Michael's lance slammed into his shoulder, cutting through Beelzebub's armor to pierce his flesh. Beelzebub screamed, blood filling his shirt. Damn it, forget about Bat El now, concentrate—
Michael's lance flew again, hitting the same spot, knocking Beelzebub into a spin. He tumbled through the sky, gritted his teeth, spread his wings, swung his sword. Yet he had lost his momentum, was a second behind the dance now. Michael's fist slammed into Beelzebub's face, and the fallen angel saw blinding light, and he fell from the sky.
The wind rushed around him, and he hit a cobbled street, cracking the stones. Pain burst. Michael swooped down upon him before Beelzebub could find his breath, and the lance tore into his thigh.
"Damn you, Michael!" Beelzebub screamed.
Michael placed his foot upon Beelzebub's chest, pinning him down. The wind ruffled Michael's burgundy cape and his wings spread wide. His halo and golden hair glowed. "You said we end this war today," Michael said, eyes red, moist. "So be it, brother. I never wanted to fight you. I wanted to stop you from your mad war against my lord, but you would not listen. I love you, my brother, but you leave me no choice."
As Beelzebub lay bloodied below, Michael raised his lance above Beelzebub's neck. So it ends now, Beelzebub thought. Goodbye, Bat El. I love you.
"No!" came a sob from behind. Swan wings fluttered, and the hands of an angel grabbed Michael's lance, staying his blow. Weeping, Bat El, daughter of Gabriel, half-sister of Laila, spread herself over Beelzebub, protecting him with her body.
"Please, Michael," she wept, "don't kill him. I love him."
Michael reached down to pull her away, but Bat El had given the demons time enough to arrive. Shades swarmed over Michael, covering him with claws and leathery wings. As Michael hacked at them, Bat El helped Beelzebub up, and they took flight. He held onto her as they flew, leaving the city behind for the angels. His blood flowed and he felt close to death by the time they reached the fort. His head spun, and Bat El lay him in bed, and kissed him, weeping. Darkness overcame Beelzebub, lord of Hell, and he slept.
* * * * *
Bat El lay on the bed by Beelzebub, running her hand through his dark curls as he slept. She had changed his clothes and bandaged his wounds, and fed him water and honey. Michael's lance had driven deep into his shoulder and thigh, and his lip was bloody and swollen. As he slept, Bat El watched his wounds heal, smaller by the hour. A fallen angel was he, and no wounds would slow him down for long. Soon he would be up and back to his wars. Bat El found herself wishing he could sleep as long as possible, if only for the silence in this room, the brief respite from violence.
She sighed. I might as well look into getting my swan wings replaced with bat ones, she thought. How could she have done this?
"I came down to this world full of godlight and holy conviction," she whispered to the sleeping Beelzebub. "Look what you did to me."
Will God banish her from Heaven now? Could she ever return home? More than she cared about going home, Bat El worried for her own heart, worried whether evil was consuming her goodness, whether she had any goodness left within her at all. In this war, she had taken a stand against Heaven, had defended the devil. Armageddon could have ended in that battlefield. Michael could have slain his brother and ended the war, ushering in an era of peace, bringing light and godliness to the world. Yet now... what would happen now? To Earth, to her own soul?
Is this how Laila feels? she wondered. Is this how it feels to have both Heaven and Hell warring within you? For the first time, Bat El thought she could understand her sister, and knew why Laila had fled this war for so long. The true war between Heaven and Hell had always been fought within Laila's heart, as it was now being fought within Bat El.
She stepped toward the window and looked out into the night. Through a clearing between the ash in the sky, she glimpsed a single star, soon veiled. Heaven was up there, she knew, and tears ran down Bat El's face. She missed Heaven. She missed the old days, playing with her friends with rag balls, praying in the temples, wearing white dresses and placing ribbons in her hair. Those days would never return, she knew with a chill and lowered her head. She hated that she had ever come to Earth, ever thought she could do good here. This world instilled nothing but sin within her, and if her father ever saw her again, she knew the archangel would not recognize her.
"I'm sorry, dad," she whispered. "I'm sorry, Michael. I'm sorry, God. I know I don't deserve forgiveness, and I don't ask for any. I'm just sorry."
Beelzebub's voice came from the bed, weak. "I forgive you."
She turned and looked down upon him. He still seemed pale, but slowly color was returning to him. "I never needed your forgiveness," she said to him. "I don't need forgiveness from the devil."
He smiled up at her. "And yet you love this devil. I heard you."
"I was confused. The battle scared me. That's all."
He propped himself up on his elbows, and she sat beside him and hugged him. "I love you too," he whispered into her ear, holding her.
"You say that to all the girls. I know." She pushed him back against the pillow.
He stretched his arm, then winced and lay it still. "Don't worry so much, Bat El. Don't worry about Michael, about God. Forget all that. Heaven is a bore, trust me. I lived there, I know it. Come with me to Hell. We'll have fun there, parties, drinking.... We'll make love every morning and every night, with no worries other than planning what we'll eat for dinner."
She sighed. It did not sound all that bad, she had to admit. "The hellfire would burn me."
He raised an eyebrow. "After what happened at the battle, I wouldn't worry about that. You might become a fallen angel soon too."
"I will not." She shuddered. She couldn't imagine herself without her halo, fangs and claws growing from her.
He caressed her hair and kissed her cheek. "You have nothing to worry about so long as you're with me." He lay back down, and she lay beside him. He played with her hair. "And Bat El... thank you. For what you did."
She rolled away from him, facing the wall, ignoring his fingers running along her back. "I should have let Michael kill you," she said. She didn't mean it, and Beelzebub would know. She closed her eyes, a tear running down her cheek.
Chapter Seventeen
Water drenched Limbo.
The smallest of Hell's nine circles, Limbo was still large enough to house millions of demons, a teeming metropolis of jet towers, canals of lava, and armies of shades. The last time Laila saw the place, columns of hellfire had risen from its surface, a forest of them. Today water flooded the surface of Limbo, deep enough that only the roofs of demon homes showed. Instead of ten thousand towers of hellfire, Laila saw only a few scattered bonfires, guttering. Smoke, steam, and ash filled this craggy underground world.
Soon angels filled it too. Laila and her troops swooped down from the tunnel in the ceiling of Limbo, a torrent of blades like the torrent of water they followed. Demons met them in midair, the roofs of towers distant below, peeking from the muddy floodwater.
The cavernous space above Limbo was a whirlwind of angels, demons, seraphs, archdemons, claws and feathers, fire and light. Since her first visit to Hell, Laila had never seen so many demons in one place. They flowed around her, clawing at her, biting, ripping her clothes. She swung her blade, halo alight. When I fight on Earth, I am a creature of flame and malice; here, let me be angelic. Her blade of Heaven spun so fast, it appeared as a disk of light. Since I was born, none could hold me down, none could stop me. Let the angels and the devils, in ages to come, speak of seeing Laila the half-demon fight today. Let them speak of it in awe.
The booming of demonic war drums came from every direction. The armies of Hell chanted as they fought, distorted sounds that overpowered even the clash of weapons. Laila could see nothing but endless flows of demons, like rivers of scales through the air. The sounds deafened her, and she had never seen so much light and blood.
"Don't let them ignite the fires!" she shouted. Groups of d
emons were filling jugs of tar upon the tower tops, fuel for hellfire. Laila swooped toward one tower, hacking through a sea of demons, and crashed against a sizzling pot of tar. The heat scorched her, and she screamed. The tar fell down the tower, burning away several demons, then crashed into the water with clouds of steam.
"Knock over the tar!" Laila said, shooting up into the air, then down toward another pot upon another tower. She heard a crackle like the creaking joints of a giant, and from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a column of hellfire shoot up. Angels surrounding it screamed and blistered, their wings catching flame. Fangs bared, Laila shot toward the hellfire, wings pulled close against her, flying like a bullet, leaving a wake of flame. She gritted her teeth as the hellfire burned her, spun around, and kicked the pot over. The hellfire crashed, burning over demons and angels. Laila shot up, droplets sizzling against her.
For a moment the steam and smoke parted, and Laila glimpsed the battle across Limbo. More pots of hellfire had been raised, and angels were swooping toward them, knocking them over, wings catching flame. Bodies of angels and demons fell like rain, crashing into the water. Angor was nowhere to be seen, but Laila spotted several other archdemons, just as large and mean, tearing into platoons of angels, consuming them. Her seraphs flew like balls of golden light, tearing into the archdemons, knocking over towers of jet and flame.
"Moloch!" Laila shouted. "Come out and meet me."
She saw his fortress ahead. The gates were flooded, but the towers emerged from the water, flickering with torchlight. She knew the place at once. It was there that the demons brought her at age fifteen. It was there that Moloch stared down upon her sizzling body, his pale lips snarling. The memory pounded through her. She could feel the pain of hellfire again, the claws of demons, and most vivid of all, she remembered Moloch's eyes, dead and cruel as they watched her burn.
Blade held high, dripping demon blood, Laila swooped toward the fortress. Her halo crackled, and flames rose in her wake, a trail of fire. Remember what Michael taught you. You can do this.
Moloch's fortress was close now, rising from the blackened water, carved of polished jet. Three archdemons took flight from its battlements, shooting up to meet her. They were each like a fireball, demons of claws and fangs. Each was thrice her size, staring with eyes that dripped lava. Laila's blade flew, and the head of one archdemon crashed into the water. The other two surrounded her, and Laila shot up toward the ceiling. She clutched her blade in her mouth, pulled out her handguns, and fired down, a gun in each hand. The bullets slammed into the archdemons, blinding them, and they howled. Before they could recover, Laila swooped down, blade flashing left and right, and two more archdemon heads flew, tumbling through the air before they crashed into the water.
A hundred shades mobbed Laila, but two grenades scattered them, and Laila crashed through a stained glass window of the fort, tumbling inside with shards of light, guns blazing. Her bullets knocked aside a dozen shades, and when another archdemon leapt her way, her blade cut him down. For a moment, Laila found respite from battle, and she knelt on the bloody floor, panting, covered in demon blood.
Looking around, she saw a chamber of black marble, torches in the walls. Demon chanting, fires crackling, and blades ringing rose in a cacophony outside the window, and from deeper in the fortress, Laila heard demons hissing and scuttling. With a wince, Laila examined her arm, where she had crashed into the pot of tar. Welts rose across her skin, and demon claws ran along her thigh, bleeding. She couldn't even remember when a demon had cut her; her adrenaline drowned the pain.
Still catching her breath, heart pounding, Laila reloaded her handguns, shook blood off her blade, and pulled bandages from her pockets. She bound her wounds, wiped blood off her brow, and snarled. No sooner did she rise to her feet than a dozen shades burst into the chamber. Once she had cut them down, Laila stepped out the door into the hallway, halo crackling.
"Thought you could kill Moloch without me?" came a voice behind, and Laila turned to see Nathaniel following her into the hallway. A bandage covered his brow, bloody. Demon blood dripped down his spear.
"Now how did you even get here without wings?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Two shades flew down the hallway, and Nathaniel speared them and tossed the bodies aside. "I leapt from the tunnel, fell through the sky for a while, then caught a ride on the back of some demon. When you hold a knife to a demon's throat, he'll fly you wherever you like."
Laila shook her head with a sigh. "You're crazy, aren't you?"
"I'd have to be, to come and join you. Remember what I said. I'm watching your back."
Laila gestured with her head down the hallway. "Let's go then. I hate to keep Moloch waiting."
The two moved down the hallway, Laila's guns firing, Nathaniel's spear flying. They left a trail of dead shades as they walked, their boots squelching through blood. Outside the windows, they glimpsed bodies of angels and demons raining, crashing into the water. They climbed staircases, moving higher and higher up the fortress. Endless demons flowed outside, emerging from every crack and tower, and Laila winced. I'm going to run out of angels before they run out of demons. Thousands of angel bodies floated in the water, and hundreds more rained dead as she watched. Archdemons flowed between her battalions, knocking angels aside like so many rag dolls.
For a moment, doubt—cold and painful—shot through Laila. She bit her lip. Can I really do this? Can I really take Limbo, or will this go down as the most spectacular failure in military history? The idea of conquering Limbo seemed so preposterous to her then, that she wanted to flee, to run to her forests and dunes, to hide and never more emerge from exile. Then Laila saw a statue she recognized, a jet bust of Moloch set into the wall, its eyes made of rubies, and memories pounded through her. She had been fifteen, skin red and blistering, hair aflame. The demons had carried her by this statue, and its ruby eyes seemed to mock her, and she wanted to smash it, to let it fall upon her and kill her, ending her pain. Walking up the staircase, bloody blade dripping, Laila clenched her jaw, still feeling the pain of hellfire. Moloch wanted to let me burn away. He would have too, had Beelzebub not stopped him. I'm going to kill you now, Moloch.
As she moved across the fort, the memories filled her, running through her veins like lava. She knew this place. She had seen it a million times in her nightmares. Soon she found the doorways that led to Moloch's hall, towering doorways of stone, encrusted with gems.
"He's in there," she whispered to Nathaniel. "Be careful. He's a mean one."
Nathaniel nodded, spear in hand, the bandage across his brow soaked with sweat and blood. Demon blood covered his spear and chain mail. He spat, then reached out his hand for Laila to shake. She shook it; it was rough and strong.
"Nice fighting with you, girl," the angel said. "If we don't talk again, good luck with the whole usurping Beelzebub thing."
She nodded. "Ready?"
He nodded too, and they kicked the doors open and burst into the hall of Moloch, lord of Limbo.
* * * * *
The demons were fleeing or dying over Jerusalem. With Beelzebub gone, their ranks crumbled, and the angels were retaking their positions, securing the city, healing the wounded, dragging the dead into communal graves. There was no cheering over this victory, only stern faces, tears. Some angels wept on their knees, armor splashed with blood, tears drawing lines down ashy, bloody cheeks. Crows circled over the ruins, pecking at bodies.
Michael moved through the city as a ghost, seeing nobody, eyes dead. Blood covered his armor, his wings, his hair, thick with dust. None dared approach him as he moved, and for the first time, angels saw him without his lance. He had tossed the weapon aside, the first time he had abandoned it since Lucifer raised the kingdom of Hell. Michael no longer cared for this war. He had won this battle, but to him, the war was over, and he had lost it.
When he found the body of Raphael, a handful of corporals and privates were already there, standing shocked before it, not daring
to approach. When they saw Michael, they stepped aside, saluting, eyes haunted. Michael did not bother returning the salute. He walked toward the body of his youngest brother and stood above it, gazing down.
Raphael lay in blood, his white robes now red. His hair spread out around him, and his eyes were open, glassy, sad even in death. His flask was open, and its spirits mixed with the blood. His staff was shattered, and Beelzebub's claws had torn into his neck.
"What have you done, Beelzebub?" Michael whispered, and then shouted at the sky in rage. The city trembled. He tore off his breastplate and tossed it aside, rent his tunic, and fell to his knees by his brother.
"You never wanted a part in this war," Michael said to his brother, embracing the body. "You were never a soldier, only a healer." Yet now you lie dead here, while I, the soldier, live on.
He turned to the angels who stood at the mouth of the alley, armor and hair dusty and bloody. "Get me a litter," Michael said to them, staring from under his brows. "We're going to take him out of here."
They buried Raphael that day outside the city. Michael chose a hill where several olive trees still stood, and one could see the sunset and ruins. Michael allowed no weapons at the funeral, no armor, no cannons. This would not be a military funeral. He buried his brother quickly, simply—shades mustered in these hills for new attacks—and placed a boulder upon the grave, where he carved Raphael's name.
"You always said God was in everything," he spoke over the grave, lines of angels covering the hill. "In flowers, trees, clouds above, waves in the sea. Become part of God, brother. Become part of the grass that grows here, of the breeze that rustles the trees, of the waves that whisper." He had no flowers, but he placed pebbles upon the grave, like humans in this land would do before Armageddon.
That night, Michael sat in his tent, alone with his grief. Why do they all betray us? Is God such a tyrant, and Heaven such a horror, that they leave? Once Michael had believed that goodness still remained in Beelzebub, but he had become a demon worse than Lucifer, a killer of his own blood.
Flaming Dove: A Dark Fantasy Novel Page 20