Authors: L.J. LaBarthe
Uriel lowered one of his arms, his fingers tangling in Raziel’s hair as he arched again and came over Raziel’s hand, moments after Raziel’s own release. Panting, they leaned into the wall, coming down from the high of their climaxes.
Raziel slowly pulled out of Uriel’s body and helped him stand on his own two feet. “Okay there?”
“Fuck yes.” Uriel grinned crookedly. Then he turned his head, trying to peer over his shoulder at his back. “Although I think the rocks have cut me up—that’ll give me some new scars.”
Raziel was immediately contrite. “I’m sorry, Uri. I should have put up a barrier so you didn’t get your back torn to shreds.”
“Hey, it’s not that bad. Anyway, if I wanted something like that up, I could’ve done it myself.” Uriel was still grinning.
“True enough. Turn around so I can see your back.”
“You just want to perv on my ass.”
Raziel rolled his eyes and laughed, shaking his head in rueful amusement. “Yes, Uriel, that is exactly what I want to do, perv on your ass. Not look at your back to see if you need me to clean it up for you, no, not at all.”
“Thought so.” Uriel turned around.
Raziel trailed a finger down one of the longer scrapes on Uriel’s back. They were bloody, shallow cuts and scratches in Uriel’s flesh, but the bleeding had all but stopped. Some of the scrapes were thick, and Raziel bit his lip as he looked at them.
“Stand still,” he ordered. “I’m going to clean them out.”
“Okay, but hurry up,” Uriel said. “I’m getting cold and shrinkage is happening.”
Raziel laughed. “Babe, shrinkage happens to every male alive when their dick is cold.”
“Still. It looks ridiculous.”
Raziel pulled in a bucket of sea water, a cloth, some antiseptic cream, and some Band-Aids and larger dressings. He began to clean out Uriel’s cuts and scrapes, trying not to laugh as Uriel huffed and snorted each time the sea water cleaned out a wound, shivering dramatically each time Raziel touched the cold, wet cloth to his body.
“So, are you telling me that you often observe your own penis?” Raziel asked. He didn’t particularly care about the answer, but it would no doubt distract Uriel from his noises and over-dramatic shivers while Raziel tended to his back.
“No, only sometimes. The first time, in Eden, I was fucking amazed that it could do this whole hard and soft thing. Then Adam told me that he could write his name in the snow, so I had to try that.”
Raziel paused in his ministrations. “Are you saying that you and Adam went out in winter and wrote your names in the snow with your pee?”
“Yeah.” Uriel nodded. “Also, did you know that if you’ve got a foreskin and good muscle control, you can shoot a peanut out of it? If you aim it right, it goes for quite a good distance.” He paused for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “Also, the peanuts need to be out of the shell and clean of their skins. As Adam found out, because he got a peanut scratch on his dick when he used an unskinned peanut.”
Raziel opened his mouth then closed it again. And then he convulsed in laughter.
“What?” Uriel asked, turning around.
Raziel wanted to stop laughing, but he couldn’t. “Oh fuck,” he gasped between his peals of laughter. “That’s fucking hilarious.”
“It’s fucking scientific fact,” Uriel said, bending down to pick up his shirt. “Can I get dressed now?”
“Yes, yes, by all means.” Still laughing, Raziel started to get dressed himself. “And how is this penis projectile experience of yours a scientific fact?”
“Well, if I can do it, the uncircumcised carbon apes can do it, right? So there’s your fact and your science.”
Raziel’s laughter echoed around the cave for a good fifteen minutes.
A
DRAMELEK
SPRAWLED
comfortably in his antique armchair, a cup of fragrant jasmine tea in his hands, and his cat, a ginger tomcat, lying at his feet. The cat’s eyes were closed, and it was purring, front legs outstretched and kneading the priceless Iranian handwoven carpet that covered the floor.
A fire burned merrily in the grate of the marble fireplace, candles in silver candlesticks on each end of the mantle, their flame giving forth a gentle light. In the background was the sound of singing, a discordant, unharmonious singing, a hymn to a ruler rarely seen but always feared.
This was Hell, and Adramelek’s own little slice of it. He had constructed a Russian dacha from the late eighteenth century with his power and furnished it with priceless antiquities, bought at auctions and from black market dealers around the world. Adramelek wasn’t picky about who sold him the items he had in his collection—after all, being a Fallen One and an Archdemon, scruples were not something he bothered with. It was enough for him that this latest house he’d created for himself and his cat was opulent, decadent, and protected with all manner of spells and sigils and wards.
Adramelek was fond of Hell. It wasn’t as light as Heaven, but that was because demons preferred the shadows. All the Archdemons had palaces made out of their own power, creating everything from castles that were perfect replicas of the majestic structures of the Middle Ages to buildings of hard lines, created out of chrome and glass, mirroring the modern forms of architecture that had been so popular with some of the classes of rich humans at the end of the twentieth century.
Adramelek sipped his tea, listening to the hymn, humming along tunelessly. He was relaxed and content, nothing was wrong with his little slice of the universe, and he had no pressing business to attend to. Later, he’d go out of Hell and up to Earth, journey to one of his favorite restaurants, follow that with a nightclub somewhere, and indulge himself in a little sin.
He smiled to himself at that thought, a smile that slid off his face as suddenly the most awful noise tore through Hell.
“Shit!” Adramelek spilled hot tea on himself and swore at length in several languages at once. The cat leapt to its feet with an angry meow, eyes opening to reveal blood-red orbs with silver pupils. The cat turned to look at Adramelek in reproach as Adramelek waved his hand to clean the tea off himself.
“It isn’t my fault, you ungrateful flea bag,” he said in response to the look, and the cat sniffed in disdain. Before Adramelek could say anything else, the noise grew louder, and Adramelek’s eyes widened in astonishment.
“What in the name of all little devils are they thinking?”
“Mrow?” asked the cat.
“The Grigori. They’re singing a—gah, I feel ill—a hymn. From Heaven.”
The cat hissed, ears pinned back.
“My thoughts exactly, Sprite.” Adramelek squared his shoulders and marched toward the door of the room, preparing to bellow for one of his servants. He was forestalled when the door crashed open, and Ba’al, Lucifer’s seneschal, stood on the threshold, Adramelek’s butler standing beside him and looking very put out.
“Lord Adramelek,” Ba’al said with a bow, “his lordship, Lucifer Morningstar, requests your presence immediately in the Castle of Black Ice.”
Adramelek quirked an eyebrow. “Very well. Can you do something about that revolting noise?”
Ba’al looked pained. “That’s part of what his lordship wants to see you about.”
Adramelek sighed. “I see. Just give me a moment.” Not waiting for a reply, Adramelek went to his cat and murmured, “Turn on all the wards, Sprite. Every single one of them.”
The cat, red eyes unblinking, nodded once. In a hissing voice, it said, “Do you wish me to send your legions out?”
Adramelek shook his head. “Not all of them just yet. Just have the twenty-first legion take up stations to guard this part of Hell.”
The cat licked its cheeks. “Right you are, boss.”
“Good kitty.” Adramelek grinned. “There’s tuna in the fridge.”
The cat purred loudly, and Adramelek straightened and turned back to Ba’al. “Well, let us go to his lordship. I’d hate to keep him waiting overlong.”
Ba’al bowed and led the way out of Adramelek’s home and into Hell itself. Outside of the wards that Adramelek had up around his abode, the sound of the singing Grigori was almost earsplitting. Adramelek winced at a particularly shrill note in the song, his hands going to his ears.
“I hope they shut up soon,” Ba’al remarked, shooting Adramelek a sympathetic look. “They’re making themselves a lot of enemies.”
“They’re making themselves targets for a lot of pain and torture,” Adramelek replied. He shook his head. “I bet the Hellhounds aren’t happy.”
Ba’al barked a pained, brittle laugh. “No, no they are not. They’re whining and pawing at their ears. I can’t say that I blame them.”
Through the corridors of Hell they walked, down the various levels to the Ninth, where the Castle of Black Ice stood in solitary majesty, one side shimmering with the reflected red light of the Lake of Eternal Fire and the other side shrouded in shadows from the Sea of Frozen Souls. The sound of the singing wasn’t as loud here in the center of Lucifer’s domain, but it was still loud enough to be more than a little annoying.
The Hellhounds guarding the broad steps that led to the front gates of the castle were rolling their eyes and looking more than a little ill. The sounds of the Grigori were causing them distress, for every so often, one of them would drop to its belly and roll its head against the ice in a futile attempt to block the noise.
Ba’al led Adramelek past the unhappy Hellhounds and up the stairs, through the gates and into the courtyard of Lucifer’s palace. The seneschal didn’t stop, leading Adramelek on through the courtyard into the palace itself and through the reception rooms to the back of the building and the spacious rear courtyard and balcony.
Lucifer was standing beside the balustrade, looking out over the bubbling cauldron of lava that was the Lake of Eternal Fire, and the endlessly shifting mercury-colored morass that was the Sea of Frozen Souls. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his wings were visible, pure white and tinged with silver and gold. He wore a simple white linen robe belted at the waist with a gold rope belt, and his feet were bare. His dark hair was neatly combed, and Adramelek immediately bowed as Lucifer turned to face him.
“My lord,” he said.
“Rise, Adramelek,” Lucifer said in a soft voice. “I have need of your counsel more than your obeisance.”
Adramelek stood. “You’re looking well,” he said conversationally, “considering the noise.”
Lucifer wrinkled his nose. His skin was unblemished, golden olive, his face beautiful beyond description. His eyes were a bright blue, and his expression was shrewd. Adramelek recalled the poems and songs and various sermons talking about the beauty of the Devil being a beguilement and temptation to mankind in and of itself.
“Semjaza is free.”
Adramelek blinked. “What?” Of all the things Adramelek had expected his lord and oldest friend to say, that wasn’t one of them.
Lucifer smiled. It was an ironic expression, tinged with malice. “Semjaza. Our dear brother angel, Prince of the Grigori, is free of his prison in the constellation of Aquila. Seems that it was not as eternal as Gabriel decreed.”
Adramelek swore. “That’s why they’re caterwauling!”
“Yes.” The smile slid off Lucifer’s face. “Your thoughts?”
“Gut them?” Adramelek rolled his eyes. “No, that wasn’t a serious suggestion. Let me think this through for a moment.”
“Take all the time you need.” Lucifer turned to look out over the lake once again. “I have summoned others to assist in this. Before they arrive, I want you to form a new council. Only those who will be present during our discussions today will be on it. You will chair and preside over it. Think of some suitably entertaining name for it. The younger Archdemons do so love the trappings of rank.”
Adramelek laughed at that. “Right. Okay, well, let’s see. Semjaza’s free, so I’m assuming the Archangels are rather pissed. What we should do here, though, is seal off the section of Hell that the Grigori are conducting their hymnals in. Let them sing until their tongues fall out, but no one else has to listen to it. I’d recommend Belial and Asmodeous to take care of that. Between the two of them, I have no doubt they can contrive some rather nasty—to the Grigori—punishments for trying to make their songs heard by the rest of us who live here.”
Lucifer nodded. “A good suggestion. I will see they do it immediately.” He reached out, his power like tendrils of soft velvet—seductive, lush, rich—to communicate Adramelek’s suggestion to Belial and Asmodeous.
Adramelek wracked his brains as he felt Lucifer’s power reaching out.
Semjaza was free.
That fact alone made Adramelek’s upper lip curl. He had never liked the Grigori prince, even when they had all been angels in Heaven, before the war, before Lucifer’s rebellion. Watching Semjaza parade around the city of Eden as if he were God rather than one of God’s servants had made Adramelek want to set fire to Semjaza’s hair. It was a childish urge, but Adramelek felt that it might be fitting, for such was Semjaza’s vanity. Setting his hair on fire might teach him a little humility.
“You are displeased.” Lucifer’s voice intruded on Adramelek’s thoughts.
“Understatement of the millennia.” Adramelek sighed. “Everything has a season, old friend. Even us.
Especially
us. All of angelkind, Fallen and not, and here’s Semjaza, throwing a spanner in the works because he thinks of nothing and no one but himself.”
Lucifer nodded. “I know. Believe me, old friend, I know. I was rather… irked when I received the news.”
“How long ago did you hear?” Adramelek asked.
“Two hours before the singing began.” Lucifer’s handsome face twisted in disgust. “His Exaltedness actually sent a telegram this time.”
Adramelek laughed. “Did you really think God would come down here Himself?”
“No, I suppose not. But we have cell phones now, Adry. And computers. E-mail is, I believe, the common form of long distance communication, and He chooses to send a telegram.”
“At least it wasn’t a carrier pigeon.” Adramelek grinned broadly. “So, I take it the ones you’ve sent Ba’al off to gather have suspicions that are rather close to the truth?”
Lucifer shrugged. “They can suspect all they like. Only you, I, and God Himself know what’s going on, and I don’t intend to change that. The End of Days and Final Battle will happen at the appointed time, which isn’t due for eons yet. Scuffles that occur randomly in between are irrelevant. My Fall was preordained, after all. And look at the majesty of my kingdom.” Lucifer spread his arms and wings wide.