Fuck their goddamn rules. I’m already fallen.
What more do I have to lose?
Father Cote smiles nervously as his armed guards tense and begin to fidget as if an altercation is coming.
I raise my palms to show that I’m not about to pull a weapon and force my will on them.
I’m armed but not firing.
The guards ease up a bit.
“If Lucifer were to kill or capture the four remaining archangels and Hines, the Nephilim, he could bring darkness back across the face of the world,” Father Cote argues. “None of us can abide that.”
“It’s just gonna be me,” I counter. “Just little ol’ me. What do I matter anyway? I’m fallen. I’m disgraced. I couldn’t even keep my son safe. Are you implying that I don’t have a right to fight back? Are you implying that I don’t deserve a chance to at least try to save my flesh and blood? Because if you are, I want you to say the words. I want you to say it. Say, ‘Noah’s beyond saving.’ I dare you.”
Father Cote grows anxious and uneasy. He fidgets as he touches an ornate crucifix hanging from his neck.
“I’m not trying to imply what is or isn’t your right,” he replies. “But we can’t risk losing any of you. Don’t forget that you are fallen, which makes you vulnerable. Besides, what you’re talking about is a violation of the spiritual laws that give rise to your semi-divinity. It also may very well be blasphemy. Is that the path you want to take?”
I’m not having this load of bull.
“And did you know that this church was built over the site where the Fallen Angels under Michael’s leadership attempted our invasion of Hell?” I ask.
“That’s preposterous,” he retorts.
“I was there when it happened, Father. I would know where we entered. There are only twelve sites, all carefully guarded. You never considered why the four of us stay close to this site? Ever wonder why more incursions and violations occur nearby? When we invaded, we broke the seal,” I explain. “There’s a reason that demons keep popping up and refusing to follow your rules. The entrance here is fluid. It’s not an accusation. It’s a truth.”
Father Cote steeples his hands under his chin.
“You’ve suffered greatly, Samya,” he admits. “But I can’t allow the truce to be put at risk.”
“There isn’t time for this,” I reply.
I don’t need his sympathy or compassionate eyes.
I just need him to help me get through the gates, so I can bring the thunder.
“You need to clear your mind,” he says.
There it is. There’s the stall and delay tactic.
I wasn’t sure when it was coming or how, but I knew better than to let my guard down. I’m ready now!
Father Cote gestures to the armed guards who draw weapons. They’re in over their heads, though.
I barely even want to have to deal with this. Do I have to? I guess I do. It’s ridiculous to have to put members of your side in their place, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
Before the guards even get their weapons halfway up, I whip pistols out in both hands. The muzzles point directly at Father Cote’s head.
The guards freeze as if put on pause.
To be honest, I’m actually kind of enjoying this.
Father Cote has always had a tone with me that I don’t deserve. It’s my impression that he thinks less of me for being Fallen.
I don’t need his approval, though. I need him to allow passage.
A long and uncomfortable silence fills the cave. Then a sweating Father Cote looks down the pistol barrels and croaks, “Y-you should be grateful, Samya. Suffering brings us closer to God.”
“If that’s true, Father, then you’re about two seconds away from sitting on the Almighty’s lap,” I sniff. “Now, show me the fucking way down through your built-up maze, or get ready to be incredibly ‘grateful.’”
Father Cote flinches.
I’ve won this round.
At the rear of the Saint Louis Cathedral, night has fallen over the mammoth stone walls that surround a camouflaged metal lift.
My well-equipped Suburban is parked on the metal lift, with me beside it, pistols still trained on Father Cote.
Father Cote presses a green button on the side of the lift, causing the inner mechanisms to begin whirring to life.
A motor engages.
After a brief pause, the lift lowers down into the ground.
Father Cote stares daggers at me.
I’d hoped he would come to his senses with less ‘push’ on my end, but everyone has a breaking point, and I’ve reached mine.
“In all likelihood, you’ll go to Hell for this,” he says.
I nod.
“That’s the idea,” I say and chuckle.
“It was a manner of speech,” Father Cote replies. “You know what I meant.”
I let his words hang there in awkward silence. Small pleasures in life are the gift that keeps on giving.
The lift drops down through layers of bedrock through a subterranean chute.
At the bottom, a blackened tunnel that’s hewn into the earth and large enough for a city bus meets us head-on.
Directly in front of the lift, a room known as the customs monitoring office, overseen by four priests, comes into view.
The priests startle when they lay eyes on me. They begin to tremble when they notice the pistols I’m holding and pointing at Father Cote’s head.
Father Cote waves the Priests back.
“Stand down,” he orders. “The blasphemer is with me.”
The priests don’t calm down, but they do remain still and refrain from interfering.
Father Cote and I filter into the entry and exit monitoring command center, which is dim inside and unlit, save for the glow from a dozen servers, countless monitors, and hi-tech surveillance equipment.
The trappings resemble a National Security Agency listening post.
In the gloom, I listen to a wall of words springing from a monitoring speaker.
An onslaught of voices in various languages and pitches stab at my ears like a million daggers.
“What the fuck is this?!?” I ask.
“Supplications of the damned in Hell,” Father Cote answers.
My eyes spin to the monitors.
On screen, I spot a green-hued, top-down, live feed with a thermal overlay that shows what looks like a rudimentary city.
Various red shapes, humanoid and sub-humanoid, filter through crude arteries amidst blighted, sagging structures.
“Is that what I think it is?” I ask with dread building up inside me.
Father Cote nods and purses his lips in anxiety.
“A deal was made with one of the last subjects we sent down. In return for cutting his sentence short he agreed to place tracking devices so that we could monitor the underworld,” Father Cote says and regards the monitors. “These monitors show the outer ring and the passageway into Hell. It goes without saying that the enemy isn’t entirely aware that we know a way in. They believe we simply shuttered the passageway off and threw away the key. I caution you to keep it a secret if at all possible.”
I take this in and wonder if I should have prepared more before diving headlong into engaging in a battle that can’t be undone once started.
Maybe there is a better way. I’m certain there’s a better way.
Someone would surely come to my aid if I were to take the time to build my case. This isn’t an option available to me right now, though.
I’m not going to put the war above my son’s safety. I’m not allowing my son to be sacrificed for the sake of rules and a truce I never agreed to personally.
“Once you go all the way in, you’re on your own,” Father Cote adds.
“So what else is new?” I snap.
Then, I pause and allow the realization that The Order has kept the crack unblocked to sink in. I wonder if the armies of Hell could use it to escape their assigned territory and invade ours.
Lucifer does have the right, under the truce, to roam above the ground, as long as he stay away from the entrance to Heaven.
He dares not, though, since he wouldn’t be able to bring his army of lost souls he’s been building along for the ride. For now, he’s better off reigning over his dominion.
I wonder what it would take for them to gain the ability to cross in droves instead of with strays.
It dawns on me that this might be the true reason they’ve taken Noah. What if his blood as Nephilim is a key in some way to grant them the ability to break through?
“At the end of the tunnel, you’ll have to utter the secret names of God. And when you get into the outer ring, you’ll want to meet with Benz. He’s the only one who can help you,” Father Cote explains.
He waits for me to nod in understanding before continuing.
“Once you get in, there may not be any way to get back, despite what you might believe about the passageway,” he says. “It’s more intricate than you imagine. I won’t stop you from trying to come back topside unless your return endangers the rest of us. Then, I will stop you at all costs. Am I making myself clear on that point?”
I answer by lowering my pistols.
“I just don’t get how it happened, Father. How’d the demons get out?” I ask. “I’ve never seen that many at once before. It shouldn’t have been possible. How’d they find me? Our identities are secret.”
The color drains from Father Cote’s face as he whispers.
“There must be someone who’s working both sides,” Father Cote concedes. “A traitor who isn’t what he or she appears to be.”
I don’t want to accept that the unsettling news could be true, but what choice do I have?
Nothing else makes sense.
I march over and enter the Suburban, rev the engine, turn on the high beams, and leave Father Cote in my wake.
11
Never Make a Deal with the Devil
The Suburban rockets through the dark underground tunnel as it spirals down into the Earth, passing through fog and mist and weird, arcing lights.
Rubber screeches along the rocky and treacherous road as the Suburban grinds to a halt in front of a titanic slab of polished stone.
Ancient runes and symbols are etched into the stone, which is bathed in a constant blue preternatural haze.
After exiting the Suburban, I place my right hand on the stone.
A slight electrical charge causes me to flinch.
I open my mouth to emit a cryptic shriek that sounds more like a melodic song than spoken words.
It’s ancient angelic speak—the secret names of God.
A beat and then a rhythmic thrumming grips the tunnel, as if the Earth is a machine that’s just started up.
The slab of stone vibrates and begins to roll to the side, revealing an opening beneath where the stone was originally positioned and large enough for me to get through.
I rocket up from the ground, jump back inside the Suburban, and drive into an opening under the stone and down a slick ramp carved into the earth.
Once I pass through, the opening slams shut behind me.
I crest a knoll that dips to a scorched patch of ground that acts as a roadway across a wasteland to the Outer Ring of Hell.
A decrepit cityscape of shattered buildings that resembles an apocalyptic war zone stretches out before me.
Countless buildings lie in ruins.
They were made of stone and marble by the first followers of Lucifer who had hoped to create a ‘second’ Heaven in his honor, not realizing he had no intention of staying here.
He wants Heaven itself.
The First Holy War devastated the landscape, creating the atmosphere of an abandoned ghost town, and it’s remained that way ever since.
This is no place for the faint of heart.
The Suburban coasts through streets that are teeming with sinners who’ve been sent down.
They’re the damned, the lost souls.
I stare down at them.
From higher up, it’s like getting an aerial shot of the masses of grief-stricken souls with looks of hopelessness.
My heart goes out to them, and I want to believe that one day there will be a chance at redemption and peace for them despite their sins.
If there’s one thing I haven’t lost it’s the message of mercy and forgiveness that I was created to protect.
I spin the steering wheel, and the Suburban takes a hard right and streaks down a side street.
It’s a battered artery that fronts a crumbling facade of debris marked by a crude upside-down cross.
I slot the Suburban behind a row of low-slung buildings and exit my ride.
Then, I shuffle down a dusky verge, staring up the sky which is filled with what looks like snow flurries.
I hold up my hand and it’s quickly coated by gray cinders.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply, the air tanged with the scent of burning wood.
Gales of laughter echo up ahead.
I move effortlessly across the large stones underfoot, taking lefts, then rights, breezing down alleys and across obscured walkways.
Eventually, I trudge out of a darkened section of the city into a new one that’s darker still.
Here, women with obscured faces prowl beyond the outer limits of the hazy light, mixing with what looks like lepers and feral animals.
In the distance I can hear people screaming in agony or ecstasy. I can’t tell which.
I’m almost ready to turn back when I stop before a large man fronting yet another building.
This structure is oddly shaped and leans uneasily to one side, as if taking a rest.
Its walls are made of heavy stone block, its roof thatched with dried willows and dotted with all sorts of strange creatures formed from molded metal.
It looks like a monument to heathen idolatry.
The man fronting the building, a colossus who looks carved from granite, stands very still, arms crossed over his chest.
I watch carefully as he collects small donations from a variety of haggard men who appear to seek shelter inside.
Some slip him tiny handfuls of precious stones, others give him wares of indeterminate value.
The big man’s thumb cocks to the right for those deemed worthy of entrance, and to the left for those forced to beat a hasty retreat back down the alley.
Realizing I have little chance of going in through the front entrance, I retreat back into the shadows and bide my time.
Presently, I catch sight of a gap between an adjacent edifice and ease my way through before circling behind the building.
At the rear of the structure are several doors, including one that’s ajar.
I pause, wondering whether the man I was looking for, an old friend named Benz, might be inside.
This is the kind of place he enjoyed frequenting when he was still alive, so I reckon it might be worth a look.
I slip through the door and my nostrils are immediately assaulted by the funk of torched copper and freshly turned dirt.
A few candles hang from the walls which allow me to see a long corridor that leads to an open space.
Shadowy figures congregate there, everyone backlit by a roaring fireplace that’s positioned between two staircases on either side that rise to a wooden catwalk.
There are rooms accessible from the catwalk. I count at least twelve of them before I stop under a heavy stone lintel.
My eyes expand when I notice a niche to my right filled with figurines made of wood and metal.
Most are representations of women without clothes, their sex exposed and exaggerated, their faces and bodies painted garish colors.
Voices echo behind me and I jump and hustle forward.
There are other men trailing me, a small, boisterous crowd.
I’m forced by the press of the crowd into the open room, which is warm from the fire and perfumed with the strange odor of honey and mildew.
Everywhere
, there are more haggard men, long past the precipice of hope.
Some are dressed in what look like ornate costumes, others are clothed in ragged and tattered smocks, several more wear little more than their nudity, and the remainder are fully in the buff.
They’re cavorting with writhing women garbed in finery, mouths pulled wide in oversized smiles.
Their faces are daubed with paint and bits of dust that glimmer in the vagueness of the room like precious jewels at the bottom of a well.
I blink, and the features of several of the women distort, their bodies transforming from lithe females to larger, more muscular creatures.
Some of them have the angular heads of serpents, and others resemble long-limbed beasts from the woods.
The men don’t seem bothered by the transformations, hooting and hollering, and caressing the monstrous women. They’ve come for this.
I slip past them and peek in a niche where one of the men is stroking the body of a tall female creature with the head of a feline-like monster.
The creature’s yellow tail darts back and forth as the man thrusts into her.
My face flushes and I retreat.
Within seconds, I’m approached by a long-necked stunner, a woman with a face that resembles a swan.
She sports a crown of laurel and myrtle.
Her laugh resonates.
She crooks her finger, points at me, and licks her lips.
I reflexively withdraw and cross the space, searching the faces of the revelers, realizing that Benz is nowhere to be seen.
I backtrack through the rear door and drift over a gravel trail, before circling back to the Suburban.
I fire it up and thread down a depression toward a shattered church, and there he is.
There’s Benz.
He’s seated on the front steps.
When he spots my approach, he stands.
He’s in his mid-forties but looks much older. Although, he does possess regal aura of refinement about him.
His physical presence is a monument to arterial sclerosis with a generous midsection, along with a jagged, Frankenstein Monster’s haircut.
He holds his hands up, and I approach my ‘tour guide’ with trepidation, even though I’ve interacted with him many times before.
DEATH SUITS HER_A Supernatural Reverse Harem Romance Adventure Page 7