by Drew Foote
At Kalyndriel’s entry, a leathery red Imp perched atop a reception desk raised a wizened head from a ledger. He hopped into the air and fluttered toward her slowly, smiling.
Kalyndriel also noted, with little surprise, the three Fiends also sitting in the lobby.
The fearsome countenance of a Fiend was one familiar to human artists for millennia. They were the archetypal Demon of lore; tall and powerfully built, with red skin, ram’s horns, cloven hooves and massive wings. They were old and wicked Demons, the lower nobility of Hell, and they commonly served the Directorates as enforcers or middle managers. They were cruel, vicious, and dangerous … not unlike human middle management.
The Imp bowed slightly in mid-air. “You are undoubtedly Mistress Kalyndriel,” he said with an unctuous smile. “Your fellow let us know you were coming. Welcome to the embassy of Hell.”
He spread flabby red arms in an exaggerated gesture of hospitality. The Fiends grinned maliciously, sinuous tongues tracing razor-sharp teeth.
“Quite the welcome, indeed,” she replied dryly, nodding to the security detail. “As you know, I’m only here to speak with an ambassador. Your friends are unnecessary.”
The Imp gave an oily, ingratiating laugh. “My apologies, noble Angel, but your reputation preceded you along with your message. We mean no offense, but you are well known to us as a dangerous psychopath.”
Kaly’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “And the sworn word of an Avenging Angel counts for nothing?” she asked imperiously.
The Imp proffered a look of insincere regret. “Yes, well, the word of an Angel may count for less than you believe.”
Kaly said nothing. She glared at the Imp in silence, her visage icy. The radiance of her halo and wings increased in intensity, crackling with menace. The Imp flapped backward a few paces, alarmed, and the Fiends rose from their seats.
The Imp gave another laugh, now decidedly nervous, and bowed his head. He gestured to a large double door in the back of the lobby.
“Grand Ambassador Babylonia will see you now,” he stuttered.
Kalyndriel sauntered toward the doors. They opened smoothly at her approach, and she walked into the adjoining room. The Fiends followed her in.
She entered a vast and elegant office filled with ancient Sumerian and Assyrian sculptures. The back wall was comprised of an enormous window that displayed a burning panorama of Hell. Gehenna, the legendary lake of fire, roiled and seethed impossibly behind the clear glass.
The door closed soundlessly behind her, and the Fiends took up positions in front of it.
In the center of the room was a large stone table. Memories of lost ages and countless blood sacrifices stained its cracked surface. That table had once dwelt in the heart of the black temples of forgotten empires, and it was a thing of terrible evil. The lovely form of Grand Ambassador Babylonia, which was more evil by orders of magnitude, was seated behind it.
The ancient Demoness’ face was the picture of impossible beauty, with smooth coppery skin and large, luminous eyes that made impossible promises. Men throughout history had been lost within those eyes, throwing their souls away with nary a thought. A purple skirt suit skimmed her smooth curves and exquisite legs. Dainty horns protruded slightly from lustrous black hair, and delicate, black raven wings were furled primly behind her.
Babylonia rose smoothly. “Welcome, Avenging Angel Kalyndriel,” she purred with a gracious smile. Her voice was seductive, the sibilant whisper of darkest decadence. She gestured for Kaly to have a seat.
Kaly stepped forward, but remained standing. “Greetings, Grand Ambassador,” the Angel replied stiffly. She must be on her best behavior, but she could sense it was going to be a difficult meeting. She had not expected to meet with Babylonia herself, the chief of Hell’s foreign affairs, and a singularly ancient and dangerous Demon. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
Babylonia’s fine eyebrows arched in amusement, her eyes glimmering. “My, my, how refreshing it is to see an Angel display such courtesy. My friends will never believe me!” She laughed charmingly and took her seat, crossing her legs demurely.
Babylonia leaned forward, steepling her manicured fingers. Perfect red lips smiled mischievously. “So tell me, Kalyndriel,” the Demoness whispered conspiratorially. “To what do I owe this unprecedented pleasure?”
“I need access to the soul of one Walter Nathaniel Grey. He is in Hell, and I believe he may have important information.”
Babylonia gave an inquisitive hum, leaning back in her chair smugly. “Now that is quite the request, my dear. Surely, you know this is impossible?”
Kaly shook her head slowly, never taking her gaze off Babylonia’s deadly form. “Not impossible; just unlikely. The Demon who owns his soul can deliver him to speak with me.”
The Demonic ambassador’s shadowed eyes widened in disbelief. She giggled aloud, covering her mouth with a perfect hand. A glimpse of a forked tongue flashed between pearly, even teeth.
“My dear, I like you, I truly do,” Babylonia laughed. “I find you just adorable! Why, I bet if we got you out of that dreadful armor and put some make-up on you, you might almost be pretty.”
Babylonia leaned forward, laughter gone. “That being said,” she continued sadly. “That is something that I positively will not sanction. I’d be the laughing-stock of Hell, you see.” Her pouty lips quirked with mock regret.
Kalyndriel was undeterred. “I understand completely,” she answered evenly, showing no hint of discouragement. “However, perhaps the Demon who owns his soul might consent personally. If you give me his name, I could ask him.”
The ambassador smiled sweetly. “Now, why in the fuck would I tell you that?”
“Information for information, Grand Ambassador. I tell you something interesting, and if you find it valuable enough, you give me the name.”
Babylonia tapped her fingers together, searching Kalyndriel’s face. “That’s an intriguing offer,” the Demoness finally answered. “I agree, but only if I find the information interesting, of course.”
“Swear it by the lake of fire,” Kalyndriel demanded.
Babylonia pouted and gave a sigh. “Very well,” she responded sadly. “I swear it by the lake of fire, may your little God have mercy on my wretched, blackened soul.” She laughed pleasantly. She waved at Kalyndriel to proceed.
Kalyndriel allowed a tiny smile to show. “The Nexus in New England is severed. We don’t know why, or how to fix it. Walter Grey may know what happened,” she announced, watching Babylonia carefully.
Grand Ambassador Babylonia’s façade of good humor disappeared instantly, like a pit viper’s skin, sloughed off and forgotten. She bolted upright, hands pressed firmly upon the stone table, which now vibrated with the Demoness’ barely-restrained wrath. She leaned forward, her pupils narrowed into the vertical slits of a serpent.
“Explain yourself, Angel,” the dreadful Demoness rasped in a hoarse growl. Kalyndriel sensed the Fiends behind her stiffen and step forward.
Kalyndriel stood firm. “I explained everything I know. The Nexus is severed clean through. I need to speak to Walter Grey to determine why.”
Babylonia was perfectly still, her reptilian eyes locked on Kaly. A serpentine tongue darted from between painted crimson lips, tasting the air for fear or deceit. “That’s impossible,” the Demoness murmured. “The Nexuses are immutable. They cannot break. What game are you playing at, girl?”
“No games, Babylonia,” Kalyndriel responded grimly. “Now … I can tell you’re intrigued. Give me the name.”
Babylonia slammed her fists upon the table with the sound of a deafening thunderclap. Her hair writhed as though alive in a furious gale as the world twisted around her. The ancient Demoness seemed to grow larger as the room dwindled and descended into shadow. Behind her, the surface of Gehenna began to boil, reflecting her displeasure.
“Know your place, child!” the Grand Ambassador roared, her voice the howl of a dying sun, filled with deadly m
alice. “Remember who you address! I am Babylonia the Great, Mother of Nations!”
Babylonia seemed to loom impossibly vast in the darkness of a cavern, towering above Kalyndriel and the world below. Onyx wings, seemingly large enough to smother the entirety of humanity, rose like proud monuments to damnation. She was immeasurably regal and powerful, a beautiful monster. Panic dawned on the faces of the Fiends as they scrambled to ready themselves.
“I led mankind into the sky, and it was your God that cast them down! This world belongs to me!” she bellowed. The ground swayed and trembled.
Kalyndriel stood proudly beneath Babylonia’s rearing form, the Angel’s soul burning like a celestial beacon at the Demoness’ challenge. She would not cower. She spread her own wings, and they cast a pure white light into the blackened room. Her lance, a weapon powerful enough to wound even such a creature as Babylonia, formed in Kaly’s hands.
“I know you, Mother of Harlots!” Kalyndriel roared in reply, her voice the strident crack of lightning on a clear afternoon. She stepped toward the enraged Demoness. “Now know me! I am the Lance of Justice, and unless you wish to face your end this day, you will honor the terms of our agreement.”
They stood this way for a time, Angel and Demoness, facing each other down across an altar of stone. Time slowed to a crawl, each heartbeat an eon. The burning wrath of the Mother of Harlots woke no fear in the radiant heart of the Avenging Angel, who stood defiant and ramrod-straight.
Kalyndriel’s soul burned with a wrath to match.
After what seemed an eternity, Babylonia sighed, and looked down with a smirk. She seemed to diminish, and the room swam into normal proportions. The light returned to the office, and Babylonia was once more a coquettish Demoness. One of the Fiends released a relieved breath.
The Grand Ambassador sat back down, shaking her head. She raised her lovely eyes to Kalyndriel’s with a hint of chagrin. “Very well, Avenging Angel. A deal is a deal, of course.” Babylonia smiled, but her face was distracted. “The name you seek is Barnabas. Now go. You bore me.” She waved a delicate hand in dismissal.
Kalyndriel left the embassy gladly.
~
Out in the street, the gravity of the Holy City felt light and refreshing upon Kalyndriel’s shoulders. She finally exhaled, breathing in the clean night air. Sounds of nearby worship and celebration filled the cool atmosphere.
Kaly realized she had closely avoided disaster. Babylonia’s power had burgeoned exponentially through the millennia, bloated with the growing corruption of humanity, and the regal Demoness was far more than she appeared. Despite Kaly’s courageous demeanor, she doubted she could have made good her threats against the Grand Ambassador.
Kaly suspected that Babylonia knew that, as well, which was a troubling thought. It felt as though Babylonia had offered merely perfunctory intimidation, a token concession to appearances.
Why had she surrendered the name so easily?
Kalyndriel had survived back-to-back encounters with the Bloody Wind and the Mother of Harlots, but her work was only beginning. It did not bode well for the rest of the evening.
What’s next, an encounter with Apollyon, himself?
“Dariel,” she called to Heaven.
“Yes, Mistress Kalyndriel?” her squire quickly answered.
“We’re searching for a Demon named Barnabas,” she replied, exhausted. “Find him immediately, and let Samael know what’s transpired.”
Far behind her, in the depths of Hell’s embassy, Babylonia the Great dispatched an envoy to Apollyon.
Chapter 6
The Bloody Wind
It was a hot and humid night down in the lower 9th Ward of New Orleans. The sweltering evening felt oppressive and intimate. I walked slowly down darkened boulevards uninhabited except for insects, vermin, and wild dogs.
It had already been six months since Hurricane Katrina, and the lower 9th was still devoid of the frail lights of human habitation. I liked it that way. I could take long strolls through dark roads littered with debris and the detritus of lives. It felt as though I walked through the decayed remnants of a long-lost civilization — a people that had been laid low by hubris and the terrible wrath of nature.
It was the story of the ages, repeated time and again. Humans built their towers so high, their temples so grand. Despite their overcompensating splendor, humanity’s creations were but grasping mockeries. Man constantly sought to force back the night, to proclaim mastery over his environment, but it was a futile gesture.
Time always won. The house takes all. Ashes would be ashes. That was the eternal lesson.
Humanity had been driven from these shadowed lands, but nature was swift to reclaim it. Vines climbed rampant atop broken buildings and shattered structures. Kudzu triumphed, masking the hurricane’s destruction. Man had already been forgotten.
I ambled with my hands in my pockets and a smoldering cigarette in my mouth. Alone on that boulevard of broken dreams, I pondered my own aspirations.
What were they, exactly? Continue harvesting the souls of fools? Work my way up Hell’s hierarchy so I could supervise Demons doing the same damn thing I was now?
It pained me to realize that, after thousands of years of acquiring souls, the thrill was gone. It was always the same. The human condition was so droll; society tells them what they want, they hunger for things beyond their reach, and they fall into despair. It was too easy.
Humans forgot their value; they forgot they were worth more than the sum total of their assets and bank account. That, in turn, made them worthless. It was tragic, if one actually gave a shit. I didn’t.
Thus far, Arcturus had been unsuccessful in finding a prospective soul that piqued my interest. Just more of same, sad plot with different actors. Perhaps I should try a stint in one of the other Directorates of Mortal Sin. Pride, my current bailiwick, was such a predictable sin; perhaps something in the Directorate of Wrath or Greed might spice things up. Wrath probably wasn’t my forte, to be honest, but Greed might work. I could relate to that.
Most Demons worked in one of the seven Directorates of Mortal Sin, those classic weaknesses of humanity. Additionally, there were also the Directorates of War, the Interior, and Venial Sin. The ten rulers of these Demonic fiefdoms, the Directors, were all Fallen Angels of the highest order. They comprised the Board of Directors, the true ruling body of Hell in the absence of the Morning Star.
Lucifer, the Morning Star, was a singularly disappointing ruler. Much to the irritation of the Fallen Angels that had followed him into rebellion, Lucifer did not even reside in Hell. For some reason, God had permitted him to remain by His Throne, doing who-knew-what. Playing poker with the Four Horsemen, perhaps.
I didn’t know how any of it worked, being little more than a worker-bee, myself. Lucifer was supposed to return to Hell to lead the armies on the day of Armageddon, but no one truly knew. His absence, however, gave the Fallen Angels on the Board of Directors free reign to govern Hell how they saw fit.
And govern it they did. The fiendish cabal of black horrors constantly quarreled against Heaven, and one another, in order to increase both the power of Hell and their personal Directorate. Their prize and currency, mortal souls, were what powered the bleak machinery of the inferno. Their dominions grew in power with each damned soul, each tormented spark, and every silenced prayer weakened Heaven. There would come a day when the fury of Hell would rise once again against Heaven: Armageddon.
Who truly cared, though?
The end times were not my concern. That game was played out on a larger scale than I had the stomach for. I did my part for the war effort, as they say. If I carried on the way I currently was, I would eventually make Supervisor, but no matter how many souls I collected I would never rival a Fallen Angel in power.
I was but a common Demon, bound to my fate. I was not one of those brutes from the Old Testament. Asmodai the Magnificent, Director of Pride and my titular boss, tolerated no challengers to his reign.
&nbs
p; I needed to snap out of it. I needed to get my head back in the game and get on with the business of harvesting souls. I was well aware that a lack of job satisfaction was low on the list of potential hardships. I just wanted to be inspired, damn it.
Was that too much to ask?
I continued down the shadowy road, lost in my reverie. The night was utterly silent in this deserted part of New Orleans. I discarded my spent cigarette and placed another in my mouth. It sparked into life. A gibbous moon hung low overhead, a silent witness to the feeble aspirations of all beneath it.
~
Hours later, in the midst of my self-indulgence, I felt a colossal surge of celestial energy blossom in front of me. The cigarette dropped from my open mouth in alarm. Pure, blinding white light flared into existence in the midst of the deserted street. I grunted in surprise and stepped backward, my wings unfurling. I raised my hand against the painful glare, unsure of what to do.
The searing light slowly coalesced into a number of forms. Ten highly armed Angelic forms, to be precise. They were Powers, judging by their dour and threatening appearance. The Powers of the 5th Choir were bad news for Demons. They were Heaven’s soldiers: Legionnaires, Centurions, and Avengers. Their zealotry and fanaticism were terrifying.
Shit.
The Angels pulsed radiance in the night’s gloom. I was considering making a run for it when the foremost Angel stepped toward me, hands raised in a gesture of peace. I eyed him warily while debating the best route of escape.
“Greetings, my fallen brother,” the armored Angel began in deep, musical tones. A beatific smile affixed his perfect features. “We mean you no harm, I assure you. I am Cadmiel, Power of the 5th Choir.” The Angels at his side held their position, their eyes hooded and unreadable.