Infinite

by Erica Crouch

  Azael smiles. “‘Hail, horrors, hail.’”

  Michael is faster now, his moves more precise. If I had thought the compulsion had a hold on him before, I knew nothing. This is him, submitted completely to Azael’s will. There’s no hesitation, no heaviness to his movements.

  He’s action and drive. He’s danger and death.

  I barely dodge the sword, and when he swings it around with the muscles of his back and shoulders engaged, I have to drop to the ground to avoid being halved. The metal of his sword pings gently and a pile of my hair lands next to me, inches shorn off. I roll to the side as he’s bringing his sword down, just as he did when we were practicing back at the compound.

  At least that’s one benefit I have that Azael doesn’t know about—Michael and I sparred so many times that I’m now familiar with his moves. Not only as someone who fought beside him, but as someone who fought against him.

  I know how he thinks, I know the way he fights. I just have to be his partner in this death dance long enough for him to find himself. If I don’t get too worn out, I think I can hold him off for a few hours. As long as it takes for him to beat the compulsion.

  He’ll do it. He has to find Azael’s compulsion.

  In my head, I recite poetry for him, hoping any of my words will be what snaps him out of this. I share poetry of stars, of snow. Of love and hate and war and peace. I give him ancient poems that are barely written in comprehensible language. I sing the songs of the past. Mostly, I repeat my favorite poems—the ones he’s heard before, late at night when we were tucked together, hiding from everything and everyone.

  Nothing works, and eventually, I have to start reciting my own poetry. Azael’s eyes sharpen on me, narrowing as he presses his lips together in a tight line of impatience. If nothing happens soon, he might step in and speed things along himself. I try to ignore him, though, as I compose new lines for Michael. Poems written from all of my secrets. He won’t recognize any of it, and I don’t think it will work, but I do it anyway. I have to. We’re out of options here, and I refuse to kill him.

  I throw the sword Azael gave me to the ground. It goes skittering to a stop near the tangled pendants on the floor. Flexing my fingers, I pull my daggers out instead. Two stocky blades that look like they were made for a hunter rather than a warrior. It’s riskier to fight with such short blades, but not for Michael. I’ll be the one accepting all the risk here. These weapons in my hands won’t kill him. They could only slow him down if it came to that. I just have to watch that none of my fingers get sliced off in the process.

  Michael’s movements become reluctant and heavy again, his sword no longer whipping through the air. It’s like he’s moving through water. He’s trying to rein his control in and root out the intruder in his head. As much as he can right now, he’s fighting back.

  “Come on, Michael,” I encourage him. “Don’t give up,” I beg him. Don’t leave me.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Azael whispering more to Michael’s soul. His face changes the moment the orders take control. Michael doesn’t break out of the compulsion anymore—not even for a second. His eyes are solid, glossy black. He looks at me without seeing me, and he attacks. And attacks and attacks and attacks. A fury of muscles and rage, his sword an extension of himself. I’m only able to maintain a pattern of defense as he continues his onslaught, unrelenting in his energy, in his brutality.

  With one great swipe of his sword, my daggers are knocked out of my hands. All other blades are too far out of reach for me to make any use of them. My back is to the throne, and I’m unarmed. Out of weapons, I raise my hands in a moment of surrender.

  “I love you,” I say again.

  There was no hope ever in sight, was there? I count the moments I had with him. There weren’t enough, but I was lucky to get any time with him at all. It will have to do.

  He’ll make it through this. He will see through the change we talked about, even if I’m not there to do it with him. We’ve come so far together—he can take this to the end. Kala and Ana might survive the war, and they’ll help him. They know what needs to be done to fix this.

  Michael doesn’t need me. He only needs to survive this.

  The muscle at his jaw bounces.

  “One hour at a time, remember?” My voice wobbles, but I blink the tears back. I’ve always hated goodbyes. “I think my hour’s up.”

  Michael’s face doesn’t shift. He stares at me, a mask of impenetrable fury. Still, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t strike out just yet. One last surge of strength from within gives me a breath longer with him.

  Killing me will destroy him, but I can’t stop it. This has always been the fate I’ve been running toward, even when I thought I was running away from it. I can’t stop any of this—can’t take away the burden he’ll have to carry with me gone. But there is one last thing I can do for him before I die.

  I can give him his freedom back.

  An unbreakable determination hardens in my still heart, and I turn from the throne, throwing myself toward Azael. I tear across the room and crash into my brother, pulling him into a hug. The first hug we’ve shared in too long; the last hug we’ll ever have. Michael’s boots clap across the ground behind me.

  “I’m so sorry you couldn’t have more,” I whisper into Azael’s ear. I hold him close to me and don’t let go. “I still love you, and I forgive you.”

  Azael

  PEN’S LOST. THE MOMENT SHE threw her sword down, I knew it was over. It’s just a matter of time now, and I watch patiently as Michael knocks away the last of her pathetic weapons. As if a pair of daggers could stand against an archangel sword.

  Michael has her trapped between him and the throne. She’s out of options—nowhere left to run. My throat is tight, and I nearly call out my goodbye to her. One last something she could take with her into oblivion, but I don’t know what to say, so I seal my mouth shut. I was never one for goodbyes anyway. Overly sentimental.

  I grind my teeth together, fighting the bile that rises up my throat.

  “I love you,” she says to Michael.

  Michael doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch.

  “One hour at a time, remember? I think my hour’s up.” Her raised hands slowly fall to her side. She’s giving up.

  Pathetic. A rage sprints through my veins; like lit gunpowder, it burns me up from the inside out. Pen did not lose this fight by accident. She planned it.

  A stupid, worthless martyr who will mean nothing to the world. She’ll die; she’ll be forgotten. And once Michael realizes what he’s done, he’ll kill himself too. Two worthless lives out of my way. Their rebellion will be crushed. Lucifer’s will completed, even after his death.

  I don’t know what changes, but Pen lifts her chin. She doesn’t look defeated anymore. She looks…determined—triumphant. Like she’s already won. And suddenly, she’s running toward me, throwing herself into my arms, and I catch her on instinct. Because I’ve always caught her. Easy as a reflex.

  She wraps her arms around me and pulls me into a tight hug. I can’t help but hug her back, a moment of weakness I allow myself here with her. Where no one can see, where no one would care. My sister smells like blood and sweat, and when she whispers in my ear, I know I’ve made a mistake. I don’t want her dead. I never wanted her dead.

  What have I done?

  “I’m so sorry you couldn’t have more,” she says, her words frantic.

  Blood from an open cut on her face drips down onto my shoulder. The sound of Michael’s advancing on us is distant. It’s miles away.

  “I still love you,” she whispers, “and I forgive you.”

  She kisses my cheek and holds me close to her. The first real expression of affection I’ve ever felt, and I think I understand what she was always going on about. That there is more to life than death.

  Never have I felt like I’ve missed out on something so important. For the first time, I notice the hole that’s been in my chest, the missing piece of mysel
f. Desperately, I wish I could rewind time, get back the years I’ve wasted.

  Pen doesn’t let go of me as Michael charges toward us. Too late I realize what she’s done.

  I’m about to tell her everything—admit my secrets, that I never wanted her dead, that I don’t even have the capacity to hate her—but I never get the chance.

  “Wait—”

  Michael’s sword pierces through her back, and she holds me tighter, a small gasp escaping her lips before she starts choking on blood as black as ink. The sword slides through us both, right under our ribs, and the burning begins before I get a chance to apologize, to take it back.

  It’s too late.

  I’m always too late.

  There are infinite ways to die; I get the privilege of dying with the forgiveness of my sister, wrapped up in her arms. I was given one last goodbye before the flames claim me as their own.

  I fall to the ground with Pen next to me. The fire starts where my heart once was, and through the ashes in my eyes, I see Michael’s face clear, his eyes return to normal. He pulls the archangel sword out of us. His legs turn to water and he spills to the ground, but it doesn’t put out the flames.

  He pulls Pen away from me and onto his lap—but I want her closer to me. She’s mine, my sister. He buries his face in her hair, cries over the wound that stole her away from him. The wound he caused.

  The wound I caused.

  The doors of the throne room are thrown open, and the silhouette of a crooked angel storms inside. Her muffled curse is the last thing I hear.

  The vial of Michael’s soul slips out of my hand and spills across the ground. The fires that consume me takes what’s left of his soul as well.

  Lilith

  HELL WELCOMES ME BACK WITH a stuttering silence. The noise of the battle in Heaven—the restless death of so many rebels and panicked angels—is abruptly stopped and replaced by the absolute stillness of an empty underworld.

  I step forward and run my hands across the icy walls. The soles of my feet sting from the cold floor, but I relish the burn. I see Hell through new eyes. There are no more limitations down here for me. No rules to follow, no overseer to answer to. There is not a soul in this universe that can tell me what I can and cannot do now.

  I am the law. I am the final word.

  I am the queen.

  Gus shuffles behind me, murmuring to himself as the entrance of Hell becomes overcrowded with bodies. Large, hulking forms of soldiers pulled from battle overtake the space. Blood pools on the frozen ground, sizzling as it hits the ice. The demons begin talking amongst themselves, and a select few conversations surface above the others.

  Already, I hear whispers of discontent. Of confusion. Those in Heaven, who bore witness to my proclamation of Lucifer’s death—who saw Lucifer’s rotting head for themselves—fill in the others in clipped sentences. The call has gone out for all demons to return to Hell.

  Those still loyal to the darkness are to crawl back home, lick their foolish wounds, and regroup. Today is not our fight; now is not our time to rise. We are to start building up a new resistance before we try anything so brazen again.

  “Lilith,” Gus whispers at my heel, “we should get you to the antechambers. Prepare some sort of…of speech.”

  Pivoting on my heel, I scan the scarred bodies of soldiers. A few violet eyes meet mine. They notice the severed head I am still holding by the hair and look down, a sign of respect to their new sovereign.

  Queens give speeches. Queens cement their power as quickly as possible. But I won’t do so in the doorway of Hell. It’s not nearly as dignified of a scene as it should be. I want something more formal, something elegant and grand.

  Abaddon paces forward, careful to keep a respectful distance if I decide I do not want him near. I nod him forward.

  He kneels again, bows his head. “My queen.”

  “Stand,” I order him. “I will be taking up residence in the antechambers.” I should claim Lucifer’s old quarters as mine as soon as possible to make it clear, beyond a doubt, who will be sitting on the throne now that he is gone. The last thing I need is someone else vying for the crown. I’ve been challenged and held back for long enough.

  “Yes, my queen.”

  “Gus will be with me,” I say, sliding my eyes over to him.

  He stiffens and adjusts the stack of books he’s holding. I’m not done with him just yet—I still want my fates read.

  Lucifer’s obsession with the future doesn’t seem as ridiculous to me now. Everyone is a potential threat. There are no guarantees I will survive to the next day, what with so many enemies hungry to take my place.

  “Tell the others to clean up and make themselves presentable,” I say to Abaddon. “Let everyone know that there will be a feast at the anti-hour. Their new queen will preside over the celebration.”

  Abaddon tips his chin down in acknowledgement, stands at attention, and leaves me so he may begin spreading the word.

  With one more look over my broken and battered children, I turn away from the obsidian gates of Hell and make my way toward the antechambers.

  The transition from Lilith Lucifer’s concubine to Lilith the queen will not be seamless. I expect pushback. I expect others to question my competency, my right to claim the throne.

  All anyone has ever seen me as is the quiet, submissive demon who floated by the devil’s side with a stormy smile. After performing the charade for so many millennia, it will be difficult to change their opinions of me so quickly. Undoing the unintentional damage I’ve inflicted on my character will take time—time I’m not sure I have.

  I will have to do something bold. Something to silence any dissent immediately. Any inch of weakness will give them cause to question me further, to challenge me. I will allow nothing but strength.

  Holding court over a lavish dinner will reward them for their service, and when they see Lucifer’s severed head sitting on my plate, I expect my claims to be believed. A corpse has a way of erasing disbelief.

  With Gus at my side, I follow the twisting passages down, deeper into Hell, deeper into the ground. We pass the dining hall, the all-but-empty armory, and the training room that is uncharacteristically quiet. All of our fighters were above ground, wreaking havoc on Earth. No one stayed behind to spar; there was fresh blood to be spilled elsewhere.

  Already, I hear the demons returning to their routines. The screeches and screams of the injured being treated—bones pushed back into place, blood being exchanged and replenished. The echoes of footsteps, wings, and doors opening and closing bounce around the cavernous channels that wind through Hell like blood vessels.

  When we reach the end of the hallway that slopes down to the lowest part of Hell, I stop. A pair of giant doors stretch before me, from the floor all the way up to the high, shadowy ceiling.

  The doors are fashioned from bones, old skeletons fused together by the darkest of magic. The energy of the trapped souls buzzes, the faces caught mid scream still looking so much like they are in pain. The fear that is bound to this door thrills me to the core, and I can’t help but reach out and trace an unhinged jaw. Two empty, hollowed sockets of a dark skull stare back at me.

  “Welcome back,” Gus says. “My queen,” he grits out.

  I smile and push through the two heavy doors. They are silent on their hinges, which I find mildly disappointing, but that disappointment is replaced immediately by exhilaration when I spot the dark throne in the center of the room.

  For being in the deepest section of Hell, the room is relatively bright. The way the blue, veined ice shines and chases the shadows away always surprises me. It would be expected that the throne room of the devil would be all dark and dreary, but it’s crisp and bright and cold. Beautiful.

  Here, in the first of several antechambers of the annex, the ceiling is tall. So tall that the room is both the farthest down in Hell but also the closest to the surface. The walls of the room curve inward, bending together to a sort of funnel at the top. If
it’s quiet enough, legend says that, when you sit on the throne, you can hear all the screams of those suffering on Earth. The room’s a conduit for pain, a channel that directs the devil where to push his advance next.

  Her advance.

  The only darkness in the entire chamber is the throne itself, which is black and unforgiving. It is fashioned out of solid, black metal, bent and snarled. The twisted iron reminds me of smoke blown away on the wind or the spirit of a soul pulled into a vessel against its will. It’s possessed.

  I slowly climb the few steps up to the throne. Closing my eyes, I sit down, and the rough edges of the metal slice my skin open. More blood spills on my ivory dress. I open my fist from Lucifer’s white hair and his head drops to the ice with a thump. It teeters for a second before rolling forward and bouncing down the steps, only to come to a rest at Gus’s feet. He steps back a few paces.

  “Well…” I breathe. “How do I look?”

  “Fearsome,” Gus says, keeping his eyes on the cover of his book.

  “Excellent.”

  Taking that as a sort of dismissal, Gus hurries out of the throne room, back through a dark archway. There’s the distant noise of him unloading his books from his arms, scattering the bound titles of fates—future and past—across the tables he’s always worked at. I’ve watched him work, bent over so many texts throughout the years, in the smaller room back there. How many times did I wish he were reading under my order? And now, finally, he will be.

  The throne is not comfortable, but it’s not meant to be. Serving as queen is not supposed to be pleasant. Power is not sweet; it is bitter and cold. It is dangerous. It is addicting. I have to remember all I hold in my hands, all I could lose lest I become careless.

  Lucifer was careless. Even the way he sat on this damn throne was negligent. He lounged, he sprawled, he stuck his arrogant feet up on the arms of the throne and dangled his thoughtless head over its back. He grew comfortable as he sat here and relished in any small sliver of excitement. Boredom made even the smallest news seem worthy of his ear.