Ange du Mal

by Stephanie Kane

  I studied the red V. They disappeared behind a copse of kapok trees.

  Our research station was like a giant tree house, built two stories up into the air with palm wood roofing and mosquito net walls. The staff was full of smiles, and I tested my high school Spanish out on them with relative success. Dr. Crane was fluent and communicated with the staff with ease. We had a delicious dinner of catfish and fried plantains. The staff had a pet blue-headed parrot that hopped from shoulder to shoulder. It flew over onto our table, attracted to our plantains.

  I slept without blankets that night in the room I shared with Arietta, jungle heat enough to keep me warm. A light rain fell, dripping down the palm leaves and making wild music.

  We woke at the crack of dawn, when birds were most active, to do a bird breeding survey. We hiked through what the research station staff called ‘terra firma’ – the dry part of the Amazon River basin. Arietta and Dr. Crane could identify birds by call alone – a black-fronted nunbird with a song like an alarm, a great potoo with bulging yellow eyes. I carried a clipboard and jotted down species names on sheets of paper. The hike was hard: uphill, downhill, puddled, thick with roots. I almost tripped into a tree with thorns.

  After an hour, we reached the end of our transect, then moved onto another one. We repeated the transects each morning and spent our downtime exploring local villages, fishing, and playing board games. I caught a piranha and cut my fishing line with a machete, afraid to touch it. Come night, we hiked under starlight. The weeks stretched out like a line of honey, sweet and slow.

  The day before we were set to leave, I paddled a canoe up an inlet. I daydreamed, the sky like a china plate. The sun was a marble I could flick with my thumb.

  I stopped paddling, content to let the current carry me down the length I’d paddled up. I lay on my back and closed my eyes. Mosquitoes buzzed in my ears.

  Something splashed beside me. I looked up to see a pink dolphin nosing the edge of my canoe.

  “Oh my god,” I said. It was beautiful, its flesh a pale, cherry petal color.

  It clicked and nudged my canoe. The dolphin’s mouth opened in a smile. I reached out to touch its snout. I smoothed my hand up its rubbery skin. It leaned into the curve of my palm, blinked once, then slipped back into the water.

  Scientists sometimes spoke of transcendent experiences. Of humbling moments in the grips of nature’s wonders. There was more divinity in that dolphin than in the hosts of angels I had seen. I watched the dolphin jump out of the water and arc through the air. It disappeared round a bend in the river.

  I paddled back to the research station, still amazed. We finished our surveys that night. I stayed up late and watched the full moon from the porch. I was alone - the staff had gone to sleep.

  The screen door creaked open. I looked to see a young man, handsome as sin, in sopping wet clothes. He clearly wasn’t one of the lodge’s employees. He smiled at me, revealing small, sharp teeth. Just like a dolphin’s.

  I drew back. “Who are you?”

  He closed the door. “Don’t be afraid. I mean you no harm.”

  “Um, okay,” I said, unsure. I clutched my petersword charm.

  The visitor bowed. “It was a pleasure meeting you earlier. I have a message for you – one I couldn’t voice earlier. From San la Muerte.”

  “We haven’t met before,” I said, on guard. “And who’s San la Muerte?”

  He laughed. “Oh, but we did. On the river.”

  I thought back to my canoe trip. “Nope, I didn’t see anyone.”

  The young man smiled.

  “Oh,” I said, taking in his sharp teeth again. “So you’re telling me you’re a were-dolphin? That’s weird. But then again, my life is basically a trip to a mental ward.”

  He nodded. “An encantado. As San la Muerte tells me, you’re one of his closest friends.”

  I scratched my head, recalling my rusty Spanish. “Muerte – that means death. Oh crap. You mean Samael? Not him!”

  The encantado – whatever that was – laughed. “I think that’s what you call him. He’s the pale one, right? In the black cloak?”

  I rose from my chair. “Yeah. God, what does he want? This is my vacation.”

  The encantado smoothed back his river-slick hair. “He says you’ve been ignoring his calls.”

  I walked to the encantado’s side. “I left my cell phone at home. I don’t get reception down here.”

  “Well, he wants to meet with you. He’s waiting on the dock.”

  “Why doesn’t Sam just come see me? Why does he need a freaking messenger?”

  The encantado shrugged. “Something about not wanting to interrupt your break. He wanted to give you the option to ignore him.”

  I felt cheated out of my earlier experience, of the wonder I had felt at seeing the river dolphin. It had all been orchestrated by Samael. It wasn’t a life-affirming experience. It was a death-affirming one.

  “Thanks, I guess,” I told the encantado.

  The encantado smiled. “No problem.” He blended with the shadows and was gone.

  “Damn immortals.” I muttered under my breath and climbed down the stairs to the dock. The river lapped at the support poles. Samael sat on a bench, gazing up at the stars. He didn’t turn around.

  I put my hands on my hips. “San la Muerte? Really?”

  Samael shrugged. “It’s a growing cult in Latin America.” He drank from a flask. I could smell the vodka on the misty air.

  “Why aren’t you drinking absinthe?” I asked. “Isn’t that your go-to?”

  Samael craned his neck over his shoulder to look at me. “Because it reminds me of you. I don’t need that, not right now.”

  “You’re pathetic. Stop using alcohol as a crutch.”

  “Crutch? Hardly. The world is going up in flames. I’m merely doing my part to fuel the fire.” He took a swig. “Alcohol is flammable, you know.”

  Anger warmed my gut. “So you’ve given up? You’re just going to let the world burn?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Haven’t you given up?”

  “No.”

  He pocketed his flask. “Good.”

  I sat down at the end of the bench, away from him. “You told me to have faith. What made you lose yours?”

  “I haven’t lost mine,” he said, voice soft. “Sometimes, however, I have doubts. Doubts that justice will prevail. I’ve lost before, on such a grand scale that it makes faith difficult. Perhaps failure is in my blood. I’m losing this war.” He looked up at the moon. “I’m losing you.”

  I picked a splinter from the bench. “Stop being overdramatic.”

  “I’m not.” He toyed with the cuff of his robe. “I love you. Can’t you see that? It’s like this damn rot in my chest – it’s eating away at me, bit by bit. I can’t stop thinking about you, wondering what you’re doing, how you’re feeling, if you’re okay. I’ve put you through hell. A part of you hates me. My company has a price, and my affection is a death sentence.”

  I slid closer to him. “You’re monologuing.”

  He paused to breathe. “I have a tendency to do that.”

  I put my hand over his. “Look, Sam. I don’t hate you. But you really piss me off.”

  He laced his fingers through mine. “I do that a lot too, don’t I.”

  I could smell the vodka on his breath. “You’re drunk.”

  He smiled weakly. “I’m always drunk. It’s the one thing that makes my existence bearable.”

  I squeezed his hand. “Maybe you need to spend less time at Damien’s bar and more time at Alcoholics Anonymous.”

  “All I want to do is spend time with you.”

  I softened. “This is probably stupidity and pity for you on my part, but go ahead – you can kiss me. As long as you stop whining.”

  “Okay.”

  Our lips met. He tasted like vodka and longing. I remembered our first night together, and desire flared in my gut, combatting my irritation. He ran his hands down my back as monkeys call
ed in the distance.

  I thought of how I could wound Samael with just a word. It was strange, to have such power over Death.

  “Sam?” I said.

  His eyes were liquid. “Yeah?”

  I took his hands in mine. “I’m sorry. I’ve blamed you for so much, and a lot of it is your fault. But you’ve exposed me to a completely new world, shown me things I thought were impossible. However much I hate to admit it, I like you. And it makes me mad – I don’t like to feel vulnerable, but whenever I’m around you, I do. But I have to learn to let go.”

  He pressed his lips to my ear. “Whatever you want me to be, I’ll be it. I’m yours. You have my heart, after all.”

  Chapter 26

  Samael and I, reconciled, began meeting in the woods behind my house. My family thought I was going on jogs, which was partially true. I took organic chemistry classes by day at the local community college and trained harder than ever at night. I was determined to beat the Watchers – never again would I let Raziel have the upper hand.

  We paused from practice on a balmy night in June. I set my petersword down, my breaths strained. Samael relaxed on the fence, taking a smoke break. His piercings shone in the twilight.

  “I think it’s time to train you to on the other shards of the Lapis Exillis. We’d stand a much better chance if you could assemble it,” he said, then took a drag.

  My stomach flopped. “Won’t I have to be possessed by the other archdemons to do that?”

  He put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, Shannon.”

  I kissed my petersword. It shrunk into a necklace, which I looped over my collarbone. “No, it’s alright. I’m ready, I guess.”

  Apparently, I wasn’t ready enough, at least, not for Asmodeus. The next day, Samael dropped me off in Pandemonium’s gambling district, over which Asmodeus was king.

  Smoke hung heavy in the casino lounge where Asmodeus was enjoying a cigar, watching succubi belly-dance in skirts with jangling coins. Gamblers bet away organs at blackjack and roulette.

  Asmodeus took a contemplative drag then exhaled through his nose, green eyes fixed on a red-skinned succubus who smiled at him. He crooked his finger and motioned for the succubus to approach. She sashayed over and danced round his chair, then sat on his lap. Asmodeus laughed, smoothed her bare shoulder, and stubbed his cigar on an ash tray. He looked at me under hooded lids. “So,” he said, “Sam sent you here?”

  I was a fish out of water. “Um.”

  He eased the succubus off his lap, then gestured for me to follow. He led me into a dark room. It was set up like a cage fighting pit, complete with a fenced-in mat. He unlocked the door to the pit and ushered me in. I walked forward cautiously, dressed in sweatpants and a sports bra, ready for physical exertion. I shucked off my shoes and climbed into the ring. Asmodeus followed. He moved like a gliding snake, all sinuous movement.

  “So where do we start? Your weapon is a cane, right?”

  Asmodeus smiled. “We start with what fallen angels are experts in: crashing to the ground and surviving.”

  I quirked my eyebrows. “Falling?”

  “Most fights end up on the ground. One, two, three punches, or a choke hold, and you end up on the floor. Falling right is a vital part of fighting dirty. That, and being brutal. Samael’s neglected to train you in physical combat. He’s more about blade-work. But cane-fighting is physical. It’s like a staff. I'll teach you how to break elbows, dislocate shoulders, snap wrists. You'll learn to use your size as an advantage: you may be small, but you're quick. You react faster than someone my size. The Lapis Exillis will enhance your tactics, give you strength, but it can only benefit you if you’ve mastered the basics of fighting.”

  “Now first, falling.” He demonstrated, tucking his head in and pointing one leg straight, then rolled so that his internal organs were protected. He slapped the mat with one hand, then rose. “You try.”

  I rolled awkwardly, nearly hurting myself, and slapped the mat as an afterthought.

  Asmodeus smiled indulgently. “Good first attempt. But remember, tuck your chin and keep low to the ground. It will ease the impact in a real fight.”

  I took his advice and slowly perfected the technique. We moved on to shoulder rolls and backwards rolls, falls in which one landed again on their feet. Under Asmodeus' guidance I found myself learning them with ease. We repped it out. Right falls, left falls, roll after roll. I sweated, my breath coming hard, but it was a good workout.

  “Good,” he said. “Now let's move on. The one arm shoulder throw. You’re going to use your center of gravity to throw me. First, I'll demonstrate on you.”

  I paled. “You're going to throw me?”

  Asmodeus smirked. “You know how to fall now, don't you?”

  I nodded a tentative yes.

  “Throw me a right punch. Remember, use your whole body.”

  I did. He stepped to avoid it.

  “Now watch. I'm going to pull your right arm over my shoulders and hook my other arm underneath. Step into the opponent's attack so your back is aligned with their stomach. Sink to the ground when you're doing this, bend your knees, and lift. It will get your opponent off balance.” He demonstrated, hoisting me off the ground. “Then, throw your opponent, holding onto the wrist of the hand that they punched with.” He deposited me on the mat, and I straightened the appropriate leg, remembering to slap with my free hand. “Good,” he said, helping me up. “Now, throw me.”

  “You’re probably as heavy as a cannonball.”

  He grinned. “You'll never know if you don't try.”

  Try I did. It was a struggle at first: I sank improperly, not bending enough at the knee and sticking my butt out at an odd angle.

  “Keep your ass flat,” Asmodeus said.

  I did. Miraculously, balancing his weight on my back, I was able to lift him. I executed the throw and looked down, amazed, at the demon lying on the mat before me. “How was I able to throw you?” I asked, incredulous.

  Asmodeus laughed, dusting himself off. “Normally, I'd recommend a different throw for a girl your size. But you're strong. It's the way you were made. God intended you to carry a heavy burden.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. “Let me try again,” I instead asked.

  “Of course.”

  I threw him repeatedly, honing my technique. He threw me in turn, and I practiced falling. We crammed as much into that day as possible, learning other types of throws, chokes, locks, and reaps. Dusk's purple-tinged light slid in through the windows that looked upon the alley and Asmodeus officially threw in the towel, calling it a day.

  We bowed as per his instruction and shook hands. “You did well today. You should be proud.”

  I shrugged, dabbing a towel against my sweaty forehead. “It's thanks to you. You move so well.”

  Asmodeus laughed. “It comes from millenia of practice.”

  My training progressed, and after a few weeks Asmodeus introduced me to his cane. It was a staff, really, with an adamant head meant for pummeling. It didn’t burn me like Astaroth’s mace had, which Asmodeus said was because I was familiar with the weapon’s owner.

  I bashed in the skulls of practice dummies and broke mannequins’ shoulders and chests. Organic chemistry raced by, and my first test passed in a flurry of functional groups and reactions. July came in a burst of fireworks, and after a month, the cane felt like an extension of my arm. Samael, Asmodeus and I would go out for drinks at Damien’s bar after my practice sessions, and I found my distrust of the green-eyed demon melting away.

  I learned that the Claimed in his harem, of which I had been wary, had chosen to be with him of their own volition. Asmodeus was like a den father, protective of his lovers, whom he spoiled like children. Some he’d saved from lives of desperation. Others he’d picked up from war zones. All adored him. It was so different from the Book of Tobit’s tale of Asmodeus’ lethal affection for Sarah. Still, Asmodeus didn’t seem to l
ike the fish and chips I got from Damien’s one night, perhaps proving that he’d been driven away by Tobias’ fish liver.

  “It’s the smell,” Asmodeus explained. “I can’t stand sea creatures. Leviathan started it – he never bathed in Heaven, and barnacles and algae would coat his skin. It was absolutely disgusting.”

  Samael stole some of my fries. “You’re so anal about cleanliness,” he said through a full mouth.

  “Why do you always talk with food in your mouth?” Asmodeus said, his lips curling in distaste.