solid measure of mystical competency that couldn’t be mastered overnight. Poe had done it without a hitch.
My arrival cleared that revelation from my head. A brimstone tang met my nose, giving away my destination as clearly as any sign could. I was in Hell.
Far from the prison cell quaintness I’d expected, the room I appeared in was cavernous. I recognized it immediately as a part of my uncle’s private chambers, a section squirreled away in the deepest recesses of his old quarters. A quick glance to my left made it clear the area had been sealed off from the rest of the rooms. Where once a massive archway had led out to a series of uninhabited rooms, there was now a seamless wall of stone. There’d be no Shawshank Redemption with that hunk of rock.
Amused that Baalth had chosen to imprison Asmoday in Lucifer’s old dominion, I took a look around at what’d been done to the place. Comfortable furniture littered the open space, the walls buttressed with overflowing bookshelves. Works of great art, clearly stolen from the world above, hung in a rigid array along the walls. Their bright colors threatened to overwhelm the dull tones of the rest of the room.
“Has the prodigal son come home at last?” a smooth, quiet voice asked from behind me, interrupting my sightseeing.
I spun to see Asmoday leaning in an arched doorway, a glass of wine dangling at his fingertips. Always lean, he looked damn near anorexic, like a piece of wood chiseled to its bare essence. His jet black hair and beard were unkempt and greasy, brown specks floating in them. A connoisseur of fine suits, it surprised me to see him dressed in flowing black robes that had seen better days. Dark stains marred the bulk of them, and the sleeves were tattered and frayed at their ends. Powder gray dust was visible on the loose threads. The mangy sandals he wore on his feet were speckled in what looked like dried mud, his feet nearly brown.
The iron stare that had long inspired fear amongst the Angelic Choir flitted dull and fidgety; his brown eyes little more than murky puddles in sallow sockets. His presence, which had once wafted from him, thick with steel and arrogance, was the wispy breath of a barren grave. His power was gone.
My mind jumped on the last part, my eyes glancing to his wrists and dirty ankles. Seeing no manacles, my stomach twisted into a knot. If ever I needed some kind of benchmark to comprehend just how powerful Baalth had become after inheriting Glorius’s magic, Asmoday was it.
As one of the first Fallen, a top lieutenant to Lucifer himself, Asmoday was power incarnate. In the top ten of supernatural entities, he was a god amongst men; was being the operative word.
Without any artificial assistance, Baalth had shut him down as easily as flipping off a switch. That reality settled over me like tsunami.
“Hardly.” I fought to keep the satisfaction from my voice.
He didn’t seem to care as he strolled to a velvet couch and plopped down, waving me to a seat across from it. He stared at the stone floor. “Then to what do I owe the great pleasure of your esteemed company?” He knew why I was there. Even banished to Hell, robbed of his magic, Asmoday was a demon lieutenant; there wasn’t a war he didn’t know about. Each and every battle was a song that rang clear through his blood.
I sat, my wounds reminding me they were still there, and took a second to collect my thoughts. Having lost everything he valued, Asmoday wasn’t gonna be swayed by a sob story, so I played to his ego. “I need your help.”
Though he sat a little straighter, taking another sip of his wine, he didn’t lift his gaze. “I have none to offer.”
“Actually, you’re the only one who does.”
His eyes peeked up at me from under drowsy lids. “Why not ask Baalth? Surely he can assist you.”
“Baalth has his own agenda, and I have mine. They rarely coincide conveniently to my benefit.”
Asmoday straightened, his wine glass hovering at his lips as he stared at me. “So Baalth doesn’t know you’re here, Triggaltheron?”
I shook my head, cringing at the use of my given name, but I let it go.
He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Then I can expect nothing for my assistance.”
Settling back into my seat, I tried not to smile. While he might have seemed uninterested, I knew the game well. We’d reached the bargaining stage. “I can certainly speak with Baalth to see what I can manage…” He shifted on the couch and looked to his glass. I waited a moment, letting the line trail out a little. “Though I believe I have a more…accommodating solution.”
He glanced up, his brown eyes curious at last.
“While Baalth may hold all the cards at the moment, fate has a habit of reshuffling the deck.” I leaned forward as though confessing. “As I’m sure you’ve heard, Longinus is back among the living.”
Asmoday gave a curt nod as though it were old news, motioning for me to continue.
“What you may not know, is that I helped get him there. He owes me.”
Expressionless, Asmoday waited for me to sweeten the pitch.
I did my best, though I couldn’t help but twist the knife a little. “Though Gabriel seems to have turned his back on his former allies, I have no doubt Duke Forcalor, and his newfound friends, would be more than willing to reward your loyalty to the right cause.”
He drained his glass and sat silent. I knew what he was thinking so I headed it off. “Away on business, Baalth would, no doubt, be appreciative of someone looking out for his interests, especially if things in Heaven are as bad as they seem. It’s only a matter of time before the war spills over and affects the rest of the realms.” Though I shouldn’t have told Asmoday that Baalth was gone, he probably already knew. Besides, he wasn’t in a position to take advantage of the info. While it might come back to bite me in the ass later, I could worry about it then, if I was still alive to care.
He laughed, a hint of life finally coloring his voice. “It already has.”
“The storm?”
He nodded, accepting our arrangement by default. His powers bound to Baalth, there could be no contract between us. He had only my word. With no other offers on the table, it was apparently enough.
Asmoday stood and went to refill his glass. “Lucifer once told me a story.” His wine replenished, he sipped at it and returned to his seat. “After a fierce argument with God, he stormed through the Garden of Eden, on his way to Earth. As he neared the Tree of Life, he noticed small black dots spring up and speckle the trunk. As he moved closer, the dots grew, the blackness spreading.
“Intrigued and curious, as Lucifer had always been, he set his hand upon the tree and the trunk split about his fingers, a festering wound exploding beneath. In the wake of its ashes, life around the Tree withered.” Asmoday smiled, his face becoming animated. “Uriel, perhaps sensing the Tree’s distress, arrived and chased Lucifer from the Garden before he could experiment further, but the damage had been done. Soon after, we were cast from Heaven, barred from setting foot in Eden, forever.”
My mind spun in dizzying circles as it tried to piece everything together. “So, it’s not something Gabriel is doing directly, but rather a consequence of the war in Heaven?”
Asmoday raised his glass in a mock toast. “Created in paradise, the Tree is sensitive to its environs. Assailed by hate and rage, bathed in the bloodshed and death of war, it suffers. The blood of angels wears upon its sensitive bark. As its roots are woven through the entirety of existence, as it suffers, so shall we all.”
“Which means there’s gonna be more storms.”
“Unless tranquility is returned to the Garden, they’ll grow worse, devouring everything in their path.”
Damn. Why can’t it ever be good news? It’s always the end of the world, the Apocalypse, Armageddon-blah, blah, fucking, blah. Just once I’d like to wake up and hear, “ Today’s forecast will be mostly happy, with no chance of death.” Or maybe there could be a blowjob storm. I’d drag my fat ass out of bed for that.
“I guess this means I’m going to Heaven.” Asmoday and I both chuckled at that. “The only problem is, Gabriel has barred all the portals and the Nephilim have plopped their asses outside Eden’s gate. It’s not like I can just stroll up to it and knock.” I thought back to what the old warrior had said. “Is there some way to open the gates from the outside? A key, maybe?”
Asmoday raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps.” He set his glass aside and walked to one of the cluttered bookshelves, his finger leading the way as he read through the titles with a bored casualness. At last, he pulled out a thick leather tome and flipped through it, the pages creaking in the bind. “Ah, here it is.” He lifted the book to show me the page, and then began to tell me what it said.
“It was rumored that during his exile, after the murder of his brother, Cain longed for God’s forgiveness. However, as he was banished from His heart, Cain’s prayers no longer reached God’s ears. As such, he devised a
