Holy Hell, page 7
part #5 of Sins of the Father Series
“Brother,” Azrael called out, turning his face towards Samyaza. Nothing could see through those blindfolds of his, but even when he wasn’t looking directly at me, I could feel the burning of the angel’s gaze. “I did not expect to find you here. Nor Raziel.”
Raziel lifted his nose. “The terms of your trial did not specify anything about outside help. We were merely assisting our comrades.”
Azrael bowed his head and spread his hands, showing us his palms. “And no such accusation was made. Truthfully, I sensed Samyaza’s presence. I suspected that putting his progeny in danger would be the key to luring him out.”
I looked up at Samyaza, hoping that my admiration didn’t show on my face. Did he really come to save me? Hey, wait a minute.
“Are you saying that you knew I was going to be surrounded by all those zombies?” I said.
Azrael curled his fingers, bringing them close to his face, like he was studying his nails. “I am saying that there is a certain predictability to your nature, nephilim. You are brazen, stubborn, and foolhardy, qualities that I believe you have inherited from your fallen father.”
Samyaza beamed at me. Literally beamed, his skin and his eyes glowing electric blue. I had to look away.
“We passed your trial,” Asher said. “And thus we have won the right to ask of the Council of Bones a favor.”
It was weird hearing him lapse into this stilted, formal way of speaking, but it tended to work when it came to the entities. You might even say it was preferred. That was why they sent trained negotiators and necromancers to parley with gods of the underworld, and not impulsive, motormouthed nephilim.
Azrael folded his hands together, as if in prayer. “Ask, and we shall answer.”
“The location of the sword Durandal,” Asher said, “and a way to lay Roland and his armies to their final rest. That is all we ask.”
“This we shall eagerly grant.”
Sterling blew out a stream of silver smoke and cleared his throat. “No choice about which entity we get to pick, eh?”
That earned him an elbow in the ribs from Asher, but Azrael only laughed good-naturedly. “I can assure you all that I am among the best, if not the best choice you have. You saw how little Ereshkigal cared for your supplication. And I know for a fact that the goddess Izanami does not hold a very positive view of your merry band of vagrants.”
“He’s right, there,” Sterling muttered. “And vagrants, eh? I like the sound of that.”
Azrael stepped closer, and as he approached, the night only seemed colder. It wasn’t just my imagination, I realized. Where the angel stepped, frost gathered into spiderwebs and little spires. The gravestones and statues around us radiated an even deeper chill, something that punched to the bone. When he was only a few feet away, the angel of death, spread his arms – and then his wings.
The angel’s wings were a deep, dull silver, yet still shimmered with otherworldly force. They were the color of ancient pewter, of silver candlesticks hidden away in a favorite grandparent’s attic, of a mirror left stained and unpolished, the better to forget the pain. Something old and terrible lingered in his many feathers, every strand and filament shuddering with a faint whisper, someone’s dying breath.
Too poetic? Hey, you try staring into the wings of the angel of death. Not an angel of death, not one of the many – the actual angel of death. And there were six of those wings, too, as if I needed more proof that Azrael was the realest of deals. The tips of the topmost wings met at their apex, forming a vaguely circular shape, and within that circle the air wavered and shimmered.
Images flickered and flashed too quickly for me to latch onto, and I could tell that the others were similarly confused and captivated by this spectacle that, for all we knew, simply looked like a television changing channels too quickly. Then it settled on a single image, the one that I both longed for and dreaded: the sword Durandal, one of the blades of men that truly were imbued with actual magic.
“You already know,” Azrael said, “that returning Durandal to Roland will be the only true way of stopping these hordes from flooding the land of the living. True, your Lorica and your mages of earth can stem the tide of horrors and pick off the revenants as they rise from the soil. Yet you all know that you will, in time, be overwhelmed. And so begins the true danger, where the dead arise in such numbers as to become a genuine threat to the living.”
“And this isn’t anything you have the power to stop,” Asher said.
“On the contrary, it is something that some among my peers allow. There is a constant tug of war, endless politicking even within the Council of Bones. But know that with Roland’s rest will come the boredom of my brethren. They too will move on to other pastimes, provided you find Durandal and return it to its rightful master.”
I folded my arms behind my head, stretching, groaning, partly in pain, and pleasure. “That sounds like the tough part. Asher can always commune and find us a direct line to Roland. Point us to the sword, and we’ll fight tooth and nail to get it back.”
Eyes bluer than anything watched me, and from out of my peripheral vision I thought I caught Samyaza smiling at me with pride. I kept my face stony, fighting the urge to acknowledge it, despite some dormant, long-dead piece of me feeling pleased.
“That is indeed, as you say, the tough part.” Azrael lifted his head, as if listening for something on the wind, or setting his blind eyes on something far, far away. “Tell me. Have you heard of the demon prince Beelzebub?”
14
In my dreams, something wet and soft ran like moist velvet across my chin. I moaned and writhed, paralyzed by fear as a zombie wrapped its rotting limbs all along my body, as it gave my skin another taste. In my nightmares, the zombie’s tongue laved past the rim of my nostrils. Then everything shifted, and in place of a zombie was a man with slick long hair, and jewels for eyes, like a bizarre, ornate human fly. He unhinged his jaw, then unfurled a long, slimy proboscis, running it along the edge of my cheek.
I sat up, wide awake and screaming.
There was no zombie, no Beelzebub, just a shivering little shape at the foot of my bed. It gave small whines, similar to a dog, except I recognized it more as the sad noises of a mimic. I rubbed at my hair blearily, reaching out with my other hand in an inviting gesture.
“Come on, boy. Daddy’s sorry. I’m not mad at you. It was just a nightmare.”
Box – because that was his name, and his shape – came tottering up the mattress. In all respects he looked like a regular wooden treasure chest, apart from the rows of massive teeth where his lid split open, and the enormous prehensile tongue that tended to loll out of the deathtrap that was his mouth.
“It’s okay, boy,” I said, stroking him along his head – lid? – and feeling him relax under my touch. His tongue flicked up to lay a couple of friendly licks across the heel of my palm.
I’d noticed over time how very doglike Box could be, up to the part where he licked my face to wake me up. And like a dog, he also enjoyed walks in the park, or the Nicola Arboretum, right outside Artemis’s domicile. The problem was how good he was at swallowing squirrels or birds whole. We’d pass one every now and again, and the way he just – chomp – devoured them in one go never ceased to horrify me.
A knock came on the door of my hut. Slits of sunlight came in from under the door. It was morning. It had to be, unless Artemis was playing tricks with her day-night cycle again.
Florian burst in, his chest thrust so far out you’d think he was using the space for advertising. “I heard screaming,” he said, checking the room like a special agent scanning the perimeter. “Terrified, little baby-type screaming.”
The pillow I threw full-force at his face just flopped off and dropped to the ground with a soft, inoffensive thud. “Get the fuck out,” I said, shoving my remaining pillow over my face, undecided on whether I needed it to blot out the sun, get back to sleep, and catch a few more Zs, or to smother myself so I could avoid dealing with reality. With Samyaza, to an extent, but more problematically, with Beelzebub.
“Is he okay?” said another voice at the door. I peeked from underneath my pillow, unsurprised to find Samyaza at the threshold. His shoulders were oddly rounded, like he was scared of bumping into the doorframe or the furniture for whatever reason. I stretched out across my mattress and groaned.
“I’m fine. It was just a nightmare.”
Without warning, Box jumped off my chest, a guttural sound rattling from inside him as he clattered towards the door, slavering and growling. Oh God. Another nightmare.
“Down boy,” I shouted, leaping to my feet, scrambling to catch him before he could reach Samyaza. But Box had gotten so damn quick. All that practice catching squirrels for breakfast. I gasped as Box reached Samyaza’s shins, wondering if my pet saw my father as a particularly large squirrel. But Box only bumped his lid against Samyaza’s leg, yipping as he gave his toes a tentative lick.
“Aww,” Florian said. “He just wants to make friends.”
Box answered with what passed for an agreeable yip, then bounded – bounded! – into Samyaza’s arms. Samyaza laughed, the room flooding with the electric blue of his glyphs as Box rewarded his general face area with a slobbery lashing of wet kisses.
I felt so betrayed. Couldn’t tell you why, exactly, but there it was.
“Nice place you have here,” Samyaza said, chuckling as he dodged Box’s enormous tongue.
“Eh, it is what it is,” I said, waving a hand around the vicinity. “Built it myself, like the rest of the buildings in this place.”
Samyaza’s face glowed as he looked around some more, as if he was standing in the foyer of some incredible palace. He stared at Florian. “Is that true?”
Florian nodded eagerly. “I’m in charge of slapping down the green stuff here and there. Finishing touches with some vines and such. Otherwise, this is all Mason’s work.”
Samyaza smiled so hard and so earnestly that I thought my hut would explode in an inferno of electric blue fire. I hated admitting that I really, really liked his admiration and his approval. I was going to have to give up this bratty kid schtick sooner or later.
I sat up, scratched the back of my arm, then twisted my toe in the ground. “It’s no big deal. Don’t make it such a big deal, man.”
“Just very proud of you, is all,” Samyaza said. “Taking after your old man. Carpentry and masonry, they’re all just different flavors of creation after all, right? Speaking of which, Raziel tells me you’ve shown an aptitude for creating matter yourself. The gift of manifesting! Incredible. How’s that going?”
It’s kind of crazy how someone’s mood can darken so quickly. I chalked it up to my lack of caffeination. “All right,” I grunted. “Everybody out.”
Samyaza pedaled backwards, an overexcited Box still happily writhing in his arms. “Was it something I said?”
“Don’t mind him. He gets really grumpy before he’s had his coffee in the morning.” Florian rolled his eyes. “And he’s really sensitive about his creatio ex nephilim stuff. Come on. I’ll show you around the rest of the place.”
“It’s ex nihilo,” I yelled after them. “Creatio ex nihilo.”
I rubbed at my hair and sighed, reaching for a towel and a change of clothes. I needed a shower, and a coffee. A huge coffee. I stepped out of my hut, pulling the door behind me, almost hissing as the sun blasted full bore down on my face.
“He’s trying his best, you know.”
I turned irritably at the sound of Artemis’s voice, finding her leaning against my hut. “You were eavesdropping the whole time?”
She shrugged. “Hardly counts as eavesdropping if I hear, like, everything that happens in my domicile at all times, you know?”
I blinked, feeling myself redden. “At all times?”
“Shush, shush, don’t change the subject. The point is, the guy doesn’t know the first thing about being a father. This is unprecedented, a fallen angel making himself known to his progeny. It just doesn’t happen.” She cast her arm across the horizon. “They’re supposed to spread their seed, then fade away. Like a rock star passing through a small town, or maybe some dude in a biker gang.”
I folded my arms and leaned against my door, mirroring her pose. “I did kind of like to pretend that my dad was secretly someone famous. But this is a different kind of famous, and it’s super weird to me that being an absentee father is baked into this whole nephilim deal.”
Artemis nodded. “Which is why you need to cut him some slack. I get it. My dad was never great about all this fathering business, either. All the stuff he did to get laid? Makes my skin crawl.”
I shuddered. “You know what else makes my skin crawl? I’m sure they’ve mentioned it to you, but yeah. We’re looking at another demon prince.” I remembered my nightmare, then shuddered again. “And I have this terrible feeling that he’s very, very hungry.”
15
Artemis scoffed and rolled her eyes. “How many more of those bastards do we have to deal with? I’m sick and tired of those jerks.”
“That’s great and all, but the Seven clearly aren’t sick and tired of messing with us, or with the rest of reality, for that matter. We’re only lucky that Lucifer barely sees us as a threat, or as anything worth bothering with. Only Belphegor is really out of commission. That leaves five assholes that we’ll potentially still have to deal with.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t like it. Don’t like it one bit. Was it Mammon? Yeah, Mammon, Prince of Greed. Tried to suck out my soul that one time.”
I nodded. “And Beelzebub was the first prince I ever met. Prince of Gluttony. He tried to suck out my soul, too, so we’re about even on the suckable part. Lust and Wrath haven’t ever played their hands, something I think we should be super grateful for. And then there’s Leviathan, Prince of Envy.”
Artemis’s face was wrinkled up so hard that it reminded me of a prune. “Still don’t like it. Hate it more now. You’ve met that one, right?”
“Yep. Back when Raziel and I were doing a little food crawl. Nasty business, all around. Literally her only motivation for wanting a piece of me was that Beelzebub wanted a piece of me first. I’m really not comfortable with how much all these demon princes want to actually eat me.”
Artemis wrinkled her nose again, this time sniffing. “I can’t see why, honestly, you smell like hell.”
“I do not.” I lifted my arm and sniffed. “Hey, I’m serious, it’s not that bad.”
“Get in the shower, Mason. I’ll never get used to you humans and your human-stink.” She sauntered away, shaking her head.
I spread my arms out, gesturing at everything and nothing. “You live in a domicile that is packed to exploding with way stinkier animals.”
She looked me up and down, then pinched the end of her nose, waving her hand at the air. “And yet.”
I pouted at her. Artemis and I were at that level of closeness where I’d be comfortable playfully flipping her the bird, but she was also the landlord, and I wasn’t in the business of pissing off the people who were in control of the dimensional plane where I went to sleep.
Parts of me cracked and popped as I stretched out my arms and my spine, taking in the warmth of the sun as I strolled towards one of the showers Artemis had made me built myself. The plumbing itself I chalked up to godly magic, because that water pressure was something else. Sure, our huts each had sufficiently spacious and very comfortable bathrooms installed, but the ones out in Paradise were a lot like the nice ones you could find at beach resorts. Some of the stalls were more private than others, just right for when you needed a proper shower and weren’t just rinsing off for the day.
Rain showers, I think they’re called, where the water rushes out so hard and so fast that you feel extra clean afterwards. And almost as if you’ve been massaged by thousands of tiny fingers, for some reason, the water so warm that it feels like it isn’t from some internal boiler system, but the glorious, glowing heat of the sun itself.
I shut the shower stall behind me, slung my towel and fresh clothes onto the rack, and turned the knob. A pleasured shudder ran through my muscles as what can only be described as liquid sunlight ran in dribbling rivulets down my skin. I flexed my injured hand, pleased to find that it was only a little stiff now, no longer so painful. Nephilim blood had its perks, for sure, but I ran my hand under the hot water, just for kicks, and sighed in pleasure. This was just one of the many perks of living in Paradise, honestly. Best showers I’d ever had.
And the best food, too, I recalled as my stomach started grumbling. I would have stayed in the water longer, but a guy’s gotta eat, and I hadn’t choked anything down since the pitiful little sandwich I fixed myself after the trial. You kind of don’t have much of an appetite after a night that simultaneously involves slaying gross zombies and meeting your estranged fallen angel father for the very first time.
I stepped back out into Paradise wearing a fresh pair of cargo shorts, toweling off my hair as I allowed the sunlight to help dry my skin. Instinctively my eyes began scanning the grounds for Priscilla, the source of Paradise’s outrageously delicious food. A supernaturally intelligent gorilla – yes, as in Priscilla the gorilla – she’d been in Artemis’s employ for what the goddess claimed was a “long-ass time.” That gave me no clues about Priscilla’s age, but it did explain at least a little bit about how experienced she was at whipping up such excellent fare. All that time to experiment and figure out what things worked deliciously with each other, I suppose.
That, and access to the freshest ingredients as well. Artemis didn’t mess around when it came to making her domicile the very paragon of natural splendor. She was the goddess of the hunt, after all, and we very literally lived off the land, or more accurately, whatever Priscilla ripped out of the earth and water with her huge muscles and slapped onto a stove. Sweet seafood, the juiciest fruit, the freshest meat – Florian and I were spoiled for choice. With the free awesome food, the rain showers, and the cushy accommodations all thrown together, it really did feel like resort life.
