by Erica Crouch
I recall the way Lucifer would circle those who came to deliver news or beg for mercy. It was always so absurd. He believed it intimidating to breathe down the neck of his supplicants; I found it simple, a gesture that made him seem unrefined. It was not scary or intimidating to see a leader leave his throne. That he would deign to descend those stairs and stand on their level was embarrassing. He was no king—but a jester. A fool.
I will never make such transgressions. All of those who come to speak to me, to behold me in this throne, will stay below me, on their knees. I will watch over them from above, hand down my orders and sentences from the throne I will never abandon. Not unless I have a good reason for it.
After taking another minute or two to relish in my newfound power—the feeling of absolute control I have from sitting on this dark throne—I stand to join Gus in one of the adjoining rooms. Sure enough, he’s taken over his cubby again. The tables pushed against the walls are covered in open books, and a thick line of ink runs from page to page, leaping across the texts. Gus is running between the books, checking spines, flipping to bookmarked sections. There’s one stool pulled up to the last book in the line, and when he reaches it, he sits.
“I am not blind, Gus,” I say. “Nor deaf. I realize I will face doubt.”
He nods, his eyes unfocused. “You heard them whispering,” he says.
The word of those in Heaven who saw me with Lucifer’s head meant very little to the skeptics. And there are many who are wary of my reign. Rumors have been rippling across Earth since I killed Lucifer, but smart soldiers know that rumors are only worth the proof available to back a claim up. Especially a claim as significant as mine: that I have dispatched Lucifer and will take his throne as my own.
Bringing his corpse back would have been better, but lugging a dead body around can be so cumbersome. His head will do. After all, isn’t that what he requested of Azael? To bring him his archangel brother’s head on a silver platter? I’ll have it served to me at the banquet, up on my dais. His milky eyes will watch over his former servants.
“Tell me I can assert my power,” I say, peeking over Gus’s shoulder. There’s no making sense of the scribbles in his books. The ink coalesces into gibberish.
Gus runs his finger across a page, stands up, and follows the line of text back a few books. Then he scratches his jaw and runs his hand through his hair. He leaves ink stains on his cheeks.
“You’ll be using his head as authentication, correct?”
“Demons seem to like theatrics,” I say. “And it will be one way to immediately silence those who think he still lives. I want it known, beyond a doubt, that Lucifer is dead. Because of me.”
He nods. “No matter your proof, there will always be those who doubt his death,” he says. “The circumstances of it or the truth of it at all. Even with his head, there will continue to be those who are faithful to him—blind hope that it’s a ruse and he will one day reappear. They may stay silent about their devotion, but he will always have acolytes. Be cautious.”
I bite the inside of my cheek until it bleeds. If I can root out the disbelievers, I will flay them alive. Their heads can join Lucifer’s up on my table.
“There won’t be many,” Gus says, “and they will be quiet. They don’t appear to pose a threat.”
“Yet,” I say under my breath.
If you let such thoughts go on for long enough, they will become whispers of rebellion. Of irreverence. Lucifer let Pen continue unchecked, untouched, and look at all she managed to do.
“Yet,” Gus repeats. “We can keep monitoring it.”
“Do you have names?” I ask. “Of the doubters?”
“It doesn’t work like that,” he says.
I roll my eyes at the unreliability of fates. The future is a fickle, frustrating thing.
“We will monitor it,” he says again. “But the fate I’m seeing now that is of note is your own…” After sliding his finger across a darker string of text, he pauses and looks up at me.
“Go on.”
“Your future splits in two tonight. In one version, you secure control of the throne and acquire the trust and respect of those who will serve you. But in the second…” He takes the smallest step away from me. “In the second, you fail. There’s a mutiny, and you’re killed at the banquet. Hell falls into chaos without anyone on the throne. Demons return to Earth, unorganized, thoughtless. They rip the world apart until they’re eliminated.”
I’m silent.
“The angels will regain their footing no matter what happens here tonight. But without you to hold back the armies of Hell—without some order and…and someone effective on the throne—the demons may very well become extinct. They wouldn’t be able to fight off man’s army, nor the army of Heaven.”
“So I will not fail,” I say, turning away from him. “I haven’t failed yet.”
I’m returning to the throne room, leaving Gus to his books, when I catch his last, whispered warning.
“Yet.”
At the chiming of the anti-hour, a pulse of energy shoots through Hell. The veil between the worlds is so thin that a simple tap would puncture the bubble of space that separates Hell from Earth, and Earth from Heaven, apart. Three long peals of a bell are followed by the sound of thousands of beasts settling down at collected dining tables. Knives sharpened, claws bared, teeth ready to tear apart meat and soft, molding fruits and cheeses.
Heaven had banquets, I’ve heard. They served fresh food though; Hell prefers the spoiled. Flies buzz around the dining hall, weaving between the wings and misshapen figures of monsters—some beautiful, some unflinchingly ugly.
Gus and I are the last to arrive. With my prize hidden in a stained canvas bag, Gus walks up to the dais, sits himself at a chair off-center, and waits. I take my time in the doorway, relishing the way every head turns my way. Glowing pairs of eyes—all violent violet—land on me. The word queen ripples through the crowd, and I lift my chin higher. The blood from my crown of thorns has dried on my face by now. It itches and cracks when I smile.
As I move from the door toward my table on the raised platform, the silence in the room fades back into noisy conversation. Attention is still half pinned on me. Demons keep their bodies pointed toward those they are speaking with, but their faces keep turning to mine as if on impulse. They can’t bear to look away from me for long.
“Drink, Gus,” I say, pushing a chalice of warm wine to him. It’s dry and bitter, and when it dribbles down my chin, I don’t bother searching for a napkin. The stain it leaves on my dresses blends in perfectly with the blood.
Gus gulps his drink and pours himself more. His hands shake, and he conspicuously leaves the food stacked on his plate untouched. Instead, he gorges himself on alcohol. It seems to slightly calm his tremors. The canvas sack with Lucifer’s head waits on the ground by his feet.
The celebration goes well past the hour, with soldiers exchanging stories of slaughter. I hear about fallen angels who fought off the angels they once knew in Heaven or newer souls. Demons who faced off against brothers and friends they always suspected of weakness. No one seems to be questioning why we are celebrating—as the win Lucifer promised them has been undone. I’ve rescinded our power in Heaven, left it to the angels.
Again, eyes turn to the dais. Fangs curl around mouths that repeat the rumors about Lucifer. The room is loud with ruckus, liberation, and doubt.
It’s time.
I rise from the high-back chair I’m sitting in and push my empty plate to the side. Lifting a silver chalice full of more wine, I call the room to attention. It doesn’t take much for the silence to fall.
“Soldiers,” I say. My voice is soft but resolute. Strong. I make eye contact with the important figures in the crowd.
Abaddon raises his own glass to me before he takes a sip.
“This battle is over, but the war is not concluded. It will never be finished as long as there are angels there to spoil our fun.”
Cheers ring out,
underscored by a thousand hands beating down on the tables. The cutlery rattles.
“But Heaven is not ours. We do not belong there—nor should we want to belong! Hell is our home. Our action was…preemptive. Our former leader was foolhardy and selfish. His intention was to avenge himself, not those who served him. Lucifer was only looking to better his own standing. Where did that leave you?” I look around the room. “What did it leave any of us?”
The creaking sound of bodies shifting on wooden benches fills the heavy, awkward silence.
“Let the rumors rest,” I say.
With a gesture to Gus, the canvas bag lands in front of me with a dull thud. I untie the top, and Lucifer’s head comes rolling out. Again, I grip the head by his stringy, white hair. I lift it high for everyone to see, let the silence stretch out as the connection between this sunken, atrophying face and the once terrible and handsome face of Lucifer is made.
The room bristles with surprise. With joy. With agitation.
“The devil is dead,” I say over all the voices.
Gus shifts in his chair, uncomfortable. He averts his eyes from the severed head.
“By my hand,” I continue, “after I discovered his true plans. His mission was one of blind fury, of personal vengeance. He was making a mockery of Hell by putting us in a war we were not ready to win. The fates said just the same, yet he chose to ignore them because he is shortsighted. Hell is nothing he believed it to be.”
Some groups are nodding. I drop Lucifer’s head and it bounces off the table. Just like it did in the throne room, it rolls down the steps, away from the dais. It lands a few feet away from a shapeshifter, who lifts it up in his hands. He drags a claw over Lucifer’s papery skin and curls a lip back in disgust. He passes the head to the warrior sitting next to him, and everyone takes a moment to stare into the pale eyes of their former king.
“Who would serve this fool?” I say, arching an eyebrow. “Or the boy-king he appointed in his steed? Azael was one of the fallen, yet his only concern was for his sister. He was weak. He would always be weak whether she were alive or dead.”
A hiss rises in the crowd. Groups of demons putting their tongues to the back of their teeth to express their disapproval. Azael was liked by many, but it’s all too easy to turn them against him. Too many saw the desperation he had to save his sister. No one respects a sentimental turncoat.
“I will not be weak,” I declare. “Not for a moment.”
“Says Adam’s wife,” comes a voice. “A delicate human.”
Narrowing my eyes, I find the speaker. An older demon, dark as a wraith with blistered skin. Before he blinks, I have picked up my dinner fork and thrown it at him. The four prongs of the utensil hit the mark, burying into his iris. There’s the sound of his eyeball popping, and then he screams. And he dares to call me delicate?
“Not anymore,” I say.
He continues to scream, and no one goes to his aid as he writhes around on the floor in pain.
“What was left of Adam is now gone.” Pausing to sip from my chalice, I allow the room to digest this. I set the cup down loudly and continue. “I will not tolerate any doubt or insolence. The childish behavior of Hell has passed. It’s time we become all that we can: monsters no man could ever dream of. The pain the world once knew—the fear, the torment—will be nothing compared to what will come. We will bring the end. But we will have to wait. The apocalypse cannot be rushed. Follow me and you will succeed in all that you do. I swear to it.”
I count to thirty before anyone moves. Again, it’s Abaddon who is the first to speak. He hauls himself to standing and clomps a boot up on the bench. Then he climbs up to stand on the table.
“Long live the queen!”
There’s a moment of quiet—of complete stillness—and here, I swear I can see the two futures unfolding. If I were a diviner like Gus, I’d be able to see the two sparkling paths of fate. Which will they choose to walk down?
Pen
‘’TIS SAID, THAT SOME HAVE died for love…’
Death is so much quieter than I thought it would be. I don’t scream, don’t shout out for someone or something to welcome me into whatever darkness I’m sure will greet me. I have no one and nothing to call for anyway.
In death, I have no words. They spill out of my veins, ink and blood pooling under me as I’m burned away before turning very, incredibly cold.
It hurts a lot less than I deserve. The agony of the fire is indescribable, but I beg for more, enticing the flames forward. I should have more. I want to feel the retribution of all I have done—all the lives I took, all the lives I couldn’t save, those I let down. Let it consume me. Let it destroy me.
I’m so sorry.
I ignite. The heat licks away at every inch of my being—physical, mental, everything. A line of fire shoots backward through my past, engulfing every inciting memory I have. I can feel it melting away all of my sins, cleansing me in the blazing heat of Heaven. It leaves me in tatters.
So this is what it is like, I find myself distantly musing, to face the blade of an archangel.
It’s the final thought I have. Everything is wiped clean. When the flames die, there’s nothing left of me. Azael’s deep, tormented scream tears through the last of my consciousness, and then it’s over. I’m alone.
Just me and an infinite darkness filled with whispers.
My death should’t be so simple, so clean. I shouldn’t have the privilege of being surrounded by those I love. I shouldn’t have been allowed to say my goodbyes to my brother before death claimed me or to kiss Michael before we ran out into battle.
His voice, his apologies, his own poetry, should not be the words that carry me across to the other side. I’m not worthy of the kind of mercy this death gives me.
It’s too peaceful. It makes me nervous.
Azael
I’M SORRY. I’M SO, SO sorry.
Please…
Pen
FATE FOUND ME. I TOOK its shadowy hand and followed it forward. I was glad to have a friend in the end.
Lilith
THE DINING HALL ERUPTS WITH voices, all chanting my name. Lucifer’s head rolls from hand to hand before it is dropped and forgotten in a corner. The king’s reign is over; Hell embraces its queen in shouts of triumph. In roars of hunger, desperate to be satiated.
Gus stands and joins the crowd, leaving me alone on the dais. He meets my eyes from among the rabble. Though his eyebrows are drawn low, there’s relief in his eyes. Our end is not so near as he feared. I will not let Hell be forgotten, be erased.
I have great things in store for my new dominion. We will be legends.
Clawed hands, dark and callused, reach up toward the dais. They beg me to touch them; they stretch for a chance to get to touch me. I appease them, stepping around the table and to the edge of the platform. My ankles are caressed, my stained-and-torn dress brushed with surprising gentleness.
“Lilith,” they chant.
My name hisses through the hall. The smooth corridors beyond the door carry their voices throughout all of Hell. It lifts my names out of the shadows, up to the funneled opening in the throne room. The world becomes aware of the regime change. The stars realign themselves.
There is a new power rising. It’s like nothing the universe has seen before.
The demon who voiced his dissent is weeded out of the crowd and shoved forward. The ancient wraith with the blistered skin. The eye that was stabbed is crushed closed, leaking some thick liquid that’s something like blood and pus, but through his good eye, he glares at me, furious as he’s pushed to my feet and forced to kneel. From the cord at my waist, I remove my waiting dagger and slide the thin blade through his neck. The crowd surges in approval, and a sword is passed forward.
They call for the dissident's head. The voice of the challenger—I’ll silence his doubt for good. I abide. An easy arc of my arm and the blade severs his narrow skull from his hobbled body. Dead, he slumps backward off the dais, only to be swallowed
by the ravenous crowd.
Flesh rips, teeth gnash, claws dig in to every soft spot of the dead demon. My children destroy the nonbeliever; no one will speak out against their new mother. They pull him apart and make me a new crown out of his bones and teeth. A macabre diadem that will serve as a warning to anyone who chooses to speak out against me again.
I wear my enemies as ornamentation.
Before they present me with it, I ask them to incorporate the thorns. The bloody little beasts Jeremy plucked from the White Garden will be the perfect way to secure my crown.
They excitedly take the ring of thorns from me and set to work perfecting their offering. I watch as the vermillion hands of a siren weave the thorns through the base of the tiara, her careful fingers winding the vine up and over the bones, between the dead wraith’s teeth.
It’s horrific. It’s perfect.
When she’s finished, she hands it off to another. It’s passed back up to the front of the room until it reaches Abaddon, who retrieves the crown and climbs the steps of the dais. He escorts me over to the high-back chair to sit, and I lift my chin high as he gently places the crown on me. After taking a step back, he kneels.
“Lilith, Hell’s Mother. Our Queen of Darkness. May she call forward the death and terror of the underworld. Long may we serve. Vivat mater.”
Long live mother.
The phrase echoes through the room, whispered from every mouth, hissed through bared fangs.
I lay my thin dagger in front of me on the table. Its blade is slick with black blood, and I run my finger over the ichor.
“Vivat mater.”
I lift my finger to my mouth and lick away the blood of the dissident. The taste is vile, like smoke and tar and rot.
“Vivat mater.”
They begin to fall to their knees. It starts in the front of the hall, a line of demons dropping to the ground in genuflection. Then those behind them follow suit. The sight is…