Flaming Dove (17 page)

Clutching Bat El's throat with one hand, Zarel traced the claws of her other hand across Bat El's face. She hissed at the angel, smoke rising from her nostrils. "Kidnapped the girl, how clever of you, and I suppose you'll do some dog and pony show now, how she's of great importance, and a lofty bargaining chip, is that correct?"

Beelzebub flapped his wings, raising more sparks from Zarel's hair of flames. "Damn it, Zarel, you know she's a bargaining chip, so stop killing everything you see."

"Go to hell, Beelzebub," Zarel said. "Don't give me that. Of all the angels to kidnap at the fort, you chose the pretty blond one, is that so?"

"I kidnapped the highest ranking one I could find," he responded icily. Bat El still struggled, but seemed to grow weaker. Her body was still bruised and cut, and she could hardly breathe in Zarel's grasp. As for Laila, Beelzebub had no idea if she still lived. The half-breed was probably dead; it was unlikely that she could have survived a duel with Zarel and a fall from this height. Beelzebub's head spun.

"Zarel, let the girl go, that's an order."

"An order? Do you think I'm some lowly shade?" Zarel spat a glob of lava. "Did you sleep with her, Beelzebub?"

"I won't dignify that with an answer."

"Did you kiss her, then? Don't even bother answering. I can see the answer in your eyes. You kissed her, Beelzebub, so now watch me kill her." She tightened her grip around Bat El's throat, drawing another few droplets of blood.

Beelzebub grabbed Zarel's wrist and twisted hard. Bat El came free, fell a few feet, then managed to flap her wings and flee. As Bat El flew into the distance, Beelzebub slapped Zarel across the face as hard as he could. His hand stung, and Zarel screamed in pain, blood flying from her lip. The anger fuming in him, Beelzebub hit Zarel again, a slap to her other cheek that sent her swirling backwards. The Demon Queen hissed and wept.

"You're lucky I'm busy, or I'd give you more than just a couple slaps," he said icily, then flapped his wings and took after Bat El. Zarel did not follow. Beelzebub knew he had hurt her, but he refused to feel guilt. The archdemon had to learn her place.

As he flew, following Bat El under the clouds, Beelzebub glimpsed a light in the eastern sky, like a flare or comet.

Michael.

The archangel was flying toward where Laila had fallen, following her wake of fire.
So my brother came to protect his ward,
Beelzebub thought, rankled. If Laila had survived, Zarel would be unable to kill or capture her now, not with Michael there. Briefly, Beelzebub considered confronting his brother, but he was in no mood for the archangel.
Bat El is the only one I care about now.

Shoving his wife and brother out of his mind, Beelzebub kept flying, following Bat El over dunes and cracked highways. The angel cried as she flew, bloody and battered. She soon lost strength and began to flag, then finally landed in a sandy field, her hair tousled, her wings ruffled.

Beelzebub landed beside her, the sand soft against his feet. He was still dressed in but a tunic, he realized; he hadn't had a chance to change since going to Bat El's chamber last night and finding her missing.

Bat El turned toward him, eyes huge and weepy, lip trembling, blood on her neck. She knelt in the sand, trembling.

"Laila," she whispered. "Is my sister.... Do you think she's okay?"

Beelzebub embraced her. "I don't know," he said. "But after you left, Michael showed up. If Laila lives, Michael will protect her."

Bat El wept against his shoulder, shaking, and he held her for long moments, saying nothing. He tore off bits of cloth from his tunic and bound her wounds, and they lay in the sand, spent, holding each other. The breeze blew softly, scented of distant grass and sea. They were safe here for now, far from any other angels or demons.

"I'm scared, Beelzebub," she finally said. "I'm scared that Laila is dead. I'm scared that Zarel will come back. I'm scared for Michael, for everything. I don't know what's going to happen." She kept her arms wrapped around him. "Everything here on Earth is so different. I miss Heaven, and my dad, and... just understanding things. I'm so confused here, I don't even know who's good and who's bad anymore." She looked into his eyes, her own eyes haunted. "Sometimes I think you're one of the good guys, but.... Oh, Beelzebub, I don't know. I wish it would all just go away."

"Do you really?" he whispered, and kissed her, and marveled at how her lips seemed softer and fuller than ever. She kissed him back, hands in his hair.

Beelzebub shut his eyes, holding Bat El. Though she was an archangel, daughter of Gabriel, puissant and high-ranking, she felt so fragile in his arms. When he felt her arms around him, her lips against his, Beelzebub felt like he could forget the whole war, forget his new throne in Hell, and stay here forever with her. Wasn't this better than all the glory and might in Hell?

What was it about Bat El? Women had always been his greatest vice, back since the old days when he knew human girls, planting Nephilim in their wombs. Yet few women made him feel like this; none had since Laila fled him into exile a decade ago.

He kissed the tears off her cheeks, and when he took off her clothes, he saw cuts and bruises his demons had given her, so he touched her only gently. She had never made love before; he had known ten thousand women. That day, Beelzebub wanted no one else.
If Bat El is the last woman in my life, I'd be happy.

"This stupid war," she said to him an hour later, lying by him, her head against his chest.

She slept then, and Beelzebub lay watching the skies, wondering how long before Zarel came looking for them.

* * * * *

Laila opened her eyes in the forest. She looked upon the canopy above, the rustling pine needles, the branches and blinding sunlight. The Carmel forest. Her entire body ached, and her head felt swollen. She turned her head to see roots, rocks, acorns and vines.

It was here,
she remembered.
This very place. Here is where I first met him.

It was a decade ago that she met Beelzebub. It had been a different world. There were still isolated human villages eking out a living across the land, Lucifer still ruled in Hell, and she, Laila, lived feral in the backwoods of Israel. On a cold night in her seventeenth winter, she caught a goat among the trees, a shaggy old beast with long horns. She first spotted it eating mint leaves, and it never saw her approach. She leapt onto its back and slashed its throat, then clutched it as it kicked and died.

As she feasted upon its raw meat, she remembered that as a girl, she had seen a goat only once, but now they filled the forest. Nearly all humans had perished in Armageddon, that first great battle between Heaven and Hell seventeen years ago, allowing the boars, jackals, and other beasts to breed unmolested... that is, other than by Laila. She tore off meat with her fangs and chewed, blood dripping down her chin. The forest was dark, and only her flaming eyes pierced the shadows. The only sounds were the breeze and stirring of pines.

"Don't you want a fire?" came a sudden voice ahead, and Laila raised her bloody face from the goat, staring into the darkness, heart racing. She snarled and bared her fangs, her halo bursting into flame. Laila the half-demon had sharper ears than any beast in these hills, and she had heard none approach.

"Don't be scared," said the voice in the darkness. "I won't hurt you."

Laila growled, blood dripping down her fangs, and unfurled her bat wings. "It is you who should be frightened," she said. "Few interrupt Laila of the night as she feasts—and live." She rose to her feet, claws glinting.

A figure stepped out from the shadowy trees. The flames of Laila's eyes and halo lit his black Roman armor, his black curls, his dark eyes. Great bat wings he had, and when he smiled, Laila saw fangs.
A fallen angel,
she knew.

"Are you really going to eat all that yourself?" the fallen angel asked, looking at the goat. "I'll teach you how to cook a mean steak if you let me share the meat."

Laila stared at him over the carcass, its blood staining her face and tattered cloak. She had never seen a fallen angel before, but all knew of them. Here were those ancient angels who'd rebelled against God thousands of years ago and lost. God had banished and cursed them, removing their halos and swan wings, granting them bat wings, fangs, and claws instead, marking them forever as wicked.
They are like me, feral, banished from Heaven.
They had created Hell and styled themselves demon lords, forging scaled shades from the hellfire, arming themselves for this war, for Armageddon. Laila felt both fear and fascination seeing such a fabled creature before her. Many whispered that her own demon father was no lesser, scaly shade but one of these great fallen angels.
Perhaps this one can teach me some things beyond goat cuisine.

"I like my meat raw and bloody," she said to him.

"It tastes better cooked. Come, I'll build us a fire." He opened his palms to show that he carried no weapons.

She flexed her claws. "Fires summon curious angels and demons. I prefer to live in shadows and silence."

The fallen angel began to collect firewood. "This fallen angel found you even in the shadows, and you don't need to fear if any other souls approach. Few can harm me, and few can harm Laila the half-breed."

She watched silently as the fallen angel collected branches, stacked them, and lit the bonfire with a spark by snapping his fingers. The flames lit the trees and tossed a thousand shadows into a dance, like an army of demons. When the flames were lower, the fallen angel produced a grill from his backpack and cooked cuts of goat. The smell
was
good, and as the meat cooked, Laila's mouth watered.

"You know my name, fallen angel," she said, watching the fire. "Before we enjoy your amazing goat dish, tell me yours. There were a hundred and thirteen fallen angels; which one are you?"

The meat was ready. Her companion removed the grill from the fire and handed her a chop. "I don't have a plate," he said, "but you're used to eating with your hands. Go on, taste it. It's good. As for my name, I've had many in my life. Thousands of years ago, some would call me Baal and mistake me for a god. Others call me the Lord of the Flies, not a name I especially favor. God used to call me the Unpious, while the archangel Michael would often just refer to me as 'my knuckleheaded kid brother'."

Laila took the meat and bit into it. It was pink and juicy. It had been ages since she'd eaten cooked meat, not since she had escaped Mamma and Papa's farm. The bonfire crackled, reflecting in her companion's gilded breastplate.

"So what is the mighty Beelzebub, field commander of Hell's army on Earth, doing wandering the Carmel mountains alone?" she asked over her meal. "Shouldn't you be off marshalling armies and killing angels?"

She examined him closely in the shadows. It was not every day that one met such a legendary being. He was not what the stories described. In Heaven's paintings, Beelzebub always appeared ugly and hook-nosed, groveling under the heel of this or that archangel, begging for mercy before the coupe-de-grace from angel lances. In Hell's lore, Beelzebub was always portrayed as wrathful, wreathed in flame, ten feet tall and terrible. While the fallen angel before her impressed in his own way, with his tall frame, strong jaw, and exquisite armor, he was anything but beastly or monstrous.
He looks more like one of those movie stars in old human posters,
Laila thought.
A guy you'd want to have a beer with, not a demon overlord who's after your soul.

When he smiled, Laila realized she had been staring, and she returned her gaze to the fire, feigning nonchalance.

"I do marshal armies and kill angels on most nights," he said and passed her a bottle. "Try this pinot, it's good. You know what they say about pinot, don't you? 'God made cabernet while the devil made pinot.' Truth is we from Hell taught humans how to make both; before us, all they drank was fresh spring water. Horrible, isn't it?" When Laila had sipped, he took the bottle back and drank himself. "Now where was I? Oh yes, we were discussing the purpose of my excursion into these woods. Truth is, Laila... I came here to find you."

She finished her meat and tossed the bone aside. They had not touched most of the carcass, but Laila knew the jackals, crows, and bugs would consume the rest. "I came to this forest to avoid Hell and Heaven," she said, wiping her lips with the back of her palm.

Beelzebub gazed around at the trees. "A fine home it is, I don't deny it. But don't you want more? Walls around you, fine meals, real clothes? You are of Hell's stock. I came to offer you a home with us, an education, a place to belong."

Staring at Beelzebub, Laila indeed felt a moment of envy. The fallen angel wore fine armor, fine leather sandals, and his hair was combed and neatly cropped. She herself wore a tattered cloak, a rope for a belt, and her hair was a great knot of leaves and twigs. Blood and dirt smeared her, and while Beelzebub sported a fine golden ring for jewelry, she wore a string of boar tusks around her neck. What would it be like to live in splendor, with fine clothes, fine wine, fine company? Yes, for a moment Laila was tempted, but the moment vanished. Hell was not for her. She was half-angel, and hellfire would burn her, and demons would drool over her as over a good meal.

"I belong in this forest," she said. "I need no more."

"I'm sure you don't
need
more, but you must
want
it. Won't you let me help you, Laila? You are well known in Hell, and we want to care for you."

Laila rose to her feet. Her boots, clunky leather things she had stolen years ago, seemed so tattered compared to Beelzebub's fine sandals. "When I was a girl, angels tried to raise me, to tame me. They could not bring me to Heaven. When they once did, the godlight boiled my demon blood, burned my skin, and nearly killed me. So they raised me in the trenches of Earth, and tutored me, tried to make me wear dresses and read scripture. I ran from them early, and have been living alone since. I have no wish to be tutored again."