

  “Must be one helluva band.” Cael chortled, slapping his knee. “Get it?”

  Malak snorted, smacking Cael on the shoulder. “That was bad, Cael, even for you. Wonder what kind of music it is?” Malak had always loved music, from the sweet strains of a harp to the sensual notes of a tenor sax.

  “There’s a link. Let’s take a look,” Cael said, clicking on the hyperlink.

  The screen went black, and then, without warning, something that was less like music and more like aural flaying blared from the speakers. Malak screamed, clapping his hands over his ears. “What is that? Oh God, Cael! Make it stop!”

  Cael tried to click off the site, but the computer refused to obey. He reached underneath the desk and ripped the cords out of the wall, the speakers falling blissfully silent.

  Malak rocked on his knees until Cael’s arms encircled him, calming him. “What the Hell was that, Cael?”

  “Hell may be exactly the right word, Malak.”

  Malak could feel the shiver that ran through Cael.

  “It made me… want to hurt you, Cael. You! The one I love more than life! How can that be? Why didn’t it affect you like that?”

  “I’ve heard this auditory shit before—in the Pits—and it was awful. I don’t know—I’m different now. Not an angel, but not a full demon either. Maybe being a demon with half a soul makes me immune.”

  “It’s horrible. I knew lyrics could be evil, but that… that was more than just some misguided, warped human’s imagination, wasn’t it?”

  “Whoever’s playing that music, Malak, whoever wrote it… I think we just found the second Horseman,” Cael whispered. He’d buried his face in Malak’s hair, his breath warm and soothing.

  “How do we track this one down?”

  “We start by you leaving the room. I’m immune—you’re not. Let me hunt around, ask a few questions in the chat rooms. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

  “All right. But you’ll call me if you feel… if it starts to get to you, right?”

  “Don’t worry about me. I may sleep with an angel, but I’ve still got my horns.” Cael grinned, letting his twin curving horns shimmer into existence.

  An hour and a half later, Cael stumbled downstairs into the living room and collapsed in his armchair. He looked as if he’d been run over by a bus, and said bus had backed up a few times to make sure. His eyes were haunted; his hands shook.

  “Cael?” Malak dropped to his knees in front of the chair. “Cael, are you okay?”

  “It’s awful, Malak. The Horseman goes by the name Deathmonger. His music is all over the ’net, free to whoever wants to listen. There are whispers in the chat rooms that he plans on a world broadcast—using satellites to broadcast his music. Do you know what would happen if the world at large heard his shit all at the same time?”

  “That’s how he’s going to do it, isn’t it, Cael? How he’s going to start Armageddon—through this god-awful music.”

  Cael nodded mutely. “I think I have a fix on him, though. They were talking about a concert that Deathmonger is going to hold in upstate New York. Supposedly it’s going to be in the same field where Woodstock was held—up in Bethel. They’ve built a performing arts center up there now, but I get the impression that this Deathmonger dude is going to invade it without permission.”

  “We have to stop him, Cael.”

  “I know. Shit, we’ve barely had time to get Balam’s reek off us.”

  Malak heard Cael sigh, heavy and deep, felt Cael kiss the top of his head.

  “Come on, lover,” Cael said, his voice sounding every bit as old as Malak felt at the moment. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  EVERYTHING WAS nearly in place. The local authorities had been spelled into compliance, as had the people in charge at the performing arts center in Bethel. Mephistopheles hadn’t bothered about the media. In fact he welcomed their intrusiveness—anything that helped spread the word of the concert was gravy, as far as he was concerned. The roads were already jammed with traffic as people of all ages surged toward the concert site.

  It would be a three-day bloodbath, beginning on Friday and culminating with the worldwide broadcast using the newly launched Andromeda satellite, when he, Mephistopheles, would send the earth into its final days with a performance to die for—literally.

  He was sitting in his trailer, his hands caressing the oily-feeling surface of his guitar as one of his lesser demon bodyguards knelt between his legs, sucking him off. It was his traditional preshow blowjob. It would leave the bodyguard dead, his head melted by Mephistopheles’s acid-like ejaculate, but leave Mephistopheles relaxed and ready to perform.

  Which was the important thing, really.

  As he came, his fingers plucked at the guitar strings, adding unearthly music to the gargled screams of the bodyguard as he died, Mephistopheles’s black sperm dripping from his face along with his flesh.

  Life is good. Mephistopheles was contented, standing up and stretching, kicking the dead bodyguard out of his way. And it’s about to get better. Much better. At least it was for Mephistopheles. For everyone else, it would be Hell.

  He chuckled at his own wittiness, and picked up an elegantly framed photograph he kept on the table. It was a headshot of him, and he never tired of looking at it. His hair was thick and black, a shimmering, inky curtain that flowed over his shoulders. It framed an almost too-pretty face, made a bit more dangerous looking by just the right amount of scruff. But it was Mephistopheles’s ice-blue eyes that were most captivating—at least in his own mind. The only other creature who had eyes to compare was Lucifer, and Mephistopheles privately thought his eyes were even a bit colder than the Morningstar’s.

  As a matter of fact, Mephistopheles thought his entire being, his strength, his talent overshadowed Lucifer’s, and that, after the End of Days, he might just see about booting Lucifer’s ass off the throne it’d been parked in since the Fall.

  The times t
hey were a-changing, not only for Earth, but for Hell as well, he thought, smiling at his reflection.

  A sharp rapping at the door to his trailer shook him from his pleasant daydream.

  “Showtime, ’Lees!”

  Showtime. This was it, the performance everything else had been leading up to, the one that was going to blow them all away.

  Standing on a stage erected over the same field where once five hundred thousand human beings had gathered under the banners of love and peace, Mephistopheles would play his riffs of rage and despair, of sin and hate and violence, until the countryside was sodden with blood. Until his music was bounced into space, and from there into the ears of the rest of the planet. He wondered if anyone would stay sane long enough to appreciate the irony.

  He paused at the doorway, listening to the rolling thunder of a half million voices chanting his name. No music was sweeter, not even his own.

  The thunder rose to a deafening level when he walked onstage under the hot lights. Sweat, not from heat but from excitement, glistened on his bare chest and shoulders, beading on his forehead. His black heart pounded as he plugged in his guitar and took his place at the microphone.

  Behind him, his band members picked up their instruments, Hellish creations one and all. Nybras coalesced from the special effects smoke that crawled along the stage, ready to sing backup.

  All was ready, waiting for his signal to begin the end of all things.

  Raising his hand high in the air, a pick carved from human bone between his fingers, he waited patiently until the crowd had quieted, holding its collective breath in anticipation of the first chord.

  He brought his hand down, picking out a note that thrummed through the amplifiers like the roar of a living beast.

  And with that single note, the screams began.

  Throwing his head back, laughing, Mephistopheles began a riff, fingers dancing along the strings of his guitar.