Ange du Mal

by Stephanie Kane

  “Get ready for the recoil, Shannon,” Beelzebub buzzed, letting go of my arm.

  “Okay.” I pulled the trigger.

  The bullet ripped loose, faster than any manmade weapon. Smoke that smelled of brimstone rose from the barrel of the gun. I missed the target by a foot, further proving I was a lousy shot.

  Beelzebub sighed. He crossed his arms. “It’s about perspective. You have to have a feel for your target. Samael tells me you’re an artist. Apply that eye for detail to your aim.”

  I stared intently at my sneakers. “I just can’t do it. Every time I fire a round, it’s like my vision goes wonky. I focus so much on the target that I miss it, if that makes sense.”

  Raphael, done jogging laps with his regiment, smiled toothily at us as he came running over. “Go easy on her, Beel. You were always the best at marksmanship. Living up to your legacy is hard.” Raphael ruffled my hair. “God knows I’m a lousy shot.”

  “We don’t have time for anything less than perfection,” Beelzebub said. “She’s obstinate – like she’s not even trying.”

  My patience snapped. “I am!”

  “Beel, relax,” Raphael said. “She’s only human. Not a war drone. Shannon, have you tried closing your eyes?”

  My lips opened in an O of surprise. “What do you mean?”

  Raphael grinned. “Exactly what I said. Trust in the weapon. It’s a shard of the Lapis Exillis – it’s alive, in its own way. You might be surprised.”

  Beelzebub narrowed his eyes. “You know, that sounds ridiculous, but might possibly work. It can’t make her any worse than she already is.”

  I looked at the revolver and shrugged. “Here goes nothing.” I raised the gun, focused on the target, and closed my eyes. The weapon was hot in my hands. It seemed to hum. Curious, I slightly lowered, then lifted, the gun, until the humming was near constant.

  I pulled the trigger.

  The bullet cracked out of the barrel. I heard Beelzebub draw a sharp intake of breath. I opened my eyes to see a perfect hole in the center of the target.

  I gaped. “It worked?”

  “Told you,” Raphael said, slipping his headphones back on, humming along to rap music, and running like a gazelle into the night.

  Beelzebub smiled, a rare sight. “Perhaps I misjudged you.”

  “You think?” I handed him the gun, which he slipped into a holster at his belt.

  I smelled alcohol. I turned to see Samael stumbling towards us. “My maggot, lethal as always,” he slurred. He collapsed against a fence, a dopey smile on his face. Samael reached for a flask from the pocket of his robe and drained the remnants of absinthe within.

  Beelzebub cursed. “You git.”

  Samael gazed at the stars. “Please, spare me your lecture. I’m just trying to enjoy the fact that my home has been turned into barracks.”

  Beelzebub muttered to himself and left without a backwards glance. Samael slumped to the ground, yawning.

  “You smell like a bar,” I said, leaning down to help him up.

  “It’s my aesthetic.” Samael burped.

  “Being an alcoholic?”

  Samael hooked his arm around me, pulling me unceremoniously down into the dirt, wrapping his arms around me. “Don’t judge me. I was ancient before atoms were created. I was millenia old before you were a figment of God’s imagination. I have been to the outer boundaries, seen the face of existence, and laughed. Laughed at the folly of being.”

  I pried his viselike grip from my shoulders. “You’re ranting again. I think you should go to bed.”

  Samael mumbled and tried to kiss my neck. I grabbed his hands and hauled him to his feet. He stumbled after me into his mansion, up the main staircase and into his room. It was more cluttered than usual, which was saying something. I shoved a heap of laundry off his comforter – all black reaping robes that smelled of cigarettes – and forced Samael onto the bed. He protested half-heartedly, squirming as I drew the blankets over him.

  I dimmed the lights.

  “Don’t I at least get a goodnight kiss?” Samael said.

  “Fine. Just one. I have to go, it’s late – hey!”

  He caught my wrists as I was leaning down over him and pulled me on top of him. Samael burrowed his head into the crook of my neck. “You’re not going anywhere.” He hiccupped.

  I struggled to rid myself of him, to no avail. “Yes, I am. You’re plastered, and I’m moving back to Hortense tomorrow. I need sleep, and if I stay here, I won’t get any.”

  He smoothed the hair on my forehead. “But I have to show you something. Something beautiful.”

  “If this is you trying to seduce me, I’m going to castrate you.”

  He twined his fingers through mine. “No. It’s more important than that. Close your eyes.”

  “If you’re trying to fondle me-”

  “Please?”

  “Okay, okay.” I squeezed my eyes shut, humoring the addict.

  The air cooled, and I opened my eyes to see that we were in the Cave of Souls, the candlelit repository of spirits at the base of the Tree of Knowledge. I was calmed by the lullaby atmosphere.

  Samael released me, and I rolled off him, staring up at the roots far above us.

  “Why did you bring me here?” I asked, mesmerized by the candles’ slow burn.

  Samael smiled. “To show you this.” He flicked his wrists, and the stone pews of souls shifted, parting like a curtain to expose more tapers. The gulf of candles widened, leaving a stretch of darkness. A single candle emerged, high above the others, three-quarters full. Its flame, unlike the soft yellow of the others, was a bright blue.

  Samael sighed. “Gorgeous, isn’t it?”

  I squinted, trying to see what made it so remarkable. “Umm, not really - it looks like something I could buy at the Yankee Candle Factory in Williamsburg.”

  Samael lightly squeezed my arm. “It’s your soul, Shannon.”

  My skin crawled. “Oh. Why… why is it blue?”

  “Blue flames are the hottest. Your soul and Adam’s, as the first humans created, are closest to the Source. They’re the brightest of them all.”

  “The Source?”

  He snaked his arm under my waist. “You, me, God – we’re all just emanations of the Source, the force that binds Creation together. It’s what makes up your atoms and my ether. It’s what joins us. Angels call it Shekinah – the Holy Spirit.”

  I thought back to Sunday school. “I thought the Holy Spirit was God – part of the Trinity.”

  “It’s more complicated than that. The Shekinah has no personality. It’s the eldritch mother of all, the faceless Source from which we spring. Think of the Venus figurines ancient man carved. Gods, angels, mortals – we’re all just dancers on the Shekinah’s stage. If we were actors, the Shekinah would be the theater our lives played out on. My Father fancied Himself one with the Shekinah, but He’s no more one with the Source than I am.” Samael scoffed. “My Father is a fool.”

  “Why is God letting the Apocalypse happen?”

  “My Father tends to be very laissez faire with humanity – He lets free will play its course. You chose to start the Apocalypse to save your brother’s life, and so it came to pass.”

  I slumped. “I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t thinking, Sam – I just couldn’t let my brother die.”

  Samael hushed me. “It’s alright. No one blames you. Fine, maybe some do, especially Beelzebub, but I don’t. And you’ve met the angels. They’re a very forgiving lot. Raphael has nothing but glowing things to say about you.”

  I rolled onto my side, facing away from Samael. “But Raff likes everybody,” I muttered. “The world might end, and it’s all my fault. Look at all the wars that I started. The outbreaks of disease. The natural disasters. They’ve all been exacerbated by my… my decision.”

  Samael ran a finger down my spine. “Shannon, you’ve been kicking yourself in the gut ever since the Apocalypse started. Go easy on yourself. We’ll fix this.”

 
Chapter 29

  August heat beat down on my back as I hauled my belongings up three flights of stairs to my new apartment. Rosanna, Divya, and I had lucked out in the housing lottery, securing a spot in an on-campus apartment complex right near the dining hall. With three bedrooms, a living room, and communal kitchen, we were living large.

  “You’re not putting up that god-awful David Bowie poster, are you?” Mo teased, carrying a box of my clothes. He dumped it on my bare mattress.

  “Be careful with that!” I said, watching dresses spill from the container and onto the floor.

  “Sorry. Ever since the accident my hand-eye coordination has gone to crap,” Mo said. He helped clean up the mess.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “It’s fine,” Mo said.

  “Hey, kiddo. Where does your chair go?” my dad said, entering the room, trailed by my mom.

  “In the corner near the window,” I said.

  “That’s the last of your things,” my mom said, gently putting my printer on my desk. Within the hour, my room was cozy as a clam. I hugged my parents goodbye and lounged in the living room, reading a travelogue by a turn-of-the-century naturalist. Mo rigged our TV so he could play a first-person shooter. My page-flipping was interspersed with screams of virtual characters meeting untimely demises.

  I finished my book and looked up to see my twin, still absorbed in his game.

  “Hey Mo?” I said.

  He cocked his head over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

  “You’d tell me if you started to feel off, right?”

  Mo’s temple throbbed. “Shannon, would you do me a favor?”

  “What?”

  Mo flicked the controller. “Stop treating me like broken glass. Ever since the accident, you’ve been walking on eggshells around me. It’s like you think I’m a different person or something.”

  “I don’t. I’m just worried. I know how much football means to you, and – and if I were in your position, I would be pissed at the world.”

  Mo shrugged. He gave me his signature crooked smile. “Don’t sweat it. To be honest, I’m kind of glad I’m not playing football this season. I’d rather spend more time with Rosanna and my friends, maybe get in some practice on the drums.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Drums?”

  Mo smirked. “Yeah. I’m taking drumming lessons. Rosanna and I were thinking of starting a band. She sings like Amy Winehouse, but you knew that already. Baxter is a bassist, and I figured the three of us together would make a kickass group.”

  I grinned. “That sounds like a great idea. Maybe you’ll actually learn how to keep tempo.”

  Mo laughed.

  There was a knock at the door. “Hey, Shannon, it’s me. Unlock the door!” came Rosanna’s voice. I jumped off the couch and welcomed her family in.

  We hugged hard, and she pecked Mo on the lips. “My two favorite twins,” Rosanna said, one arm around each of us. “Mo, I was so damn worried about you. The minute I leave, you become a reckless driver.” She shook her head and mussed his hair. “I’m glad you’re better, cariño.”

  We helped Rosanna unpack. She talked our ears off about her internship at a literary agency in New York City and the hundreds of romance novel queries she’d had to read:

  “Really, guys, these women have never had sex in their lives. The way they described anatomy made me want to stab myself with a pen.”

  We laughed.

  “Why romance novels?” I asked.

  Rosanna smiled. “I thought they would be more entertaining than highbrow literary fiction.”

  Divya arrived soon after, with boyfriend Seth Yoon in tow, and the five of us went to our usual hangout, the Golden Dragon.

  “I can’t believe we’re sophomores already,” Divya said after taking a delicate bite of a bubble pancake, the Golden Dragon’s specialty, which deflated when she poked it with her fork.

  “Yeah, crazy,” Mo said. “So much has happened since last year. I even built up my alcohol tolerance: I can do keg stands now without puking.”

  “Heck no. I’m not letting you drink anymore,” Divya said. “You crashed into a tree. If you were intoxicated you would have driven straight off a cliff.”

  Guilt flared in my gut. I hadn’t told Divya, or even Rosanna, that Mo was the horsemen’s vessel. I didn’t want Rosanna worrying that her boyfriend was a puppet of the apocalyptic squadron.

  I stared at my chicken feet, which I had ordered on a whim. I wasn’t really sure how to eat them.

  Divya took pity on me. “Put the chicken in your mouth, suck off the skin, chew the meat, then spit out the bones. I promise you won’t turn into poultry.”

  Mo snickered. “Shannon’s real good at putting her foot in her mouth.”

  Rosanna ribbed him. “Play nice, Solomon.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell my brother to shut it.

  Seth looked at my appetizers. “Hey, I’ll eat those if you can’t handle them. We can get you dumplings or some other white chick fare.”

  “I’m not that pathetic.” I put one of the chicken feet in my mouth then subsequently spat it out. “Oh god. I’m a stereotypical American, aren’t I?”

  There was laughter. I smiled weakly.

  The first day of classes drew close, my practices in the shooting range with Beelzebub intensified, and Samael was still drunk as a wino. I took to jogging in the College Woods to relax, the tried and true method of a runner’s high helping to settle my mind.

  I kept worrying everything would blow up in my face like it had in New York. That I would fail at mastering the Lapis Exillis, at saving Michael, and stopping Metatron. That my brother, already technically dead, would have to be put down like a rabid dog. Images of Mo’s comatose body were imprinted on the black of my eyelids, always there when I lay down to sleep. No wonder Samael drank. We, specifically me, had royally screwed things over.

  The night before classes, I went on my longest run yet, exploring a forgotten path in the woods. It was overgrown with roots and moss, with outcroppings of stone it was easy to stub a toe on. I sprinted until sweat drowned me, trying to evaporate the miasma from my skin. I imagined my sins pooled in my veins, screaming to be released through my pores. Crazy talk, probably, or just PTSD.

  I pounded the ground hard, desperately trying to forget everything but my movement. I entered a primal state, becoming one with the dirt I crushed relentlessly underfoot. I was running away from everything, seeking solace in a place beyond the reach of disaster.

  Your brother’s a walking corpse, and when the time comes, you’ll have to kill him. Only mortals can kill an immortal.

  I took turns: a ragged right, a jolt to the left. Like a hart pursued by a hound. My petersword necklace burned.

  Everything’s gone to hell because of your selfishness. You should have let Mo die.

  I tripped over an outcropping, falling head over heels down into a gully.

  You can’t handle the Lapis Exillis. You couldn’t save your twin. What makes you think you can stop the end of the world?

  I kept rolling, keeling over as sharp rocks tore at my skin. I didn’t even bother to fight gravity. My failings had voices, a chorus of those dead at my hands, taunting me with my every screw-up.

  Come at me, I wanted to scream. I’ll take my punishment as it comes.

  Finally, my body came to a stop, bruised and bloody at the grassy bottom of the ravine.

  I let out a mad laugh, fracturing. This is where I belonged, low as dirt.

  The petersword continued to feel like a spill of piping hot coffee. I laid on my back, staring up at the emerald canopy. The air smelled like flowers. Crimson, pink, and white blooms fluttered in the breeze.

  “A bed of roses for the ruined,” I muttered, as overdramatic as Samael. Maybe he was rubbing off on me. Now that was a scary thought.

  “Or a bower for renewal,” came a child’s voice.

  I was so far gone that I didn’t care if some kid saw me in my extremely pathetic state.
“That’s poetic. Why don’t you let me wallow?”

  Laughter. An olive hand plucked blossoms just beyond my line of vision. “You don’t get Purgatory, do you? This is a place for beginnings,” the mystery boy said. “Sure, you can lay in the mud all you want, but this land shifts so often that you might find yourself swimming in the sea.”