Infinite

by Erica Crouch

  I don’t yell out to her. I don’t need to. She senses that I’m close, and she looks up on her own after she buries a pair of daggers into the skull of one of my soldiers. Carefully, purposefully, I pull out the vial with Michael’s soul. The real one wrapped in intricate ironwork. She should be able to tell the difference now. I shake the vial, tempting her. Her eyes go wide, and I smile.

  Come and get him, I say in her mind. With one last meaningful look at her, I back up toward the wall of the compound again and step through the portal.

  Lilith

  THERE’S A QUAINT SAYING HUMANS have coined: Dance with the devil and you’ll get burned. I think about that phrase every now and then. It’s what pulsed through my mind every time I was sitting in the presence of Lucifer. Imagining what I would do to him if given the chance, the reason.

  But I’ve danced with the devil before. In quite a literal manner, I have spun around with him in a waltz. Amongst his soldiers, in celebration of winter. To commemorate the death of the crops above, the hibernation of humans during the wicked wind and ice he burdened Earth with during the late months.

  Lucifer never burned me. His fires forged me into the weapon I am today. Every move he made, I watched, I learned from. I saw how he punished weaknesses, so I did away with all of mine. I swayed closer to him in our dance, let him put his hands all over me. Persuaded him I was someone to be trusted. Someone he wanted to hold near and whisper secrets to.

  He talked a lot. For a leader who prized himself on the information he gathered from all who served him, he was easy to open up. Through him, I learned everyone’s weaknesses, all of Hell’s dirty little secrets. In court, I could count the Knights whose lives I knew too much about. Whose choices I could use against them if I had the inclination to have some fun.

  Lucifer told me who to use against whom; he showed me where to push someone in order to create the most pain, how to get them to obey. Through all of our lessons, he never considered the thought that, one day, I might use these tactics against him.

  It was by spending time with Lucifer that I realized feigning delicacy and embracing the persona everyone threw at me was prudent. It was my way to survive, my way to learn more secrets. When you’re as unassuming as I pretended to be, people feel free to speak openly. Who would you tell? In what way could you possibly use the information against them?

  When I danced with the devil, I was not the one who got burned. Lucifer was.

  He was not wise when he chose me as a partner to share this deadly song with. With how much of me he touched, he should have felt the power lying just under my skin. He should have realized that the sheep’s clothing I wore had something much more dangerous underneath. A dragon waiting to be released. A snake curling and ready to strike, poison dripping from its fangs.

  After I dispatched with Lucifer and sent Azael and Jeremy down to Earth, I began contacting the demons who knew of my position next to Lucifer. Demons who I trusted would take a knee before me without question, who would urge others to join them in their genuflection.

  Their faces downturned, their hands open in mercy. They would be gracious to their new queen.

  I began with Abaddon. He was always loyal to me. Even though everyone wrote him off as dim-witted and thickheaded, I saw something else in him. The anger at being dismissed. It looked so familiar to me. Looking into his eyes was like staring at a mirror. Like calls to like.

  He was seen as only muscle; I was seen as only curves. We both had something to prove, but we kept quiet. We know to bide our time until our reveal will prove something greater, will allow us to become something more.

  Abaddon spread the news quickly. Before I knew it, legions of Hell’s soldiers were whispering about their new queen. Lucifer was gone. Some knew the truth—that he was killed. That his head sat rotting in the throne room of Heaven. That his eyes grew filmy with white puss and his skin dried up, a slow process of mummification.

  Others knew only what they had to know. That Lilith was in charge and Lucifer was not. They didn’t need to hear about his death until I could show them proof, for what are rumors without substance? Until I could give them a reason why they would accept me as their queen, the details were none of their concern. I didn’t need the information about Lucifer’s death reaching Azael just yet, and there were still some out there who turned to him for orders.

  He led them through the gates of Heaven, after all. He had given them more attention, more credit, than Lucifer ever did. Some were happy to have him as a future leader once their mission on Earth was complete. They would return to Hell with Azael as King, and they would be recognized for their worth.

  All will know of Lucifer’s demise soon enough. It’s information I’m anxious to share, and I know I won’t be able to keep it to myself for much longer. I crave the day when I will finally step out of the shadows and into the light. To prove myself, to show them all who they’ve been serving.

  Lilith is not at all the girl they think she is.

  The fighting has begun. I can feel it, the tempting lure of bloodshed, the screaming sound of swords meeting swords, meeting bone.

  I’m in the White Garden when it begins, and I call upon Jeremy, using him as my looking glass. Through his eyes, I witnessed Azael’s rallying cry, the speech he delivered with grandiose flare to those who had collected around him, restless for a fight. Parched for the blood of traitors. He called out for Lucifer, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

  Poor, poor Azael. Still under the misguided belief that he serves Lucifer. A dead devil. He’s fighting for a cause that no longer exists—I couldn’t care if he killed his sister or let her live. She is of no significance to myself and never truly was any sort of threat to Hell. She is one fallen angel who talks too much, who thinks too much. Who feels too much for a certain angel.

  She is nothing.

  But Lucifer’s fixation on his brother—his obsession to kill him, to destroy his Father’s favorite, the one angel he chose to resurrect—was unshakable. When Pen stepped into the picture, it was only natural that he became equally as infatuated with her. She had already spoken out against him, or so he said. Azael tried to keep her leashed and quiet, but she wouldn’t be silenced. That, I could respect.

  When Azael finally realizes that Lucifer’s gone, how will he react? When he discovers he is no longer King of Hell, as he proclaimed in his great speech, will he finish his implosion? Already, he walks the fine line between brilliance and breakdown. It would only take the slightest breeze to push him one way or the other.

  It’s a shame he’s not smarter. He would have been able to see this coming; he would have aligned himself better with me. But most importantly, he would have realized that Pen was never fit to be queen. How dare he overlook me for such a title.

  After Azael finished his cry demanding justice paid in the blood of the enemy, his host of demons—fierce and scarred and leathery with darkness—took flight and landed near a dilapidated building. In a field, spread out as wide as the eye can see, are angels, demons. The rebels of New Genesis.

  Azael meets them head on, sprinting into the armed company with his own black sword drawn. He eats through their forces like an ember skidding over dry grass. They are fuel to the fire of his rage, and he burns furiously for his sister.

  Pen ducks in and out of crowds, hiding behind wings and shields. She will prove difficult for him to pin down, but I’ve no doubt he’s determined enough to find her. To follow through with his new threats.

  I pick up the crown of thorns and roses that sits next to me. There’s blood in the flowers now, scars on my forehead from wearing it before. But it doesn’t bother me in the least. It’s time I don it now, to wear for good. Its place of permanence is atop my head, and I will never be without it again.

  The time has come to claim my title.

  As I secure the crown, pushing the tightly wound band down onto my forehead, it draws blood again. Part of its charm.

  Accept the pain. Live in it. Breathe
it in.

  I smile, closing my eyes, and allow myself one last look through Jeremy. He’s pressed up against the wall, staying clear of the fighting, of the sharp ends of any weapons. His fingertips are spread wide over the chipping plaster and the rough stone of the building, and I can feel a vibration through them.

  Something in my head sings loud and familiar. Like the string of an instrument pulled and released, the note so close to reminding me of a song…

  A portal.

  Gus warned me that portals had opened back on Earth. That we weren’t able to seal up all the entrances. I can sense it near Jeremy, so close. He must be in close proximity to the doorway—which means the battle…

  I curse as I realize Gus’s read of the fates was more accurate than I ever expected.

  “Heaven will be overrun with angels,” he said.

  How much time do I still have?

  I don’t run as I make my way out of the garden and back to the palace. A queen doesn’t rush; she doesn’t dart about or scramble her things together. She takes her time, because she is not afraid. Because the fighting would not dare come near enough to touch her.

  Slamming through the front doors of the palace, I call out for Gus. It takes him a moment to find me, and when he does, he is a disaster. His dark hair sticks up in unruly tufts. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot, so dry that they’re pink. He’s unkempt, unshaven, and unstable. Fingers tap tap tapping on his leg. So he feels the bloody battle, too.

  “I believe it’s about time we collect our things and take our leave,” I say, walking toward my rooms.

  He rushes to keep up with me, always looking over his shoulder. As if he expects them to come barreling through the palace doors any moment now.

  “Gather what you need and prepare to return.”

  “Return?” he asks, distracted. Looking everywhere but at me.

  “To Hell,” I say, stepping into my bedroom and closing the door in his face.

  It’s time to go home and for me to claim my rightful spot on the dark throne.

  It’s time for me to rule.

  Pen

  WITHIN MINUTES OF THE START of the battle, I lose track of everyone I know except for Michael. It’s an absolute pandemonium of weapons and wings, swords and screams. Any tiredness that was left in me is immediately shaken off. There’s no time for mistakes.

  Kala and Ana disappear into the center of the fighting, and Eli follows close behind them. I think he’s still trying to keep an eye on Ana, worried about how she’ll handle herself when faced with the reality of fighting back. A few hours of sparring in the training room won’t be enough to prepare her for all of this.

  “Be safe!” I scream after them, but I don’t think they hear me, so I say a small, quiet prayer for them. The first prayer I’ve said in a very long time. I hope someone’s listening. Stay alive. Please, let them live.

  Michael takes my hand in his, and we dive deeper into the crowd. While scanning over the mess of soldiers, I catch Azael’s eye for a fraction of a second, and I need to get as far away from him as possible. Someone else can take care of him. There are plenty of others here who want to see him dead, so I’ll let them do it. I just don’t want to be there to see it. I can’t be there.

  If I can keep enough distance between me and Azael, it will mean a few things: First, he won’t be able to kill Michael; second, he won’t be able to kill me; and third, I won’t be forced to kill him. In the pit of my stomach, I know that today is the end of this all. One way or another—his death or mine—we’ll finish this. But if it’s even remotely possible, I don’t want to have to kill him myself. I can’t bare the guilt of having his blood on my hands, too. It’s too much for me.

  The joints of my hands are cold and stiff, but I take three daggers in each of them, positioning them between my fingers to use as a deadly addition to my punch. I don’t risk throwing any this early in the fight—I don’t have an unlimited supply of blades, and running out before the fighting stops could be deadly.

  Gunshots crack across the sky, and then thunder follows on its heels, like it’s mocking the small sound. I duck on instinct, expecting stray bullets to be flying at me. I imagine them whipping into my skull, tearing through bone and flesh and brains. But the gunshots aren’t close enough to us, the echo distorting their location.

  The ice is throwing off the way everyone fights. Even with the tread of boots, angels and demons go skidding across the slick surface. The snow does little to help, and in the deep spots where it comes up to soldiers’ shins, it slows them down.

  “Left!” I yell at Michael as a demon lunges, its claws out and its leathery skin tight across its ugly face.

  Without a moment of pause, Michael spins left and swings, his sword slicing the demon’s head off in one movement. The demon catches fire and turns to dust, dirtying the snow before even a drop of his blood spills.

  I shift so my back is to Michael’s, and we move through the melee, taking down as many enemies as we can. Methodical, detached. We are an efficient team fighting as one unit. He moves as I do, quick signals and clipped sentences telling us when to crouch down or step out of the way. We know how to survive like this. As a team, as a unit. Together, we’re something close to invincible.

  As we cut our way through the crowd, drawing the blood and taking the life of anyone who raises their blade against us, I try not to look into their eyes—I don’t want to see their hate and then the moment of fear when they realize what a mistake they’ve made by coming for me. My blades are wet with thick, black blood, but they still work well between my fingers, clenched tight in my fist. I don’t let my grip slip even a centimeter.

  A demon with long, autumn hair comes at me with a mallet, and I push Michael and myself out of the way. The swing of the heavy hammer throws her off-balance and she stumbles, slipping over the ice. She steps closer to me, and I slam my fist—blades and all—into her shoulder first and then deliver an uppercut, my daggers driving up into her chest. She’s dead in seconds.

  “Down,” Michael orders, and I drop to my stomach seconds before a tossed grenade flies over us. It clatters across the ice, rolling toward a group of angels fighting.

  “Move!” I warn them, but it’s too late.

  Michael covers me with his body as the grenade detonates and the ground is ripped apart. I close my eyes, not wanting to identify the falling debris. It doesn’t feel like only dirt and ice and rocks.

  The moment it’s safe, we jump back to our feet and run from the spot. Silently, we agree on where to concentrate our efforts. We find the group we saw practicing in the compound, the beginners who shared the training room we practiced in—the few who looked like they’d never held a weapon before in their life. Together, Michael and I help them fend off as many demons as we can. We can’t save all of their lives, and I’m incensed whenever one of them falls dead, but we make a difference. I keep having to tell myself that or I’ll lose my mind: We’re making a difference. More will live because we are here. Some fall, but others survive.

  We give them that chance to survive.

  One hour at a time. I repeat the mantra in my head. We have to make it through just one hour, and then the next. Stay alive. Fight back. Keep the others safe—as many as possible. We do what we can, and hopefully, it’s enough.

  When we dispose of the team of demons who were targeting the weakest of our fighters, we move on to the next, searching for more struggling New Genesis rebels to help, for more lives to save. At least this, I tell myself, isn’t death for the sake of death. It’s more than destruction—it’s destruction for preservation’s sake. We fight to keep them alive. It’s about more than just us now. I guess it’s always been about more than just us.

  When I glance over my shoulder, I swear that Eli is fighting with Azael, but then they’re swallowed by the crowd and I can’t be sure. Shoulders and wings and weapons block my view of the fight, and I have no idea how it will end. I just hope—if it is Eli—that he manages to surviv
e like he did in London. And I hope Ana and Kala are nowhere near him if he doesn’t.

  Let them get lucky again. Let the scales of fate tip in our favor this one last time.

  There’s a flash of heat to my left, and I think another explosion has been set off, flames spreading over the ice for an impossible second. But it’s not an explosion—and it’s not a fire. It’s a portal. It opens up and a pair of demons and angels fall through. More follow after them, and for a moment, I can see the golden gates of Heaven, rusted and crooked in their hinges. Beyond the gate, there’s the White Garden—or at least it almost looks like the garden. The roses are bloody, skinned of their beauty, but that has to be it. The paths I was once so familiar with are on the other side of the shimmering skein of a portal, and to the left, the palace.

  How is it so close?

  “Michael!” I call to him as he takes down two demons at once, leaving them in ashes.

  He turns toward me, worried. I point to the spot where I saw the portal open, but now, it’s nothing. Just the chipping plaster on the side of the New Genesis compound. Only the slight undulation of light lets me know I didn’t imagine it.

  “Portal! To Heaven!”

  He shakes his head. Another group of fighting demons spills through the portal and Michael sees it open for himself. Through the gaping hole in the wall is Heaven—there’s no arguing with the image. It’s not a trick of light, not wishful thinking. It’s real. True, it’s not as green as it once was—the vibrancy has been drained from it—but there’s no mistaking it for anywhere else but Heaven.

  “Do they know?” he yells over the fighting. “Do Kala and Ana know?”

  I loose one of my blades into a charging demon with curled horns before answering, “I don’t know.”

  I’d assume they do. It would be a good reason for choosing this otherwise unremarkable location to start building a resistance. Building a revolution right next to a doorway back to Heaven would give them easy access. A quick means of egress when the time comes that they can return. I remember what Barman said about the danger of spies slipping into Heaven to eavesdrop on Lucifer, on Lilith. He said that they’d be captured before they got much farther than the gate. Was that a simple guess, or had it happened? Had he sent someone through and they hadn’t come back?