by Erica Crouch
I imagine Lucifer’s headless body behind the golden throne, decomposing on the perfect, clean marble.
I look at Michael, not wanting to watch the madness eat away what’s left of my brother. The Azael I once knew is slowly disappearing right in front of me. I can hear it in the shaky way he whispers to himself, the frantic beat of his boots against the floor. How long has he been coming undone like this?
Then I hear Azael’s sword clatter to the ground, and I look at him again. I think he’s decided to finally listen to me—to lay down his weapons and try to make amends. He can still return to Hell, serve Lilith, if he just walks away now. No more lives lost, no more fighting. His back is to us, his shoulders hunched forward.
Slowly, he straightens. He spins around, a terrible expression spilling across his sharp, shadowy features. This is not the face of someone ready to surrender, to ask for mercy. To beg forgiveness. This is the face of a monster.
He pulls the second sword off his back, the thinner version of his own sword, the one with the pale-green gem affixed to the top.
My sword.
He lays it on the ground and slides it over to me. It scrapes along the marble, and I stop it with my foot.
“This is yours, by the way,” he says, suddenly calmer. He even smiles. It’s the worst smile I’ve ever seen. “As is this.” He pulls my pendant from his neck, rips the chain off, and tosses it to me.
I don’t bother catching it. I let it clatter to the floor and skid across the room, forgotten. Abandoned. I don’t want to be tied to him anymore. Not in any way.
His face darkens for an instant at my refusal of his gifts.
“Azael, there’s nothing left to fight for,” I tell him. “What do you want?”
“I WANT YOU TO CHOOSE ME!”
His pain is raw and red in his voice. So obvious, and he’s petrified for a moment. He freezes, watches my face, and then quickly looks away when he sees my expression. He eyes my amulet on the floor, grinding his teeth. Tearing his gaze away from it, he gestures to the sword again.
“Pick it up,” he says. He pulls his black armor off, rummaging through its hidden compartments and pockets before tossing it in a heap in front of the throne. “You’re going to need it.”
Michael tilts his head, readjusts his sword.
From under one of the breastplates, Azael pulls out the vial with Michael’s soul. He kicks the last of his armor out of the way and holds the vial out for us to see, smiling.
“Did you get my messages?” he asks, cocking his eyebrow up on his forehead.
Neither Michael nor I answer.
Azael’s eyes harden and his mouth falls into a flat, insolent line. With his thumb, he uncorks the top and lowers his mouth to it as if he’s going to drink Michael’s soul. But instead, he whispers to it.
“Auscultant et obediunt…”
Lilith
I WILL RELISH THE LOOK on Azael’s face for centuries. How did he ever expect to sit as King of Hell? What made him feel as though he were worthy? He wasn’t even aware when his Dark Lord fell. He didn’t sense the shift of power, never felt the danger that sat next to him at the table, the danger that shared his bed at night. In that regard, he is very similar to Lucifer.
Blind. Arrogant.
Their patriarchal rule has come crashing to a destructive end. It’s time someone with competency is in charge.
Azael was so surprised to see me sitting in the throne. And even then, it didn’t sink in. He still searched for Lucifer, wondered where he’d stepped off to, and assumed I was waiting for him to return. That was why I decided to take my time with him, to pick at the fraying edges of his sanity, which was already coming quite undone.
I don’t wait for anyone anymore.
He looked so desperate when I told him that Lucifer was gone. When I ushered him around the throne and swept my arm wide to reveal my fun little surprise, I thought he’d be sick. I thought he’d collapse. Or yell. Well, I suppose he did yell—but that came later. After the shock.
I wonder if he saw Lucifer’s black veins under his papery skin and thought the same thing I did: that it would be great fun to pull them from his body and wear them like jewelry. Ropes of thin, slippery blood channels looped around my neck. The decoration of my kill.
Gus waits for me, pressed up against the wall of the palace. Through the open window above us, Azael’s voice booms, shaking with anger and guilt and shame. Another failure to tally, another choice to make. I toss Lucifer’s head to Gus and he catches it on top of his stack of books. His face scrunches in distaste, but he says nothing.
“Are the fates still reading in our favor?” I ask before we leave.
The last time he read from the books, our future looked much clearer. Everything else was blotchy, like it was written in watered-down ink, but our path cut a solid-black stain through the gray.
We are to survive tonight. I will be installed in Hell. Thousands—millions—will bend knee to me. Survivors, soldiers, my new children.
Azael and Penemuel… Well, Gus still believes they will both meet their respective ends here tonight. Their stories have stopped. They’ve reached the final page of their book. I’m half tempted to hang back and see how it happens—I’d love to witness the way Azael’s spiral pulls them both down. I’m sure the implosion will be spectacular.
But I’ve better things to do. Now is not the time to gloat; I have to gather my soldiers and return to Hell.
“Yes,” Gus says. “The fates still hold.” His voice is uneven, but he clears his throat and regains some control. “The soldiers will turn to you once they know the fight is of no concern to the demons of Hell. Some may stay to cause a bit more chaos, roll a few more heads”—he grimaces at his word choice—“but they will come to you in the end. Back to Hell.”
“And the twins?”
Gus shakes his head. “Nothing more. This is their final page.”
The one fixed point in both of their lives and they walked right up to it. Ran to it, practically. Try as Pen might have to avoid it all, she still ended up exactly where she needed to be. They will destroy one another. If they had just let go earlier, if one of them had just killed the other sooner, maybe one of them could have survived.
It’s too late now.
“Farewell, Azael,” I whisper under my breath as I leave the palace behind.
My first child was a daughter. At the time, I didn’t realize that every offspring I bore would be female. I couldn’t remember who her father was—all the men’s faces blurred together in one banal image that reminded me too much of Adam.
She was perfect. Beautiful. Neither human nor demon, but both. Pale as a beast’s fangs, with hair as black as the pit of the ocean, she had tiny fingers, a knowing smile, and the biggest eyes I’ve ever seen. Like she was trying to open them as wide as she could so she wouldn’t miss a moment. She must have known then that she wouldn’t see much. There wasn’t enough time.
I held her in my arms for three minutes before she died. I held her another three days before I let anyone take her away from me. She grew cold, so I wrapped her in more blankets, pressed her against my still chest. But she wasn’t able to survive in Hell. There was too much that was human inside her. Rigor set in, and her large eyes clouded over.
Three minutes. That was the longest any demon-born child had ever lived until then. My little girl, the first of my Lilim.
It nearly destroyed me when she left. I don’t know how long my screams echoed down those icy hallways of Hell before I scraped myself back together again. One by one, the vertebrae of my spine clicked back into their places, stiff and straight—bones made of iron—and I left my room. I marched to Lucifer and requested to be given another chance.
Convincing him wasn’t difficult. A smile here, a touch there, and a few cleverly chosen words. If I could have children, I could help him build up his army of demons faster. He’d have a new breed of monsters—a new threat the angels wouldn’t know how to deal with.
&nbs
p; They could be the tipping point of his lifelong war.
He sent me on my way, and I didn’t linger to see if he’d change his mind. If he’d realize that giving me this much power could be unwise.
Back on Earth, the men were easy prey. They willingly fell victim to me, submitting absolutely. I would leave them with a vague memory of our encounter, but specifics were omitted. Like the way the glow of my golden eyes was swallowed by a flicker of blackness. Or how my teeth were just slightly too sharp, my nails a little too curved, like talons.
This time, I bore the children on Earth. One lived. And then a second, a third, a fourth. They grew quickly, adapted fast. They survived. They did more than just that though—they thrived. With my blood pulsing through their bodies—so alive, so strong—they developed the skills of Hell. They had the strength and speed of any demon. Soulless, but with beating hearts.
For years, I continued creating my family. My daughters, all wan in color. Never again did I bring a daughter with black hair into the world. Never again did I find a child with the same intelligence in her eyes as my first. But still, I loved all of my children. They grew to be the epitome of everything I worked for.
They lived longer than three minutes. Much longer. But all too soon, they all began dying.
On Earth, they stood a chance to live full lives, but it was still the life of a human. Their fathers’ mortality clung to them like soot. Filth.
The Lilim aged quickly through the stages of childhood, and then their life dragged slowly—like they were wading through congealing blood. Their strongest years were their longest years, and then, as quickly as they grew up into the strong warriors I had always dreamt of, they deteriorated.
Their bones cracked. Wrinkles dug into their hands and faces. Their strength was sapped, and their eyes grew milky. Then they died. One by one, I lost my children again. They had one single flaw: their mortality.
I began again, faster this time. Lucifer asked for more children of the night, and I gave them to him. I wanted them, too.
I stole into men’s bedrooms in the middle of the night. Sometimes, they were alone; sometimes, their wives slept in a slightly too-still state next to them. They’d wake up the next morning with a strange dream about a creature born from the moon. Not one would tell their wives. Not one would mention it to their girlfriends, their coworkers. It was just a dream. They never knew about the children—the beautifully monstrous creatures—they helped me create.
Hundreds of Lilim roamed the Earth. They brought the kind of terror I had buried deep in my heart. They were magnificent.
And then came the Nephilim. The angels’ response to this new species of demons. Demi-demons. Heaven had frantically tried to use the angels against my daughters, but they couldn’t fight them without drawing the attention of man.
Every move they made against the Lilim was too obvious, as my children lived amongst man and the angels were forbidden to expose their presence to humans. The Lilim appeared entirely human—though they were far from it—and were able to live like any mortal without raising much suspicion. But when the purity of Earth is threatened, the angels always find a way to fight back.
I would call the Nephilim poor plagiarism of my work. Mixing the ancient angels’ blood with man, bearing children who were not quite human, not quite angels.
The Nephilim tore through my children with ease. Their blood was purer, older, stronger, and hot with the fire of Heaven. All of my daughters fell.
When Lucifer heard of the destruction, he sent other demons out in an attempt to fight back. To try to do what I had already done: bear more children. This time, with older blood. Blood that could match the strength of the angels’ Nephilim.
But the female demons he sent only killed the human men they preyed on. They were poison and death when it came to the act of intimacy. The male demons were not much better. Those who managed to not kill the human women they bedded only created stillborns. Babies who came ripping out of their weak human hosts silent and still, gray and blue.
I couldn’t stand seeing the destruction. The death of so many children of Hell.
Until recently, I swore I would never bring another child to life. No more demi-demons. No Lilim who shared my blood. But then Lucifer showed me the virus Hell had created, and it had the capability of spreading my blood—creating my children—fast enough to fight back against the Nephilim. And I would no longer have only daughters: I would have, for the first time, sons.
How dare Lucifer have given me such a gift only to steal it away from me again. He’s lucky I didn’t have enough time to draw his death out. I would have shown him everything torture could truly encompass. He had never known real, absolute, unbearable pain; not like I have.
I’m ready to begin again. The Lilim will rise—not today, not tomorrow, but soon. I’ll wait. I have the loyal servants of Hell anticipating my return. They will placate me for now.
Gus stumbles after me as I lead the way through Heaven, away from the palace and toward the golden gates. Not far from where we landed outside the window of the throne room, we spot the fighting. Demons and angels—rebels and those belonging to Hell—knot together and pull apart, bloody and broken.
The grass under my feet is cool with dew, and the blood at my temples—drawn by my crown of thorns—is still hot. It tickles my cheeks as it runs down my face in slow rivulets, dripping down my shoulders and onto my dress. I take Lucifer’s severed head from the top of Gus’s stack of books.
Raising my chin high, I step forward. Gus keeps close behind me. Some of the fighting nearest us slows and then pauses. My fingers knotted in his white hair, I raise Lucifer’s lifeless head for all to see.
One by one, recognition takes hold of everyone’s faces. Lucifer—as decayed as he is, and without his angular, suited body—is hard to identify immediately. But it doesn’t take long for people to realize. Even in death, Lucifer’s terrible face is unmistakable.
“Lucifer is dead,” I announce, smiling out at the blood-covered soldiers, frozen in the midst of battle. “Hell is mine.”
Abaddon steps up. He’s thick with muscles, his armor bulging around his strong shoulders. Quickly, he takes to his knee in genuflection, his face turned down for the briefest moment before he looks up at me and grins. “Long live the queen.”
I lower Lucifer’s putrefying head to my side, and in the same moment, Abaddon stands up. He spins, almost faster than I can follow, and drags his blades through a group of angels standing too near to him. Suddenly, the interruption of the battle is over, and the fighting resumes.
Demons slice the rebels apart with quick, brutal efficiency. I walk through them casually, my ripped skirt billowing out behind me. Once they’re done with their kills, the soldiers fall into step after me, their shoulders pushed back, their eyes stoic. My soldiers.
When they see their queen in her brilliant crown and bloody, silk dress, they turn away from the now fruitless fight, their teeth bared, to escort me back home. Lucifer’s head beats a steady rhythm against my leg as I walk through the gates and flash through a second portal cut through the veil of the dominion.
Azael
THE WORLD IS SO FULL of unnecessary people. It is my job to erase them. No one has to order me to do so; I know that it’s what I’m meant to do. It’s the only purpose my life has anymore. Cleansing what’s left—the traitors, the liars, the cowards.
They all deserve to die. I’ll even escort them to the darkness beyond this life myself if that’s what it comes to.
When I pull the vial with the piece of Michael’s soul from my sleeve, all the light drains out of his face. He feels it, then. How tenuous his grip of control is. How close he is to losing everything he’s come to value—to…love.
I whisper to his soul. “Auscultant et obediunt”—listen and obey.
Pen moves an inch forward like she’s going to make a run at me to try to grab the vial out of my hands, but she holds back. I’ve already begun. She keeps looking back at Mich
ael, waiting for it to happen. The shift from free will to servant.
“I love you,” she tells him, and I bark a laugh. “You can fight it, remember?”
Michael shakes his head, his jaw tight, his shoulders tense. Anticipatory. He gulps and whisper back to Pen, his voice a raspy scratch of notes. “I love you, too.”
I roll my eyes. Such simple, meaningless words. But they speak them with such weight, and they don’t look away from one another, even at the involuntary sound I make at their disgraceful admission. Now’s not the time to dwell in their little fantasy world; Michael’s soul is in my command. They should be begging for mercy—or, at the very least, facing me, ready to fight. But instead, they just stare at one another. A prolonged, silent conversation.
My face gets hot, my restraint slipping. The longer Pen looks at him, the more she waits by his side to make sure he’s okay before she turns her attention back to fight me, the less I hold on to the idea of letting her live. She enrages me and I creep closer toward hysteria.
She doesn’t know how foolish she looks. She doesn’t know how much she’s changed!
The sister I knew is gone, and I’m completely alone. Maybe I always was.
“I offered you the world, Pen,” I say, my voice cutting across the room. I presented her with everything we’ve ever wanted—power, notoriety, a chance to lead and make a difference—but she gave it up. All of it.
She gave me up.
“I didn’t want your world, Azael.” Finally, she turns to me, but only slightly. Just enough to see both me and Michael at the same time. She won’t even give me the dignity of facing me when she talks. There’s always Michael, taking up room that once belonged to me.
Pen looks between us warily. She’s waiting for me to pull the trigger on my new weapon, to have him detonate. My fingers twitch, anxious to unleash him. I have a thousand commands vying in my head for dominance. What will I order him to do first?