Never Just One Apocalypse

by Karen L Mead

  Never Just One Apocalypse

  Demon Café, Book 4

  By Karen L. Mead

  Copyright 2019

  To Gwendolyn, my favorite little witch.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Afterword

  Prologue

  Long after Sammael had given up his title and retreated to the Lower Realm, he still took a professional interest in the reaping of souls. You can’t just do something for thirty or so millennia and then drop out of the field completely, without even checking up on how the new kids are making out. He watched with no small amount of anticipation when, after a brief interregnum, Metatron was chosen as his replacement as the Angel of Death. In theory, this was a good idea because as a former human, Metatron was better able to feel empathy for his charges than other angels; he could properly comfort them in their last moments on Earth.

  Unfortunately, what this meant in practice was that Metatron was a total wuss.

  Oh sure, he always got the job done eventually, but what about standards? All it took was one human whining “Wah, why do I have to die, it’s not my fault I contracted syphilis!” or “How can I die, who will look after my goats?” and Metatron turned into a sniveling mess, tripping over himself to assure the poor wretch that they had lived a good life and would always be remembered. Now, Sammael had never been cruel in the administration of his duty—that was important—but there comes a point where one just has to say, “Your time has come, mortal,” and be done with it. Metatron just didn’t know how a proper divine messenger should act, and worse, he didn’t even know what he didn’t know; he probably thought he was doing a bang-up job of it!

  Still, even with all his over-sensitive nonsense, he typically succeeded in taking the souls from his targets; granted, it took way too long, but he did the bare minimum to keep the system running. So Sammael was surprised at reports that Metatron had repeatedly failed to deliver one particularly high-profile soul, and even more surprised when Metatron went so far as to reach out to him for help. After defecting, Sammael doubted whether he would ever hear from the denizens of the Higher Realm ever again, yet here he was, not even a millennium later, and here was one of the High Holies knocking down his door.

  Now, the language of the divine is such that only fellow divines can understand each other in their native tongue; if a mortal heard the way in which angels communicate, uncensored, they would die a most painful death of the head-exploding variety (and even Metatron would have a hard time making that any more comfortable). Still, if angelic speech could be properly translated into words that lesser beings could understand, Metatron’s message to Sammael would have gone something like, “Bro, you have got to help me with this Moses guy. He’s an asshole.”

  To be fair, it wasn’t entirely Metatron’s fault. Sammael’s tenure had been before the advent of the written Torah, which introduced a truly annoying wrinkle into the process of soul reaping: humans couldn’t die while engaged in the study of Torah. The prophet Moses had caught on to this (prophets were like that), and on the day of his long-foreseen death, he decided it would be a good idea to copy out thirteen complete versions of the Torah in rapid succession. Copying over Genesis and Exodus and such was bad enough, but he was also being thorough and including all of Deuteronomy, which Sammael would not have wished on his worst enemy. Anyway, to take his soul, Metatron would have had to kill him in mid-Torah, which he really wasn’t supposed to do, so he was reduced to basically standing over the old man, wringing his hands, while Moses gave himself carpal tunnel syndrome.

  After about fourteen hours of this, even Metatron was weary, so he called in Sammael for backup. Amused, Sammael had acquiesced, only to discover that Moses not only had some kind of blessed rod that he could zap divine creatures with, but he could aim it even while sitting at his tablet writing. You had to admire the gall of the old man, sitting there with his pen rapidly scratching on the sheepskin, fending off two angels without even looking up from his meticulous penmanship. Finally, Sammael ran out of patience and was about to call down a bolt of lightning to fry the sassy bastard and all his holy scrolls together, only for the Almighty to intervene and take Moses’ soul himself. Everyone said it was because Moses was just so virtuous, he had earned a trip directly to paradise, but Sammael was pretty sure it was because the entire situation was just getting embarrassing already. Nevertheless, to anyone in the know, Sammael was credited with the assist; his last appearance as The Angel of Death.

  That was the last time he had communicated with Metatron directly, but he knew that the incident had inspired a kind of “Moses Scale” in the Higher Realm, where souls were judged against the famous prophet in terms of how difficult it had been to relieve them of their earthly burden. All of this is a roundabout way of saying that, on a scale of one to Moses, in Sammael’s professional opinion, Rabbi Simon was about an 8.5. He wasn’t copying out endless Torah scrolls, but writing his own material (somehow still qualifying for the invulnerability clause), which he could apparently do at full speed for days without stopping to eat or sleep. He didn’t have a magic rod like Moses, but when Metatron came, Rabbi Simon would just say, “Please, I am almost done, just let me finish,” and Metatron was somehow dumb enough to believe him. None of this would have been Sammael’s business, not anymore, but to his surprise, he was summoned on the last night of Rabbi Simon’s life.

  “We meet again, Rabbi,” said Sammael cordially. He took in his surroundings; even by the standards of 2nd Century Palestine, this place was pretty shabby. Simon himself was sitting with his back to the demon he had just summoned, writing furiously, occasionally wiping his pen on his long beard. Only one low-burning candle illuminated the dusty hovel.

  “Congratulations on your continued drawing of breath, for whatever it’s worth.”

  “Shush, I don’t need you yet,” the Rabbi mutter
ed.

  “Excuse me?”

  The Rabbi gestured to the candle with a jerk of his elbow. “This candle is almost finished, I have no more, and I can’t go out to buy another one, because I can’t stop writing. Even if I could stop, I have no money to pay for a candle anyway. So in a little while, you will provide light for me.”

  “That’s why you summoned me?” Sammael said, taken aback. “I should slay you for your insolence.”

  “You will do no such thing while confined to my summoning circle. You will stand there and do as you are told.”

  Fine, I’ll play along, Sammael thought, solidifying his form into something vaguely human. He was being summoned less often these days, now that Christianity was coming into vogue, and he was kind of enjoying the novelty of the whole thing.

  For a while, the only sound was the scratching of Rabbi Simon’s pen as the level of the light in the room dipped lower and lower. Sammael was soon tired of waiting.

  “In my time, you would never have gotten away with this. When I was responsible for souls, I would have taken yours in between strokes of your pen, and you would be burning to ash in Gehenna before the ink was dry.”

  “If you were so good, maybe you should not have left,” the Rabbi said casually.

  “I had my reasons,” Sammael snapped.

  Rabbi Simon gave the demon a quick glance over his shoulder. “Reasons, for leaving the warm embrace of the Eternal, King of the Universe, in his infinite love, for a blasted crater where you have nothing but dust and bones, and the wails of your fellow degenerates? You reason like one with an ass for a head.”

  “Hey!” Sammael cried out at that; who did this old codger think he was, anyway? “You think yourself so wise? Well, did you know that when you pulled that trick with Caesar’s daughter, the demon in your midst was none other than me?”

  The Rabbi’s pen suddenly stopped moving, which Sammael found immensely satisfying. “That was you?”

  “Yes! The whole time you thought you were exorcising some ‘lesser demon,’ and it was me all along! I was toying with you, to see if you’d notice!”

  To Sammael’s mild surprise, Rabbi Simon put down his writing and turned around in his chair to fix Sammael with a stony gaze.

  “You mean to tell me, you were in that hall with Caesar and all of his generals, and you did not slay a single one? You could have incinerated them all with a pillar of fire, you who are no longer bound by the rules of Heaven, and yet you just stood there?”

  “Uh…” Sammael had to think about that for a moment. “Well, I wasn’t in the mood. Destroying the Roman Empire isn’t something one does on a whim.”

  “Feh!” the Rabbi exclaimed, turning back to his writing. “You are just like the boy who sits in the back of the class and cuts his hair with scissors, bragging about all the goats he’s fucked now that he’s a pagan. When the time comes, he will put on his tefillin and marry a village girl, just like everyone else. You are no more rebel than I.”

  Sammael didn’t react for a few moments, a little shocked by the scope of the insult. When he’d collected himself, he effortlessly strolled out of the summoning circle, coming to stand right behind the man who had summoned him. Rabbi Simon’s pen stopped scratching once more.

  “You are not bound by the circle?” he asked, his voice laced with a mix of curiosity and fear.

  “No. Your eyes are going, old man; you cannot see the runes the way you once did. Or perhaps you are too weak and exhausted, and didn’t realize you had drawn some backwards.”

  Sammael eased his earthly form down onto the man’s bed, as hard and uncomfortable as it was. He turned onto his side and supported his head with his forearm.

  “But I’ve no desire to kill you, mostly because I’m hoping to hear some more comments about goat-fucking.”

  “That was the only one I had. I am a righteous man, and know little of such things.”

  “And so full of humility, I see.”

  “Perhaps not,” Rabbi Simon allowed, then continued his writing, paying no attention to the completely unbound demon behind him.

  Sammael found himself surprisingly comfortable; the air in the room should have been hot and stagnant, but a delightful breeze wafted in through the window, even though it wasn’t the season for it. There was a scent of deliciously spiced figs, and below that, fresh olive oil. Sammael found he had no desire to leave, and the two spent perhaps an hour in companionable silence, the only sound the scratching of Rabbi Simon’s pen.

  Still, being himself, Sammael’s curiosity eventually got the better of him.

  “What are you writing with such devotion, mortal Sage?”

  “Right now, I write about you. You and your wife, Lilith.”

  That was not remotely the answer Sammael was expecting.

  “I don’t have a wife named Lilith. I don’t have a wife at all.”

  “Yet. You must be patient.”

  Sammael groaned and rolled off the bed.

  “Oh, now he claims to be a Seer. How I hate you blasted Seers! You have too much wine and have a funny dream, and you think the Almighty himself is talking to you! It’s so arrogant.”

  “I did not ask for the visions, for the dreams,” said the Rabbi, dipping his pen.

  “How do you know that your dreams are visions from the Divine? What if they are only just that, dreams?”

  “I suppose I do not know,” the Rabbi allowed. “But I will tell you what; if what I am writing now is wrong, you can come find me at the Academy on High in 2,000 years and tell me so.”

  “I am no longer welcome at the Academy on High. You know that,” said Sammael, lying on his back on the floor.

  “I do not see how that is my problem,” said the Rabbi dryly.

  Just then, the breeze picked up suddenly, and the tiny flame of the Rabbi’s candle flickered out.

  “No!” the Rabbi yelled, anguished. He tried to stand up, only to groan in pain as his bad knee betrayed him. Defeated, he sat back down, cradling his knee and cursing profusely in Aramaic.

  “Stop your whining,” said Sammael, inclining a finger toward the candle. The wick ignited with a soft blue light, just bright enough to illuminate the Rabbi’s manuscript.

  Ashen-faced, Rabbi Simon turned to look at the demon reclining on his floor.

  “You would do this for me?”

  Sammael clucked his tongue. “What will happen to my beautiful wife, if you do not foretell of her? I cannot take that risk.”

  Still pale and shaking slightly, as though he didn’t quite believe it, the Rabbi returned to his writing for the last time. The blue flame burned for several hours, but the candle never ran out.

  When Metatron arrived, not long before dawn, he found the Rabbi asleep next to his completed manuscript, supporting his head on his ink-stained hands. His heart was barely beating, and he was only a breath away from death; when Metatron took him, he passed peacefully, without the slightest pain.

  All was well, yet somehow, Metatron couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something. It was a very unnerving feeling for an angel to have.

  Chapter One

  Corianne was walking carefully on top of the castle wall, sticking her arms out to the side for balance. The wall wasn’t that narrow, but it was covered with ice, and it was hard to keep her footing. If she fell, she wouldn’t die—not in a place like this—but it would still be uncomfortable.

  She didn’t know how long she spent balancing on that frozen wall; time was weird here. It wasn’t that time didn’t exist, but it was more like it was malleable…it could be normal one moment, dilated the next. As far as “Flavors of Time” went, this was her least favorite.

  Still, it felt good, being here. She couldn’t really feel the cold, not the way she would in a solid, definite place, but the endless vista of ice and snow below made her feel pure and refreshed. Crystals of ice formed on her black patent-leather shoes with every step she took, only to shatter with her next step; it was fun.

 
As usual, Cor didn’t really know what she was looking for, but was confident she would know it when she found it. When she saw a figure sitting on the wall in front of her, she was pretty sure she had reached her destination.

  The woman was wearing thick metal armor, encrusted with crystals of ice. She had a sword in a scabbard at her waist, and a lance strapped to her back. Her helmet made it impossible to see much of her face, but somehow, she gave the impression of being feminine. Her image flickered for just a fraction of a second, and Cor saw what she really looked like; a petite blond girl, not that much older than Corianne herself.

  “Hi. I’m Corianne. Do you know my mom?”

  She had found it was best to be forthright in these situations. The woman, or the knight—whatever she was, nodded.

  Corianne sat down carefully on the wall next to her; if the knight minded, she gave no sign.

  “I think I know you. I think you’re my aunt, kind of.”

  The knight nodded again. Cor got the impression that she was watching, waiting for something; Corianne’s presence wasn’t important to her one way or the other.