Sinners & Sorcerers: Four Urban Fantasy Thrillers (51 page)

Beelzebub hammered at the marble statue, chiseling away a speck from the nose. He frowned, ran a finger along his own nose, and chiseled another piece. Candles filled the church belfry, dancing against the statue, burning low. He had been working for hours on his self-portrait; soon the light would be gone.

“Your nose is bigger,” came a voice behind him. “You’re not that pretty.”

With a sigh, Beelzebub turned to see Zarel enter the belfry. The Demon Queen swayed as she walked, formed of endless curves, her red scales clinking. Her hair of flame crackled, and drool dripped down her fangs to steam against the floor.

“All angels are pretty,” he said to her. “We are beings of light and beauty.”

Zarel barked a laugh, smoke and flame rising from her nostrils. “You’re a
fallen
angel, my dear husband, do you remember? It’s been a long time since a halo glowed above your head.”

Beelzebub turned back toward the statue and took a step back, admiring his work. The black marble rose seven feet tall, just slightly larger than life, great bat wings spread.
It’s good,
Beelzebub thought, nodding slowly. He especially liked how he had carved the armor; the stone breastplate, greaves, and vambraces glittered like the real armor he wore, old Roman pieces he had been wearing for two thousand years.
I will gild the marble armor too,
he decided. His own armor was black and gilded, and he wanted the statue to look as authentic as possible.

“I’ll mount this statue in the Armenian Quarter once we take it,” he told Zarel. “Michael will like that.”

Zarel bared her fangs, and her hair of flame raised sparks. Her eyes burned like lanterns in the shadows. “Forget the Armenian Quarter. We have larger concerns today. Whispers fill the city. They say that Laila has returned.”

Beelzebub sank into a chair by his workbench. “Who says this, Zarel?” he asked wearily.

His wife ran her claws along his arm, raising steam against his skin. “Humans. Who else? You know your lover. She consorts with them, so I listen.”

Beelzebub sighed again, a deep sigh that ran across his body. “She’s no longer my lover, Zarel. That was years ago. You know that.”

She smiled with a hiss, drool dripping down her maw, flames burning in her eyes. More flames ran across her scaly body, a raiment of fire. She unfurled her leathery wings, horns and claws glistening. “The girl must die.”

Beelzebub rose to his feet, stepped toward the belfry window, and opened the shutters. He gazed out upon the ruins of Jerusalem, letting his gaze caress the toppled temples, fallen columns, cracked streets, the skeletons of demons and angels. Ash swirled across the sky, and he could see no life other than a vulture pecking at some bones. In the distance, beyond alleys and ruins, he could discern the glow of angels hunkered down in their trenches.
Stubborn bastards,
he thought.
It’s been twenty-seven years since Armageddon, and still they hold out. They don’t give up on dreams easily, angels. Stubborn, stubborn.

He turned back toward Zarel, letting his gaze move over her body clad in flames, her toothy maw, her flaming hair. She was beautiful, of perfect form and malice. He stepped toward her and embraced her. She struggled, trying to shove him back, but he held her tight and kissed her cheek.

“My dearest Zarel,” he said. “Don’t be jealous, my queen. I have no more feelings for Laila, you know that. You’re the only one I love.”

She hissed and scratched her claws against his nape, trying to hurt him, but could not penetrate his skin. Her claws could rip through stone and steel, yet some were still too powerful for Zarel the archdemon. “Then why did the sound of her name bring pain to your eyes?” she said, her voice half a growl.

Beelzebub shoved her aside, and she fell back two steps, glaring at him, eyes aflame. She bared her fangs like a wolf.

Pain. Was there still pain?
Beelzebub turned back toward his statue and stared at it. A fallen angel was he, a being of beauty and power, a being who could claim any woman. His wings were no longer those of a swan, but of a bat, and no halo glowed above his head. Those had been stripped from him and Lucifer during their rebellion, when God banished them from Heaven to become demons. But his divine beauty and strength remained.
I could have any woman, and I have found the one of my dreams,
he told himself.
Zarel is of great lineage, powerful and famous in Hell; she is my perfect match. Laila means nothing to me now.

“There is no more pain,” he said, still facing the statue, not turning to look at his wife. “Only old pain, long dissipated.”

“Then let me kill her,” came Zarel’s voice behind him.

He shook his head. “We need her.”

Zarel leapt, flew over his head, and landed before him, smoking and flaming, fangs bared. She hissed, flames rose from her nostrils, and her scales glinted. “You need her, my lord? Do you miss your Laila’s kisses? She must not live. If she returned to this city to join Michael, she must die. I will kill her myself. Many fear Laila the half-demon, but I don’t.”

Beelzebub lifted his hammer and chisel. He chipped a speck from the statue’s left wing, smoothing it to look like leather. “Laila would not join Michael,” he said. “She hates Heaven more than she hates Hell. She is Lucifer’s daughter. Heaven’s holy water burns her, and its harps make her ears bleed.”

Zarel grabbed his arm, pulling his hand away from the statue. She glowered. “She hates Hell too. Remember when she visited? The hellfire burned her skin; she fled back to Earth half dead. Why do you let her live? Lucifer would have killed her.”

Beelzebub snarled, surprised at his sudden anger, and shoved Zarel against the wall. She hit the bricks, chipping off pieces of stone, and growled, drooling like a mad dog. “Lucifer is dead now,” he said icily. “Hell is mine.”

She laughed mirthlessly, drool like lava falling from her maw. “Lucifer? Forget not, my husband. You killed Lucifer because he refused to let you marry his daughter. You killed him because you loved Laila, and he did not approve. So do not speak to me, your wife, of Lucifer dying.”

Gazing at his wife, Beelzebub felt his anger fade, felt guilt fill him. Of course this would be difficult for Zarel, and of course he loved his new demon wife. After Laila fled into exile, refusing to marry him, Beelzebub had chosen the greatest demon in Hell to be his bride instead. Zarel. She was unlike him in every way. He was a fallen angel, a cursed being of dark beauty, banished from Heaven, one of the original angels who rebelled against God. And she was an archdemon born in hellfire, forged in the deepest pits of Hell, an ancient evil of horns, scales, flame.
Perhaps we will never fully understand each other,
Beelzebub thought, but still he loved her; she was the most powerful being he knew of, aside from himself and perhaps Laila. No one better to be his bride... after Laila fled, that was.

Could Laila have truly returned now, after all these years? He remembered her last words to him. “I love you, Beelzebub,” Laila had said, bloody tears on her cheeks, after he killed Lucifer. “But I’m half angel. I can never be yours.”

The candles guttering in the belfry around him, Beelzebub lowered his head. “Zarel, I’m sorry. I promise you, you are the only woman I love. Laila means nothing to me now.”

“Then let me kill her.”

He turned back to the window and stared at that distant glow of angels, those troops of Heaven hunkered down, waiting, still fighting after so long. “Zarel, this war has been going on for twenty-seven years. We are old and tired now, Michael and I, and we might never beat each other down. But Laila... with her power, she could change the tide. If she joins us, we can—”

“She will never join us,” Zarel said. “She is half angel, and Hell is poison to her. Isn’t that why she left you in the first place? She will never fight with us, and I will not have her here, I will
not
have that woman in my court. Do you hear me, Beelzebub? If truly you have no feelings for Laila, then send me on the hunt. I will bring back her body, scorched and broken. I will feed upon her flesh.”

Beelzebub stared at his wife, gazing into those burning eyes, eyes full of hatred and love for him. He stepped toward her and kissed her. She struggled at first, then kissed him back hungrily, her body pressed against his old Roman breastplate, her claws in his hair.

“I love you,” he said.

She ignored him, turning her head aside, eyes shut. “You say she might change the tide. If she returned to join Michael, she might help him win this city. If you won’t let me kill her for my own vengeance and hatred, let me kill her for that reason, to make sure she never joins Heaven.”

Beelzebub shook his head. “Zarel, my love, my life. You are wise and strong, maybe wiser than I am. But you don’t know Laila. She did not return to this city to join my brother. She did not return to pursue my love.” Beelzebub, the fallen angel, the new Lord of Hell, smiled sadly. “Laila returned to Jerusalem because she is lonely.”

+ + +

Dust fluttered across cobblestones in the night, murmuring, the only sound to disturb the silence.

Nights were so silent these years. Black. Empty.

Like my own heart,
Laila thought, walking through the darkness, her cloak wrapped around her.
Black and empty, filled with naught but the whispers of dust.

Alley walls surrounded her like catacombs. Jerusalem was more graveyard than city these days. Her feet were silent upon the cobblestones, and Volkfair trailed behind her, a shadow. Laila held her Uzi like a child holding a doll, seeking comfort from the cold, oiled metal. She kept no bullet in the chamber, but knew she could load and fire fast. She had learned that many nights in these alleys.
I’ve been away for long, but I still remember some things.

Volkfair growled softly, as if hearing her thoughts. So often, the wolf seemed to read her mind. Laila patted him.

“Yes, dear Volkfair, I know,” she whispered. “I know you can lunge forward and kill any alley demon as quickly as I can get a shot off.”

The wolf looked up at her, yellow eyes glinting. The beast weighed twice as much as she, and was longer than she was tall, but still she thought of him as her baby. She knew that Volkfair, in turn, thought of her as a mistress of infinite power and wisdom; there were none in Heaven or Hell with as much loyalty as Volkfair, Laila thought. She knelt and kissed his black fur like midnight, and he licked her cheek.

“Sweet Volkfair,” she whispered into his ears, lowering her head, that old anguish creeping into her throat. She hated that anguish, hated the fear that forever coiled within her, hated the tears that fell in darkest, loneliest nights. So many of those tears had fallen into Volkfair’s fur, and so many had he licked from her cheeks. “You are all I have, my friend,” she whispered, embracing him. “You are all I need.”

Volkfair nuzzled against her, making soft sounds of affection.

“Do you think it’s true, Volkfair?” she whispered. “Was my angel sister speaking truth?”

He looked at her, eyes large, and Laila leaned her cheek against her wolf’s shoulder. Angels, she knew, could be as deceitful and conniving as any demon, if it served their purpose. They would lie, swindle, or kill whoever got in their way when they wanted something—even the pure, beautiful Bat El. She, Laila, Lucifer’s daughter? Laila ran her claws through Volkfair’s fur.

“Beelzebub would have told me,” she whispered to the wolf. “He was Lucifer’s first lieutenant and knew all that Lucifer knew. He would have known if it were true. He would have told me.”

And yet her words did little to convince herself. She knew Beelzebub. He had wanted her love, her kisses, her innocence, her dependence on him. He would have hidden this if he’d thought it could give her strength, give her a reason to leave his comforting embraces, his power.

“Dear Volkfair, could it be true?”

When she had pretended to know, sipping her drink nonchalantly, Bat El had seemed taken aback. It had taken all of Laila’s strength to keep her face blank and emotionless, to keep sipping her spirits. Yes, Bat El had been shocked, genuinely so. True or false, Bat El believed it, believed that Lucifer himself had raped their mother.

Laila looked up to the sky, pure black, ash hiding the moon and stars. She had always known her father must have been of great power—how else could she, Laila, have been born with such malice, such might, with claws and fangs that could tear most demons and angels apart? Yes, Laila had always known great demon blood flowed through her, twisting and burning against her angel blood, filling her veins with fire.

Her demon blood, mixed with her angel blood, set her innards aflame, igniting terrible power within her, making her greater than most demons and angels would ever be. That this constant war within her blood tore at her soul and mind, few seemed to care.
All they want is my power. Nobody knows the Laila who weeps at night, who runs, who wanders the world. They want Laila the spy. Laila the soldier. They want a Laila that I cannot, will not be.