Devil's Conflict

by Percival Constantine

  But there’d be time for that later. Right now, he had business with the proprietor of Eden.

  Asmodeus walked passed the people, approaching the bar. He could feel their eyes on him, and it made him smile. It wasn’t often a Hell Lord set foot on these premises. Though Asmodeus himself had been a frequent guest at Eden, he’d also been gone quite a while. The last time he came was in secret and before that, it had to have been about a year or so since his last visit. He imagined there was a lot of gossiping going on in hushed whispers right about now.

  He signaled to the bartender, who quickly came over to greet him. “Lord Asmodeus, it’s been some time.”

  “Indeed it has. I hope you haven’t forgotten my usual?”

  “Of course not, sir. One moment.” The bartender poured him a glass of brandy and slid it across the bar.

  “Thank you.” Asmodeus collected the large glass and sipped the liquid. “Tell Raziel I’d like to have a word with him.”

  The bartender blinked and cocked his head to the side. “I’m sorry, sir. Did you say Raziel?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Asmodeus. “Let him know I’ll be waiting on the terrace.”

  He didn’t wait for the bartender’s reply, just moved away from the counter and through the crowd. There was a grand piano near the exit to the terrace with a beautiful, dark-haired woman playing a soft melody. Asmodeus walked out to the terrace and went to the marble guard rail. He looked out over the edge, seeing Chicago far below. When he looked up, he saw not the typical night sky, but rather a strange light effect, not unlike the Aurora Borealis. The colors mixed together but remained separate, a dance of light as comets streaked above.

  “Quite beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Asmodeus recognized the voice before he turned around. He set his brandy down on the railing and turned around as he reached into his jacket for a cigar. The man who stood before him was dressed in a white suit with a black shirt and a mandarin collar. His black hair was slicked back, reaching just below his ears, and his bright, blue eyes were beautiful, but also made no attempt to hide the contempt he had for the demon. He also had a pair of large, pristine, feathered wings that folded behind his back.

  “Pyriel,” said Asmodeus. “Unfurling your wings in public, I see?”

  “This place is hardly public, and what do I have to hide anyway?” asked Pyriel. “Of course, you understandably would have a reason. Being one of The Fallen and all.”

  “That was eons ago. Still can’t learn to forgive and forget, can you?” asked Asmodeus as he lit the cigar with a flame he produced from his finger.

  “You betrayed the Host of Heaven for your own selfish, craven desires and never once have you repented,” said Pyriel. “I’ll never forget that, nor will I ever forgive it.”

  “Brother, holding onto grudges like that will just give you an ulcer.”

  “I’m not your brother, demon. Not anymore,” said Pyriel. “What possible reason would you have for desecrating this holy place with your presence?”

  Asmodeus removed the cigar from his mouth and exhaled a cloud of smoke. Pyriel gave a flap of his wings to redirect the cloud right into Asmodeus’ face. The demon remained stoic, not flinching or even blinking.

  “Filthy habit for a filthy creature,” said Pyriel.

  Asmodeus forced a tight smile. “Well, it’s been great catching up. But if you don’t mind, I’m here to meet Raziel. He should be along any minute and I’d like a word with him without any self-righteous assholes lingering about.”

  Pyriel gave a smile that reeked of arrogance. Now Asmodeus knew what it felt like for others when he smiled like that. Though the difference was Asmodeus’ arrogance was well-earned. Pyriel was nothing more than a glorified choir boy, always too afraid to get his hands dirty.

  “I’m sorry, I suppose you didn’t hear the news,” said Pyriel. “Raziel has gone away on assignment.”

  Asmodeus arched a brow while sipping his brandy. “Assignment? What kind of assignment?”

  “The kind that’s of no business to anyone outside the gates of Heaven.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Asmodeus. “I was under the impression Raziel had lost his taste for that kind of work, which is why he was put in charge of Eden in the first place. I wonder, what could possibly make him change his mind?”

  “You wouldn’t know this after eons of corruption, but we angels are servants of the Host,” said Pyriel. “We follow our divine commands. Without question, without hesitation.”

  Asmodeus chuckled. “I’ve always found it interesting how you could stand there and with a straight face, speak as though blind obedience to a commander whose voice you have never heard and whose face you’ve never seen is some kind of virtue.”

  Pyriel’s smile turned to a grimace. He pointed an accusatory finger at Asmodeus. “You once believed the same thing, or have you forgotten?”

  “I was little more than an ignorant child in those days, completely oblivious to the true wonders the universe had to offer,” said Asmodeus. “What Lucifer showed me—”

  “Was a path to damnation, nothing more,” said Pyriel. “Your bravado is absolutely wasted on me, demon. Raziel may have tolerated the stench of betrayal and corruption you exude, but I find it positively offensive to my delicate sensibilities.”

  Asmodeus smirked. “Well, you always were a bit of a priss.”

  Pyriel’s grimace turned into an outright snarl. He moved from his position as a white blur, his wings propelling him forward. Asmodeus felt Pyriel’s hand around his throat and the railing pressing into his back.

  “I should throw you over the edge right this instant,” said the angel.

  Asmodeus’ grin never faded from his face. “Go ahead, brother. I’ve got wings of my own, remember?”

  “Decayed, rotten, twisted versions of what they once were.”

  “Maybe, but they still work just fine,” said Asmodeus. “Now, how about you get your hand off my throat before I lose my temper and beat the righteousness out of you, just as I did in the old days?”

  “A lot has changed since then,” said Pyriel. “I’m not some weakling you can bully into submission anymore, Asmodeus.”

  “Is that so? Baby brother finally grew a spine?”

  Asmodeus’ eyes burned, glowing bright yellow as hellfire started to form along his body. Pyriel looked shocked at the display of power and a burst of hellfire threw him off Asmodeus. He fell in the middle of the terrace, close to the entrance into the club.

  The music and chatter that had been background noise suddenly stopped. Asmodeus puffed on the cigar and walked from the railing towards Pyriel. The angel had rolled onto his back, his body smoking from the hellfire attack. When Asmodeus looked up at the stunned guests who gawked at him, they instantly averted their eyes.

  “You know something, even though Raziel’s an angel serving blindly, I still respect him. He’s earned that, and that respect has always been mutual.” Asmodeus knelt down and grabbed Pyriel by his shirt, raising him up off the ground. “But you? You’ve always been an arrogant little shit.”

  In his peripheral vision, Asmodeus saw a flash of blue light. He could feel a kind of cold heat on his back. Didn’t take much to know just what that was. Asmodeus peered over his shoulder and saw another angel with his wings unfurled, his hair short and brown. In his hand was a sword, the blade of which was composed of azure flame.

  “Soulfire sword, haven’t felt one of those at my back in some time,” said Asmodeus. “Should have known that wherever Pyriel goes, his little lapdog is always close behind.”

  “Release my brother,” said the angel.

  “Just…kill him, Zadkiel!” ordered Pyriel.

  Asmodeus scoffed, turning his head from Zadkiel to Pyriel. “Yes, Zad. Go ahead and kill a Lord of Hell. Such an open act of aggression against a member of the Infernal Court would be seen as a violation of the armistice and an act of war. Are you really so stupid?”

  Pyriel chuckled. “Who said an
ything about killing a Lord of Hell?”

  Asmodeus narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “Poor little Asmodeus. First he loses his place in Heaven, then he loses his whore, and now he’s lost his title.”

  Asmodeus growled and threw Pyriel into Zadkiel. As the angels got to their feet, they saw Asmodeus’ hands burning with hellfire, forming into twin swords. Flames emerged from his shoulder blades, stretching out and forming into shapes. The flames dissipated, leaving large black, bat-like wings.

  “You may be one of The Fallen, but you’re no lord, not anymore,” said Pyriel. “A lot’s happened since you’ve been gone, Asmodeus. Your realm and your title have been claimed by another.”

  “Who would dare?” asked Asmodeus.

  “Who else? Your old friend, Luther Cross. And he’s got a consort, too—one you’re intimately familiar with,” said Pyriel, smiling. “But now, you’re nothing more than a common demon. And the next time you attack one of the Host, we are well within the terms of the armistice to retaliate with lethal force.”

  Asmodeus wanted nothing more than to bury his flaming swords into their chests and laugh as they were consumed by hellfire. But he knew they were right. If he’d truly lost his title, such an open act of aggression would be responded to. He’d seen the Angel of Death up close before and it was something Asmodeus would rather avoid.

  The flaming swords dissipated. Asmodeus went to the railing and climbed on top. He jumped, his wings taking him from Eden and through the dimensional gateway leading to the Chicago skies.

  Pyriel watched as Asmodeus made his grand exit. He went to the railing and stared as the demon flew through the gateway, departing the pocket dimension of Eden. Probably for the last time ever.

  “Are you all right?” asked Zadkiel.

  “I’m fine,” said Pyriel. “Just confused about his sudden reappearance. He was supposed to be stuck in Purgatory.”

  “What does it matter?” asked Zadkiel. “He was putting on a show. You could feel his power—or lack thereof. He’s no longer a Hell Lord, he doesn’t hold the backing of the Court, he’s nothing but a shell of his former self.”

  “You really believe that?”

  Zadkiel looked down and shook his head.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Pyriel. “Asmodeus is one of the most cunning creatures in all of existence. It’s why I wanted him off the board to begin with. And now that he’s back, we have another threat to worry about.”

  “What’s it matter?” asked Zadkiel. “You know who holds his title now. Perhaps the problem will work itself out?”

  Pyriel’s expression of anger turned quickly to amusement. “You’re right, brother. I hadn’t even considered that. Asmodeus will want to know who sleeps in his bed beside his woman. And once he learns that, we can kill two birds with one stone.”

  6

  Rogers Park was the northernmost of the Chicago neighborhoods, close to the border with Evanston. Holding the distinction of one of the most diverse neighborhoods in the city, that diversity was reflected in the variety of restaurants and businesses one saw while driving through.

  It was here that a black town car pulled up to the curb in front of an apartment complex. The driver’s side door opened and a large, bald man with pale skin and red eyes stepped out of the car. He circled to the rear passenger door at the curb and opened it, offering a hand for his employer.

  A lithe hand accepted the behemoth’s aid and stepped out of the car and onto the curb. Celeste King wore a leather waistcoat and adjusted the fur collar. She looked at her bodyguard, Hem, and nodded.

  Hem closed the door and the pair of them went to the gate. He opened it for her and they approached the front door of the building. Celeste pushed one of the call buttons on the list, the only one which had no name printed beside it.

  No sound came from the intercom.

  “Maybe he’s dead now,” said Hem.

  Celeste shot the shaved yeti an annoyed glare. “If he were, his friends would have shown up at our doorstep to question us.”

  She pushed the button again and more silence followed.

  “Mistress, if I may…” began Hem. “Why do you keep coming here?”

  Celeste sighed. “I really don’t know, old friend. Maybe it’s because there’s a part of me holding out hope that he can do the impossible.”

  Finally, a voice crackled through the intercom, the speech slurred. “Who is it?”

  “Celeste,” she said.

  A pause. And then the sound of the buzzer. Celeste opened the door and Hem took it next. She stopped before ascending the staircase and looked at him.

  “Maybe you should stay with the car.”

  “The last time I stayed with the car, you were attacked by werewolves,” said Hem.

  “Fair point,” said Celeste. “Okay, come on. But let me do the talking.”

  Hem nodded his understanding and the two of them went up. They climbed five flights of stairs before they reached the top floor and Celeste led the way down the corridor to the last apartment. She raised her hand to rap her knuckles on the door when she saw sigils carved into the surface.

  “He’s been busy,” she said, then knocked.

  Beyond the door, Celeste’s keen vampire hearing picked up the sound of glass and metal clattering together. There was a bump followed by some creative expletives before finally the sound of locks turning.

  The door opened, revealing the unshaven and haggard face of a man in his sixties. Thick bags hung under his blue eyes and his hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in weeks. The white shirt he wore had the sleeves rolled up and was wrinkled and stained. A red tie hung loosely from the open collar. He breathed through his mouth in a somewhat labored fashion and whenever he exhaled, Celeste could smell the stench of whiskey.

  He chuckled once he saw his visitors. “Well, well. The vampire an’ the amobinal—abombible—” He laughed at his attempts to pronounce ‘abominable’ and then just said, “The big snowman. C’mon in.”

  Celeste rolled her eyes and sighed, following him inside. The apartment looked barely moved into. There were unopened boxes scattered around the living room and empty containers from take-out restaurants. Scattered all over the room were empty bottles and cans.

  “I see you’ve been busy, Alistair,” she said.

  Alistair Carraway turned to look at her, nearly stumbling as he did. “Right you are, love. Busy as a bee, I’ve been. Bzzz…bzzz…bzzz…” He laughed again and stumbled into the living room.

  His only piece of furniture was an old leather couch, which he plopped down on. Surrounding the couch were stacks of books. Several tomes were open on the floor. There were pieces of paper with chicken-scratch notes scrawled on them scattered all over the couch.

  “I’ve seen sewers that were more livable than this place,” muttered Hem.

  “Easy, let me deal with him,” Celeste whispered back. “Just guard the door.”

  Hem grunted and folded his massive arms across his chest. Celeste crossed the distance from the door to the living room, stepping over the empty food containers and bottles, kicking aside the occasional can. She arrived at the couch where Alistair sat, furiously writing in a notebook.

  “I-I think I’m onto something,” he said. “It might be a long shot, but the Lance of Longinus.”

  “The…Lance of Longinus?” asked Celeste.

  “Yes, yes!” Alistair looked up from the notebook and stared at her, his expression practically manic. “In the legend, it’s said that when the Roman sentry, Longinus, stabbed Christ with his spear, blood spilled into his eyes. He was partly blind, but the blood of Christ cured his vision!”

  “So…you want to pour Jesus’ blood on Luther?” asked Celeste.

  Alistair scoffed and shook his head. “No, no, no. Christ’s blood was on the spear. Gave it mystic properties. So what we do is we…we find the spear…then we find Luther…and then we…” He mimed stabbing with a lance.

  Cel
este shook her head. “I don’t think that will work, Alistair.”

  “Fine, that’s just one idea. But I’ve got more,” he continued. “For instance, the Holy Grail. We get that and we can…you know…make him drink from it. That should cure him of this affliction.”

  “Alistair…” Celeste gently rested her hand on his shoulder. “Where are we going to find the Holy Grail?”

  “Well, that’s…” Alistair cleared his throat. “I don’t have all the spefifics—”

  “I think you mean ‘specifics.’”

  “Right, those too.”

  “Alistair, you have to stop this,” said Celeste. “The last time you tried to reach Luther, you were unconscious for a week. Soon as you got out of the hospital, you moved into this place and you’ve spent the past two months trying to find a way to bring him back. And drinking more and more when you hit roadblocks.”

  “We can bring him back, Celeste,” said Alistair. “I-I have to believe that.”

  Celeste sighed. “He sided with Lilith. He has the Abraxas Stone. He’s taken over Asmodeus’ realm. Don’t you get it? He’s gone full Dark Side now.”

  Alistair shook his head. “N-no. I—I refuse to believe that.”

  He stood from the couch and stumbled towards the kitchen. Hem had to catch him as Alistair almost fell down when walking past him. The yeti helped him stand up straight and as soon as he took his hands off him, Alistair’s body started to wobble again.

  “Thank you, kind sir.” Alistair punctuated the sentence with a hiccup and went into the kitchen. “Now where did I put that bloody bottle…”

  Celeste walked over to Hem and stared into the kitchen with him. They watched as Alistair stumbled around in a sea of cans and bottles, opening cabinets and digging around inside them. Hem rolled his eyes.

  “Yes, this has been a fruitful visit.”