Once You Go Demon (Pure Souls) (24 page)

Whatever. If something predating Kennedy had gone down between these three, that was their business. At the moment, her concerns were a little more self-centered.

“You said you’d talk when we got back here, so talk.” Riona could have blown the house up if someone had taken a match to the fuming glare she was giving her alleged dad. “Straight up truth here. I’m sick of lies by omission, and turns out archangels excel at that.”

“Of course. Right, well …” Michael shuffled as a flustered Persephone scurried back into the room, a fresh glass of something on the rocks in one hand, and a cheesecloth towel in the other. She handed off the drink to her brother and got down on all fours to blot the carpet. “Maybe it would help me to know where to start if you first told me what you already know.”

Riona nodded. “You mean about how you knocked up my mom, tied her to a bed so she wouldn’t abort me, then conveniently fell off the face of the Earth when I was born, leaving me to be raised by one of the most horrid banshees this side of a sailor’s coffin? Yeah, that part I know.”

“That’s … not …
quite
… what happened. I didn’t just ‘knock up’ Molly, as you so crassly put it. I loved her.”

“Oh,
heelllll
no.” With rolling eyes, Riona coughed out a sound of indignation. “Now I know you’re lying. Nobody loves my mother. Even I’m fifty-fifty on some days.”

“It’s true.” This time it was Ramiel speaking. “We all were just as perplexed about it, too. But in Molly’s defense, she wasn’t that bad back then. Nothing like she is now.”

Riona’s upheld hand begged silence. She turned to Ramiel with a furrowed brow. “Wait a minute, you knew my mother back in the day, too? But why didn’t she recognize you? And how did you,” she pointed back to Michael, “even cross paths with my mother? No, let me guess, at church.”

Michael gave Ramiel a questioning gaze. The latter angel shrugged. “Wasn’t my place to tell her.”

Michael sighed. “Molly was a witch of some renown in her younger days. She dated one of the pillars for a short time. That’s how we met. She … intrigued me. So smart, so witty, so unconventional. She had a tongue that could skin a cat when you crossed her, but was gentle as rain most of the time. She wasn’t privy to the truth, mind you. She didn’t know her boyfriend was a Pure Soul. She definitely didn’t know I was an archangel. I let myself get wrapped up in the emotions. I fell, and she was all too happy to catch me. Before I knew what was happening, she was with child.”

“Love gets you like that,” Dee piped up from the couch where he sat with Persephone, his sister stroking his hand as he nursed his gin and tonic. “Consumes you, eats your rational thoughts. We’ll all do the most stupid things for it.”

Michael bobbed his head. “Indeed. But as you may know, angels are forbidden to take a human lover. It’s a slippery slope toward subjugating free will.”

“And how is that?” Riona asked.

“Angels are beings connected to the light, the divine spark. Our very natures have a tendency to strike lust in humans. Especially women; they sense inherently the connection with creation. For some, the craving borders on obligation. They give themselves into the longing, and can be taken without fully understanding why they even feel the way they do. Surely … you’ve … noticed …” Michael stumbled for words, showing that even if he hadn’t been on active duty for the last three decades, he had perused the guidelines regarding inappropriate things to discuss with your adult daughter.

Riona lowered her head and met his uncomfortable posture with one of her own. “Um. With Ramiel, yeah. And I guess with Lucifer and Azazel, too, if I think about it. But it doesn’t happen with you.”

He coughed a laugh. “Of course not. I’m your father. And if you’ve crossed paths with one of the Grigori, they always use that fact to their advantage.” Then, having realized what she said, his eyes flashed fire to Ramiel. “What does she mean with you? Do you have anything you need to confess to me, Ramiel?”

The leering liaison blanched. “No, sire. Riona and I have never been intimate. I once tempted her, but not with intention. It was only a means to make her see a larger reality.”

Riona’s face screwed into confusion. “Why does he keep calling you sire?”

Ramiel perked up again. “In Heaven, Michael is the equivalent to what Lucifer is in Hell. A sort of President, CEO, regent … Whatever analogy works for you.”

“Was, anyways, until I was vanquished,” Michael amended. “When I told your mother what I really was, and that because of it I couldn’t stay with her and with you, she accused me of coming up with a horrific lie to get out of my responsibility. We … had a row, during which she somehow managed to seize my blade and, without meaning to, pierced me. If she had been any other mortal, it wouldn’t have done anything except given me a superficial cut that my body would have quickly mended. But because she carried you within, the angel blood enhanced her magic. The charm that each blade carries activated. I was vanquished.”

“But why didn’t you come back to Heaven? Why did you decide to go to Nirvana instead?” Ramiel asked.

Finally, Jerry made his presence known. “He wanted to be numb.”

“Huh?” Both Riona and Ramiel asked.

The former gnosis demon, of course, would be the one with all the answers, wouldn’t he? “I heard rumors that one of the elites was hanging out with Buddha, but I didn’t know which or why. The reason for getting to Nirvana is the same for anyone, mortal or angel. You go to Nirvana because you want to be separate from the world. Molly’s outburst must have hurt him pretty damned bad, and even in Heaven, he’s have known he’d have the ability to see Riona, but never to connect with her. It would have torn him up, like a hungry man being caged inside a Chinese buffet. Riona? Riona, what’s wrong?”

The witch raked her hands into her red hair and clutched at the roots like she was trying to take off a hat. “Oh, my goodness. Do you mean that man I slapped? That was Buddha?
The
Buddha?”

Michael shooed the comment away with a wave of his hand. “Trust me, he thought it was hilarious. He’s been pulling that old ‘sound of one hand clapping’ line for eons.  I’m sure he’s relieved to hear another answer. Or, really, hear
any
answer. But about your mother. When I was vanquished, I sent a message to Gabriel of my predicament, and told him he was in charge until I returned. However, your mother knew too much. A witch like her, I knew she’d move in all the right circles with all the wrong people. Someone would see you were different, and eventually someone would figure out why. The only way to ensure both of your safeties was for you both to separate from the wiccan community wholly. I asked Gabriel to erase her memory, to supplant it with a painful recollection of events so that neither one of you would ever go searching for me and stumble on the truth, and to bind her magic so that she couldn’t find a way to accidently undo the charm. I’m afraid so much manipulation of a human psyche may have enhanced her less pleasant attributes. I hope, however, that she is not without some of her good nature still?”

Riona considered that thought. “Well, every so often, she tells me I’m not a
complete
screw up. So …”

Ramiel stepped forward, his eyes turned toward the floor. “Sire, I’ve served as the Pure Soul’s liaison in your absence. Most of the time has been standard fighting, but some recent events … Well, we should meet with the council so you can be caught up, especially about the last few months.”

“In time, Ramiel. In time.” The senior angel mussed Ramiel’s hair. “I’ve missed out on my daughter’s life, and you and I know once I’m back in Heaven I’ll be bombarded with supplications by too many voices. For a time, I wish to remain here. In fact, it is my intention, now that the prescribed time has elapsed and I am free to come and go from this dimension at will, to resume my post as guardian.”

Ramiel shifted his posture. “Sire?”

Michael shooed his hands in the air. “Be off then, and give me a chance to come to know these three better. If they or I have need of you, you will be summoned. Until then, I would appreciate a little privacy.”

The smile Michael gave her she somehow found unnerving. The newly-arrived archangel buttered the gap he’d left in her life, sinking and melting into all the cracks, giving a lubricated surface for her rationalizations and explanations to sink into unseen crevices. He claimed her mother’s recollection was wrong, and after having felt what she did last night, Riona could only imagine that her rebellious Mom would have been all pitchforks and fires if Michael’s story was true. She wasn’t exactly comfortable with the idea of him hanging around, but did she have a choice?

Ramiel must have read the contemplation in her features. “Riona,” he said, grabbing her gaze, “are you okay?”

“I guess.” She shrugged. “I guess we should spend a little time getting to know each other. Thanks, Ramiel.”

“No problem.” With a bow, Ramiel turned toward Michael. “Sire, welcome back. I’ll tell the council you will appear at your convenience.”

“Do so.”

“Well, good-bye then. Dee, Jerry, Riona.” She saw him swallow, and in a cracked voice, add, “Persephone.”

His edges shimmered, the lights she’d come to expect arced up behind him, and he was gone.

Chapter 26

He glanced at his watch: thirty-eight minutes. Lucifer noted the time in his journal, picked up the board that had heretofore been resting on his bedside table, and set it aside.

“I don’t care what they say,” he thought to himself. “Watching paint dry isn’t as tedious as it seems.”

Over his mantle, the gilded frame of his mirror shone. The light caught his eye as a smoke swirled in the center, preparing to display for his information and amusement a potential mortal sinner. The enchanted looking glass had come with the apartment, and he was so glad he’d kept it, despite Azazel’s insistence that it was an evil pagan relic.

An all too familiar face took form. When he made out the lick of red hair and pouty lips, he felt himself go hard in response.

“Well, well, Miss Dade. Nice to see you again. A penny for your sinful thoughts? What is it you’re thinking of today?”

Damn, how he wished he still had an agent with an active audibilious charm on her. Riona had been turning up in the glass quite a bit since her wannabe lover had offed himself.  A fact that set Lucifer giddy. He was growing anxious, knowing that Marc would soon be back in play and his best shot of dragging the witch to Hell.

“No pots for you, sweet,” he spoke to her image, reaching out fingers to touch the glass. “The moment you arrive, I’m making you corporeal and taking you over and over. Embrace those damning instincts. You belong here with us. With me.”

The witch in the glass smirked, almost like she had heard him. He wondered for a moment if his voice had crossed Styx when she moved across the room and stood next to…

“Michael?” Lucifer hissed the name out like a curse. “But, that’s impossible! You’re supposed to be dead. You’re supposed to be…. AZAZEL!”

Azazel strutted through the corridors of Upper Hell, making his way toward the craggy, twisty labyrinth of fire and lava the Grigori had come to nickname, “the kitchens.” He rounded the last tenement housing the damned and saw the landscape open up before him; a sea of soot-ashen kettles floating over crimson embers, a mist of evaporating purity trailing from the churning surface, and a dozen or so minions on rotation, tending pots.

Other than Lucifer, fallen angels rarely visited this area of the Underworld. So little scope for the eye’s enjoyment. In other parts of Hell, mortal men condemned by the malfeasance of their own misdeeds endured multiple forms of torture. The select few whose souls found their way to the pots, however, represented a special breed of sinners. Here, the inferno roasted from them the last traces of redeemable goodness until their evil essence ripened.

A cacophony of suffering and remorse compromised a symphony of sorrow all about him. As Azazel strode further into the pits, where the fires simmered gently, the pots grew quieter; first sobs, then whimpers, and finally the pots in the last stages of preparation, pots with souls ready to be reincorporated into demon flesh so that they might again walk amongst mortal men. The newer pots shrieked and yelped, the souls within still feeling too much the compassion of mortal souls, the loss of their own salvation. Or, heck, maybe they’d just realized they were now stuck in one of the few places left in existence without a Starbucks on every corner.

The head cook looked up from his post amid a sea of pots to see his Grigori overlord nearing. Domuskin fell into a demonstration of obeisance. “Lord Azazel.”

“Where is the Pure Soul pot?”

Domuskin’s eyes darted from side to side. “Sir?”

A backhanded encouragement brought the servant’s palms to the floor. Fires licked his fingertips, setting him hissing.

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about,” warned Azazel. “The custodianship of the fallen Pure Soul has been awarded to me, by none other than Lucifer himself. Now where is it?”

Scattering to his feet, Domuskin flitted away to a distant fire on which a single pot sat, its gray-purple contents bubbling and popping.

“It’s very quiet.” Azazel worried for a moment if he was already too late, if somehow this was Lucifer’s test to see if his long-festering suspicion of brewing betrayal had a basis. “How long has it been cooking?”

“Almost long enough,” Domuskin answered. “Right on schedule, he is. A few more days is all. By then all the compassion, self-sacrifice, and love ought to be gone. Been boiling him over here on this fire alone. It’s hotter than the rest. Been resistant to let go of love, he has. Toughest thing to boil away from any soul, but still.” He arched his arm and brought his knobby fingers to the token tuft of brown hair still sprouting from his exposed skull. “Maybe ‘cause he’s one of ‘em Pure Souls, I guess. But this one’s been peculiar the whole time. He ain’t screamed but the once, when he first went over the flames.”

“His resilience is strong. That pleases me.” Azazel leaned in over the pot, bringing his face down. A deep breath through the nose tickled his senses. Aromas of passion, determination, and a spicy undertone of darkness comprised a formidable bouquet. He tapped the edge of the pot, causing a bubble tittering near the surface to burst. “Marc, that was your name, right? Well, Marc, I have some good news. I’m going to be your master once you’re remade. At the top of my list once you go topside is arranging for you to meet up with that smoking hot piece of ass you deserted on Earth. Sound like fun?”

Liquid Soul Marc gurgled, the viscous collection hazing over to bright red.

“I thought that might excite you.” He turned back to Domuskin. “Remove him and take the pot to my quarters, but tell no one you have done so.”

“But, Lord Azazel, I took his measurements this morning. He’s not ready. He’s still got a nasty bit o’ love intact, perhaps even empathy.”

“All the better. A demon who can still feel love is the most dangerous and capable kind of all,” Azazel answered. “I’ve learned that much from experience. Passion without penance will make the world burn.”

If there was one major success story since the Grigori had seized control in Hell, it was the demon engineering program. Recruitment numbers soared. Men became more and more corruptible with each eon. “Misery loves company” was more than just a cliché catchphrase in Hell; it was a guiding principle. Like the other Grigori, nothing made Azazel’s fallen angel heart go pitter-patter like a moral soul corrupted. If he, one of Big Boss’s most awesome creations and beloved beings, was to be denied the light forever, he was sure as heck going to make sure enough of those damned humans suffered that fate with him.

The previous management had sucked at recruiting. Hades was more of a “sit back and let them come to me,” type of overlord, too concerned with his genitalia to worry about fucking the rest of the world. Business as usual under the Grecian management team meant no more than seeing to housing the condemned. While Hades had had occasion to throw a soul back to Earth to perform a temporary possession—it was a favorite party trick of his when interacting with mortals, it was said—the nephilim lacked the necessary power needed to mold flesh and spark life. Azazel sometimes wondered if Big Boss ever regretted gifting the archangels with that ability.

Likely not, he reflected. Regret would imply a mistake, and Big Boss didn’t cop to mistakes. “Everything has a purpose.” Yeah, right …

Domuskin proved an obedient little shit. Not twenty minutes after Azazel had issued the order, a cooling pot of Pure Soul goo sat on his kitchen table as the cook waited patiently by the pantry.

“You’ve never been in here,” Azazel concluded. It wasn’t like he kept track when minions came and went. “You seem surprised.”

“It’s very …” Domuskin search the air around him for the proper word. “Domestic. You’ll forgive me, Lord Azazel. I know you and the other Grigori can manifest whatever domicile you wish here in the Underworld. This seems very … tame.”