Antiphon

Gabe’s light flashes again, nearly blinding me. Beherit shrieks, and, through the glare, I see thick black ichor oozing from where the dagger pierced his chest as tendrils of thick, oily smoke enfold his upper body in a cloud. What feels like a sonic boom knocks me back a step, and when Gabe’s light fades, all that remains where Beherit was is a bellow of hissing black smoke and the stench of burnt meat and brimstone. He and the dogs are gone.

Gabe rushes down the stairs, his glow fading as he comes, and now I can see the expression on his face. Anguish.

“Gabe?” He runs past me, and I feel black dread squeeze my heart just as I hear a thud behind me. I turn back to see the image that I’ve been unable to shake since I awoke with it in my head: Luc lying crumpled on the floor, corpse-white under smeared crimson blood.

Chapter 22

Redemption

Frannie

The hospital is too cold and too bright and it smells and I hate it. But I can’t leave, even though they already told us Luc isn’t going to make it. I can’t leave him here.

The only thing getting me through this is Gabe. His arms are around me like a cocoon, and he hasn’t let me go, even when they stitched my shoulder.

“I don’t get it,” I say through my tears. “He was human, so why would it matter that Beherit took all things Hell with him? That wasn’t Luc anymore.”

There’s pain in Gabe’s eyes and sympathy on his face. “You changed him physically, but his life force was tethered to Hell. It’s what he was for over seven millennia. There can’t really be a separation. And, in the end, he embraced that side of himself. He called on that infernal power to save you.”

I think about Luc-his heat and how he glowed as he used the last of his power to wrap me in a field-and my heart shrivels into a hard ball. He should have saved himself, not me.

People walk through the hospital waiting room like it’s any other day. Like the world didn’t just end. How can that be? The world should be crashing down all around us.

My shoulder stings where the anesthesia is wearing off, and I can feel the tug of the bandages and stitches, but I wish it was worse. I wish Beherit had killed me. Then maybe Luc and I would be together. I bury my face in my hands and I feel Gabe’s arms around me, pulling me to his shoulder. “This can’t be happening. It’s all my fault.”

“I’m so sorry, Frannie.”

“This is so not fair. He was good-I know it. He doesn’t belong in Hell.”

“He wasn’t tagged for Hell. There’s no guarantee that’s where he went.”

“But you said Beherit took him back to Hell.”

“No, Frannie. I don’t know that.”

My breath catches. “You mean he could be in Heaven?”

He strokes my hair. “It’s possible. His mortal soul was clean.”

Luc

It’s quiet and white and. empty. A void. Just like my mind. I’m aware of a body-mine, I guess, but I can’t see or feel it. I can’t see anything. I’m peaceful and I let myself drift. But then I’m being pulled through time and space in a dizzying rush.

King Lucifer.

When I stop and the vertigo settles, I open my eyes, sure I’ll find myself in Pandemonium. But instead I’m at the end of a long white corridor that fades into the distance. In front of me is a pair of swinging wooden doors with a peeling plastic sign taped to it reading LIMBO.

Limbo. Where untagged souls go after death to be sorted.

So, guess that means I’m dead.

The sudden realization that I won’t see Frannie again-touch her-kiss her-hits me hard, rocking me back on my heels. I fight to get air into my lungs, but then I remember that I don’t need to breathe anymore. I’m dead.

But Frannie’s not. She’s safe.

It’s that knowledge that helps clear my head. Frannie’s safe. Without me in the way, she’ll let Gabriel tag her and she’ll be fine. He’ll protect her. This is good. The only way I could ever leave her. She’ll be better off now.

I gather myself and push through the swinging doors into an endless room. The ceiling is low, with humming florescent fixtures, but the walls stretch away into oblivion. In front of me there’s an old wooden desk with various magazines scattered over its dark, nicked surface and a handwritten sign taped to the front. The writing is a sloppy cursive scrawl in heavy black marker and reads, TAKE A NUMBER AND HAVE A SEAT. Next to the sign is a plastic red number dispenser. I step up to the dispenser and look beyond the desk. As far as I can see, stretching into infinity, there are rows of black plastic chairs, most of which are occupied by the countless souls waiting to hear their fate. Others mill around aimlessly, wailing and crying about being dead. All are in shades of gray or beige, some shot through with black, vermillion, or ochre-the middle ground. These are the souls that weren’t tagged before death because they didn’t clearly fall on one side or the other.

I look down at myself for the first time, expecting obsidian black, but instead I find bright white with swirls of sapphire blue and dusk rose. White? I gaze in awe for more than a few minutes then collect myself and draw a number from the dispenser. The paper tab tears off, and I look to see a large ONE stamped on the green paper in gold leaf. I look up at the lit monitor over the desk. “Now serving number 64,893,394,563,172,289,516,” it declares. I look back at my number.

One.

“Number one, please report to office number one.” I hear the androgynous, monotone voice clearly in my head, but the monitor doesn’t change. And as I stand here wondering where I’m supposed to find office number 1, a carved wooden door materializes in front of me with a large golden 1 painted on it. I turn the knob and push the door slowly open.

Gathering myself and stepping through it, I find myself in a large, brightly lit room with an immense mahogany desk and a high-backed chair in the middle. The room looks deceptively inviting. The comforting scent of hickory wafts from a cheerful fire burning on the hearth of a large fireplace in the back of the room. Beige leather couches and chairs are scattered between numerous bookshelves. Among the titles strewn across a low mahogany coffee table near me, I see Dante’s Purgatorio and can’t help smiling. Michael has done his homework.

His back is turned to me as he hovers just off the ground to one side of the fireplace, white robes blowing gently in a nonexistent breeze.

Very theatrical.

He turns slowly and smiles, but there’s no warmth in that smile. He tugs on his black goatee and studies me. His dark hair and skin contrast with his pale blue eyes, making them appear to glow and giving him an ominous look-meant to intimidate, no doubt. Michael is known for that.

“Welcome, Lucifer. Apparently the Almighty has put you on the fast track. I would have made you wait.” He gestures to a comfortable-looking leather chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

“No thanks. I prefer to stand.” I’ve been around too long to let my guard down around an archangel. Especially this one. An eternity of passing judgment has given him a God complex.

The whole innocent-until-proven-guilty concept applies to Heaven and Hell as well, and Limbo is under Heaven’s control. Michael’s, specifically. You’d think that would work in their favor, but Michael believes in strict quality control, so actually the numbers usually come out to Hell’s advantage.

I take one more step forward. “What’s the deal? Why am I not in Hell?”

“If you’re that eager to burn in the Inferno for all eternity, so be it. I mistakenly thought you might want to discuss alternatives.” He waves his hand dismissively and turns to glide behind his desk.