23 Dec A Devil’s Gambit

I hate interviews. I hate the DMV. I hate that they summoned me. And yet here I am, wasting an entire day sitting alone in an empty lobby, waiting. The Demonic Management of Villainy. I glare up at the counter. I shouldn’t be here. I should be up there, in the mortal realm, plying my trade. Snaring souls. Tiny blue flames flicker and dance down the back of my neck. And yet here I sit, waiting for my number to be called. Number five thousand and forty-three.

The succubus behind the counter lowers her copy of Seduction Weekly, brushes her delicate fingers through her silky blonde hair, and turns her sapphire blue eyes on me.

I don’t know if you’ve ever met a succubus. Gorgeous creatures. Women handcrafted by Lucifer Himself to lure humans into sins of the flesh. All of them bear some physical trace of their demonic origin… horns, wings, a tail… but even if humans could see them, it wouldn’t matter. They’re beyond alluring. Lust given shape, scent, a way of moving. Everything about them crackles with erotic seduction. Everything. And this one is no exception. I don’t know if she’s bored or what, but she’s been using every ounce of naughty to drive me insane, ever since I slunk through the door and grabbed a number. When she winked at me and said, “Now servicing number three hundred and two.”

It’s not usually a problem. Demons? Sex? We don’t really get off on that sort of thing. Corruption, that’s the ticket. Some of us like to take a human and see just how inhuman we can make them. Others enjoy causing pain or despair. Me? I like a challenge. Pure humans. You know, those that have a moral code. I like pushing them a little at a time, right to the edge. So when they break, and they will, they get to see how close they were to keeping their virtue. The despair of that moment, knowing what they’ve done, and seeing what they’ve become, how close they were to keeping that purity. The shame. The agony. Simply delicious.

But, succubi? They read desire like a book. And that’s the problem. She knows exactly what turns me on, and she’s bending it to suit her particular gifts. Playing the part of the cluelessly erotic virgin. The pure, innocent girl, begging to be defiled.

She bends low over the counter as she reaches for the microphone, almost spilling out of her uniform. Licking her lips, she wraps her fingers around the handle and slides her hand slowly down its length. Her lips part. She inhales a sharp gasp and sighs, “five thousand and forty-two,” as only a succubus can. Innocent. Lusty. Maddeningly irresistible.

She glances around the lobby. Blinking. As if waiting for someone to step up. As if she didn’t know it was just me, and what my number was. A moment passes. Her face sags into a heartbreakingly beautiful pout. Then, she settles back into her chair and picks up her magazine.

I catch her glance at me over the cover, watch her full red lips curl into a mischievous smirk, and she vanishes behind the page. Flames spread across my shoulders, up my horns, and down my arms. She knows I can’t do anything. Not here. Not now. And that’s her weapon. But she doesn’t know who she’s playing with. She’s accustomed to lesser fiends. Minor tempters. Grunts. Those are the kind that get summoned, not Defilers. The little beasts who work in little sins, jealousy, pride, laziness. But only the scratches. The demeaning, tedious, prep-work. Incompetents.

A low snarl slips through my fangs.

Like that worthless imp they assigned to me. Snot-rag, the filth that caused this whole mess. A curl of smoke pulls my gaze to the paper between my claws. Flames roll like waves over the backs of my hands and up the edge of my report.

Cursing, I force the heat from my arms and shake the embers from the page. Ambitious twit. I glance down at my, now singed, account of that day, the summons attached to the upper right-hand corner with a paperclip, and read it again.

“Our esteemed Bloodnut,

It has come to the attention of the department of Demonic Values and Management that your efforts regarding the temptation and defilement of the subject George Preston, may have fallen woefully short of the minimum standard deemed acceptable for a nefarious apparition of your rank. Your presence is required at the DMV on June sixth, at o-six-hundred hours. Failure to attend will result in acceptance of your accuser’s testimony, as well as your immediate and eternal torment.

Hoping you are well,

Jezabelle the Insatiable,

Minister of Management” 

“Harlot.” I take a deep breath, willing the flames to cool. My accuser. I know damned well who it was. There was no other tempter there. Only Snot-rag. The nasty little imp. Yes, it was a menial task. They all are in the beginning. Did she think that mortal sins come all at once? No! The stupid hairless apes need to be trained to great evil!

She wasn’t there to think. She was there to assist. To learn. To follow orders. Instead, she just floated there, flapping her stupid bat wings. Staring at me like a soul lost to purgatory. Flames snake from my nostrils. I should have gutted her.

So why didn’t I? I prick the end of my fangs with my tongue, but the only answer I can think of is more horrifying than I dare contemplate. Mercy.

The word burns like acid. Perhaps I’ve been among the humans too long. Among the servants of the Enemy, searching for ways to corrupt them. And it’s tainted me.

The realization jolts through my body like the Tormentor’s whip. At the time, I thought “It is her first assignment. She’s simply ignorant. Be patient, Bloodnut. Train her. Make her into a valuable tool. Our forces stronger.”  It disgusts me how even now the madness sounds like wisdom.

I pause to consider that thought. It does sound like wisdom. I shake my head. No, not wisdom. That word is too close to the Enemy’s language. Cunning. Yes, cunning is much better. I was concerned about the cause. That’s the sort of cunning, perhaps, I can sell to the interviewer. I didn’t spare her out of mercy, but cunning. To create a skilled talon to swipe at Lucifer’s foes, rather than a blunt instrument. It could work. Perhaps, I could even turn this to my advantage. Improve my position.

A shrill, high-pitched wail scrapes through my thoughts like fingernails on a chalkboard. I shudder and glance up at the succubus behind the counter, just in time to watch her cleavage vanish behind the microphone.  ”Number five thousand and forty-three.”

“Finally.” I push up from my chair and slink over to her station.

The succubus kisses the tips of her fingers, arches an eyebrow, and waves me toward the door at the end of the counter. “Third room on the left,” she hums. Her gaze travels up and down my body when I turn to leave. She opens her mouth as if to say more, but then her face melts into an almost embarrassed looking pucker, and she sits back down. Knees together. Palms on her bare thighs. Chest pushed out. Watching me as her tail loops around a chair leg, stroking it in slow, gentle, pulses.

Growling I glare at the door handle and wait for her to buzz me in. It only takes half a second and I’m through, but long enough to think up five ways to defile her. Cruel, perverse ways to twist her nature into something she’d despise for all eternity. Something good. Something Holy. And I will. So help me Lucifer, I will.

I reach the third office and rap my knuckles on the door, but I can’t chase the bile from my throat. Mercy. It’s repulsive. And yet, I know what I’m going to do now. It’ll take some doing, but if I can turn this to my advantage, if Snot-rag is devoured for her impudence, then I’ll need a new assistant. I’ll request her, the succubus at the desk. The administration wouldn’t deny me that. After all, if she was of any account, she’d be in the field, seducing.

No, she’ll be mine. And with time, as she’s exposed to the same light that tainted me with mercy, she too will bend. And that will be my revenge. I’ll feed her that poison. Drop by cursed drop. Perhaps, even twist her into the Enemy’s service. A deep purr rumbles in my chest. Oh, that would be delicious. Let them purify her, but not completely. No, no, no, no. I wouldn’t allow that kind of exposure. I’d keep a part of her hidden. So she remains as she is now. Horny. Burning with desire. And that will be her torment. A twisted yearning. Her body always aching. Always hungry. Her purified soul always striving against it, but always failing. Always yielding. So that she wakes from her torrid passion hating what she did, what she is. Only to hunger once more. A wondrous cycle of unending torment.

The office door creeks open. “Ah,” a deep voice snarls. “Bloodnut. Come in.”

Clutching my papers between my claws, I step inside. Out of instinct, I scan the room, searching for information I can use. To my left, a masterpiece fashioned by the Master Craftsmaiden, Lilith the Corruptor. A desk of writhing souls, those lured to perversion by her underlings. Fornicators. Adulterers. Sexual deviants of all kinds, restored to their flayed husks, fused together with all those they joined their flesh and desire with while on earth, and shaped into a fine piece of furniture. The art, the irony, the moans of hopeless anguish… I sigh, and my gaze drifts to a large cone shaped bottle standing on the floor beside the desk. Soft blue light shines up from the base as faces, pale and ghostly, press against the glass. Bloated and rotten. Souls of the drowned.

A gasp eeks through my fangs. “A suicide lamp.” I’ve wanted one since I was an imp. But, Despair’s work is expensive and difficult to come by. I had the chance to purchase one only once, long ago, in red, filled with the souls of those who chose to end their lives in violence. But it slipped through my talons.

I watch a crab scurry from the mouth of one of the faces, pinch off a bit of flesh, and vanish into the mouth of another. I shake my head in disbelief. A suicide lamp of the drowned. I could walk the halls of the Abyss for millennia and never see it’s like.

“I see you appreciate the finer things.”

The voice draws my gaze to a gelatinous mass standing… or oozing, rather, in the corner. Bowing low, I spread my wings as wide as space allows, hold out my report, and whisper, “Ah, but your taste is exquisite.”

Two snake-like eyes congeal within the blob, spin my direction, and press to the surface. They glance at the report in my claws and a hole gurgles open, slightly below the eyes. “I see you came prepared. Good. Good.”  The blob oozes over to the desk. “But your rendering is unnecessary.”

I nod. Yes. I can see that now. But I did not realize-

“The nature of the fiend you would encounter.” He heaves out a thick mucusy laugh. “No. How could you?”

So, it’s true. I straighten up and fold my wings over my shoulders like a cloak. The Tenome can read thoughts. I must be cautious. No thought, no impulse, is safe.

“Yes, it’s true.” Threads twist into shape within the top of the mass and knot together into what appears to be a brain. “But why should that trouble a faithful servant?” He laughs again and a skull congeals around the brain. Nerves branch out of its base like the roots of some plant. Organs take shape. The surface of the mass clouds and thickens until an old man, naked, thin, and baggy, stands on the other side of the desk, staring at me with snakelike eyes.

I don’t answer. I don’t think.

The interviewer closes his eyes, smooths the top of his wrinkled head with his newly formed hands, and takes a deep breath. “You have good reason to be nervous, Bloodnut.” The old man drags his palms down his face and his eyes vanish.

But this is intolerable. “Surely you can’t-”

“Believe Snot-rag’s report?” He stretches out his arm, opens his hand, revealing a single eye pressed into the palm, and blinks. “Of course I do.” He sits down, never taking his eye off me, and props his feet on the desk.

My gaze drops to the fused souls, watching me with tortured eyes from under his feet. A thick lump settles in my throat. If he believes her-

“Oh, don’t be such a simpleton.” He rips off one of his fingers and tosses it into the air. It melts into a gelatinous ball as it rises, then stops, and floats above his head. “I know exactly what happened.”

The ball flickers. The image of a half-plowed field appears on its surface. A tree along the road beside. A little wicker basket waiting in its shade.

I squint at the image, but I remember the tree, the field, the Peasant I meant to corrupt. How could I not? It was, after all, the day I “fell woefully short of the minimum standard deemed acceptable for a nefarious apparition of my rank.”

A slight breeze curls across the tilled earth. It strikes the tree like a gentle kiss and rustles its leaves. They fall still. Two pin pricks of light appear among the branches, indistinguishable from the shafts of sunlight dancing among the leaves, but for their color. Their lack of movement. Two black, vertical pupils wreathed in red. They hover unwavering as darkness congeals around them. Fixed on a man in rags walking behind a horse, guiding a plow. Leaving him only for an instant when the man waves at a traveler walking down the road.

The Peasant reaches the end of the field, walks the horse to the other side of his round, grabs his stomach, and glances back at the tree. “‘One more line, Jake. Then it be time far dinner.” He jerks the plow into the furrow and pats the horse’s rump. “A bit o’ rest, bit o’ kip, and we be good as new, aye?”

One of the red eyes narrows. Their focus darts to the basket at the bottom of the tree. A low rumbling laugh curls from the darkness. “Snot-rag,” a deep voice snarls.

The bark of the tree rips open. A dark, skeletal hand emerges and grips the surrounding bark. A small, batlike creature wriggles from the fissure. It skitters up the side of the tree and into the shadows, then fixes its large yellow eyes on the other creature, the shadow. “Yessss?”

The red eyes narrow still further. “Are you prepared?”

The batlike creature bows its head. “Speak, and it shall be done.”

A row of sharp yellow fangs splits the darkness beneath the red eyes. “Then go. Take the food from the basket below. It is yours. Then you shall see how a tiny matter, a single sin, may be used to cause great ruin.”

Snot-rag stretches out her wings and floats from the branch, but does not descend. “Sir?”

The red eyes flick toward the horse drawing ever closer, and the fangs vanish into darkness. “Is there a problem?”

“No.” Snot-rag scratches the back of her knee with her other foot. Her gaze fixed on the traveler. “But I don’t understand. How can-”

A flash of blue flame cuts her off. “There’s no time. You aren’t here to understand. You are here to do as I command. Now go.”

The man reaches the end of the row, unhooks the plow, and takes the horse by the reins. But Snot-rag doesn’t move.

Snarling, the shadow dives into the basket and flashes back to its perch like a whisp of smoke.

The man leads his horse to the tree, ties it to graze, and flops down on the grass beside his basket. “Thank ya’, oh Lard, for this glorious day, an’ this food which I’s about to receive.”

Snot-rag winces at the sound of prayer as if struck by a whip. Hissing, she turns to flee. But the shadow grabs her tail and jerks her back. “Coward. Wait.” It leans forward, licking its lips as the man takes the basket and balances it on his folded legs. “Here it comes…”

The Peasant unfolds the cloth and reaches inside. His brow furrows. “Eh?” Tipping the basket, he peers inside, and finally turns it over to dump it out. A few breadcrumbs fall to the grass. He glances at the horse, brow furrowed. “Did you?” He shakes his head as if embarrassed by the thought, then his eyes go wide. “That man!”

The shadow cackles. “Go on,” it hisses, unheard by mortal ears. “Curse him. Go after him. Beat him. Kill him.”

The Peasant jumps to his feet. His hands ball into fists, but then relax. He takes a deep breath and sighs, “Well, I ‘spose if he were willin’ to steal for it, ‘e needs it more ‘n me.”

The shadow’s face darkens, and the image fades away, leaving only a blank snot-like blob hovering over the surface of the desk.

The interviewer holds up his four fingered hand and taps it against the blob. It melts into his palm, and the finger regrows. “Less than inspiring, Bloodnut.” He presses the back of his hands against his face and spreads his fingers wide, eyeballs still set in his palms, looking for all the world as if he were wearing fingered glasses. “But you’ve been a Defiler for ages. A fine one. I trust this was only the initial phase of some grander plan?”

I shake my head. “Not exactly.” It’s not that simple. I saw in him the vague shades of opportunity. No plan. The seeds of greatness. Seeds that must be planted, but I knew not what tree would sprout. No notion of what fruit it would spawn. Only the inkling that it would be well worth the time and effort needed to tend that sprout. To water and prune it.

The interviewer’s hands close around his eyes and open again, as if blinking. “I see. You’re a chaos demon. More artist than architect. You move with the flow of the moment. Snot-rag is the opposite. A creature of order. Hence, she assumed you planned out the entire engagement from beginning to end, just as she would have, and judged you accordingly. So inept, that she saw in them an opportunity to seize your station, provided she was the one to bring your impotence to management’s attention. And it may have worked. After all, most of them do favor law.” He sighs and leans back in his chair. “And why shouldn’t they? Are their positions, their power, not based on order?”

I nod. It’s an old argument. One that nearly plunged the forces of evil into civil war. How is evil best served? By chaos, or order? Lucifer Himself put an end to it, forced the factions to unify. I will not call it a mistake. I won’t even think it. But the reality of forcing two diametrically opposed natures to work as one can lead to…complications.

“Indeed.” The interviewer sighs. “And well said.” He takes one hand from his face to massage his eyeless temple. “If it were up to me that would be the end of it. But, I’m afraid it’s reopened those old rifts.” He moves his hand back to beside his nose and opens his palm. “Management is sending you back into the field to finish what you started.”

But something about the way he says it makes my scales itch.

“Rightly so,” he laughs. “I’ve convinced upper management to leave you alone for the time being, but?” He stretches out his arms, so that his hands, his eyes, hang inches from my nose. “You will be held to account, Bloodnut. For good or ill. Reward beyond your wildest dreams, or punishment beyond reckoning.”

A deep purr rumbles in my chest. A lesser fiend would shrink at his warning, but I learned long ago to see the potential of every situation. The hidden boons. I had come hoping to establish my position. Add Snot-rag’s impudent essence to my larder. But now, with management watching? Heat snakes down my arms in writhing tendrils of blue flame. The opportunities are endless.

“Ah.” The interviewer’s fingers melt into his palms. “I did not expect to see such sly intellect in a Defiler.”  A laugh gurgles from the gelatinous mass as his eyes close and sink back into the slimy tentacles that were his arms. “I expect I shall enjoy seeing what create. Prepare yourself. Your return to the mortal realm is imminent.”

Good. I glance down at the report in my claws, Snot-rag’s feeble grab at power. I’ve wasted too much time on this nonsense already. Pressing my essence into my palms, the paper bursts into flame. When this is over, she’ll be mine as well. I’ll rip the flesh from her bones and feast on her entrails.

The tentacles retreat, absorbed back into the interviewer’s gelatinous body. “As well? Oh, yes, the Succubus clerk.” It heaves out a gooey laugh. “Do well and you shall have them both, and more.”

A slight smile pulls at the sides of my muzzle. Excellent. “The heavens themselves will tremble. Mark my words.”

The interviewer’s face melts away entirely. Tingles spread through my wings, the darkness thickens around me, and the last image I have of Hell, is the interviewer’s eyeless, formless mass. A deep gash torn across the blob, in an impossibly wide, fanged, smile. “We shall see.”

There Are No Second Chances

It’s the first rule of Hell. Failure means death, or as near a concept as mortals are able to comprehend. Our essence, our physical frame, is devoured. Either by our masters, who we’ve failed, or our rivals, who have surpassed us. Our strength, our experience, everything we’ve learned, all our skills and talents become theirs. While who we are, our consciousness, is tortured. Our agony and despair, our hopeless eternal suffering, becomes the nourishment of the young. Those who have yet to prove their worth.

Bring nourishment home, or become food ourselves.

The tingles in my wings fade, soft prickles tickle the soles of my feet, and light pierces the darkness around me. It burns my scales like hot iron.  ”Thrice cursed ball of snot!” I throw up a plume of black smoke to shield myself from the sun’s rays, but it’s too late. I can’t see. Bastard would have to send me back in the middle of the day. In the open.

I blink through the smoke, trying to make sense of the shapes looming out of the light. But all I can make out is spots. Nameless pustule. I think I’ll add him to my thralls. Claim his desk and lamp as my own, after I’ve used him as ointment for my hemorrhoids.

Spinning, I catch sight of a patch of shadow and make a run for it. But I think I know where I am now. The scent of fresh tilled earth, the twinge of stale sulfur, the sound of birdsong and rustling leaves. I reach out my claws and press my palm flat against the bark. Just as I thought. He sent be back to that place. To the Peasant’s field.  I glance back over my shoulder, but the field is finished. Completely plowed and smoothed. Hiding amongst my smoke, I stalk over to the edge of the exposed earth, plunge my fingers into the soil, and smile. Prepared, but not planted.

“Hmmm…” I reach under my wing and fish my phone out of my vest pocket. I know this was his first field, I don’t remember what he planned to sow, but I know it was a crop that needed to be planted as early as possible. Once he finished here, then he would move on to the other fields.

Carefully, I tap the power button with the end of my claw. Eve’s apple appears on the screen, the image of the fruit with a single bite taken from the side. It hangs there for a moment as the phone powers up, and chills run down my tail. The bitten apple. A symbol of our Father’s greatest victory. Lucifer, Light Bringer. And that’s what He did. Gave the little hairless apes exactly what they thought they wanted. The power to make their own rules. Decide for themselves what is good and bad. But not the wisdom or knowledge to go with it. A chuckle rips through my chest. Simple. Poetic. Flawlessly effective. Everything a Defiler strives for.

The apple on the screen fades. I click on the Weather-Underworld app and bring up the long-range forecast. Dryer than normal over all. Pinching the area of the map where I am now, I zoom in for a more local forecast. Near drought like spring, with a wetter than average late summer. I pocket my phone and turn my attention toward the farmstead a little way up the road. The Peasant’s house. An Idyllic setting. A little stone house with a thatched roof. An even smaller wooden barn. Chickens pecking about the yard. A dairy cow grazing by the forest. I snort. Probably a perfect little family to go with it. Revolting.

How happy they must be, the little vermin. Working together, relying on one another. Caring for one another. I cough up a ball of acid and spit it at the base of the tree, just to clear the taste from my mouth, the scene from my mind. A thin tendril of smoke twists through the air as my spit burns into the wood, sizzling as it goes. Love. Bah! Disgusting. Well, we’ll see how long that lasts. A smirk curls up the side of my muzzle. Unlike him, I know the forecast. Once I prompt him to plant in all the wrong places, once his crops fail, his fields choke with weeds, then I’ll light his roof on fire. Sicken his cow. A laugh rumbles in my chest. We’ll see how happy his little home is then. I can already see it, his family cold and starving, begging along the side of the road. His daughter trading her flesh for bread. I lick my lips, savoring the feast to come. Delicious.

The soft toll of a bell echoes over the low hills and fields. A resonating clang that stabs at my ears like broken glass. A church-bell. Snarling, I slam my palms over my ears. Anything to shut out the noise. It rattles on for what feels like an eternity, thundering its warning. The Enemy is near. As if I didn’t know. As if I haven’t been on the frontlines of this conflict for millennia. And yet, never have I seen a human react the way that Peasant did. Never.

The bell falls silent. The image of the bitten apple presses into my mind, and my hands slip from my ears. That’s it! I drop to my knees. “Praise be, Father Below, for illuminating my path.”

Fool that I am, I did not see. This isn’t just Enemy territory. It’s a stronghold. That filthy Peasant’s attitude should have been a flashing neon sign! Idiot! No matter what disaster I unleash, the Enemy will simply turn it to His advantage. His accursed followers will see one of their own suffering and flock to support him. They’ll cover the loss of his crops, rebuild his house, give him a new cow, and love will increase. In the end, their bonds, their love, and trust in the Enemy will be all the stronger.

I squint off across the rolling hills, at the spire of the church gleaming in the distance. But I am not afraid. I understand now. I know what I must do.

Only An Angel Could Fall So Far

Beastly thing, the church. Not so grand as the cathedrals of the city. More chapel than temple. I dip low as I approach, landing beside an arched window near the back, as far from the altar as I can, and peer inside.

My horns itch as I take in the little apes. All bowing their heads over their vile songbooks. Crammed together so tight there’s scarcely a gap between them. All praying. All devout. Disgusting.

Sneering, I glance up at the rafters, at the shimmering white shapes hovering above the congregation. Too bright to see clearly, but I don’t need to see their faces. I can feel them, watching, waiting for me to act. To make a mistake. Fools. I shift my form to one of cloud and pour through the cracks around the window, unseen by mortals, obvious to the host of Heaven. Yet, even here they cannot act. Not directly. That was the arrangement. The truce between Heaven and Hell. That our war be decided here, on the mortal plane. The little hairless beasts both our prize and chess pieces.

I drift to the back of the church, reclaim my form, and sniff at the messengers of light, watching as they draw their swords. A smile curls along the sides of my muzzle. As if I, Bloodnut, could be so easily cowed. Arrogant fools. The apes begin their opening hymn. Purring, I lower my gaze to the congregation. The meat I came for.

A thick, heady aroma draws my attention to a pew nearer the altar. A young boy tugs at his collar. I tap a talon against my chin. It’s only his clothes he hates, petty, but the scent is strong indeed. I catch a sweet twinge wafting from the other side of the church and turn my head. To a young man’s gaze fixed on the backside of the girl in front of him. “Desire,” I purr. Now, that I can use. But even as the thought settles, a more prominent scent tickles my nostrils. A bouquet of sensations to lascivious to ignore. It pulls my gaze to a pew near the back. To an older, heavy woman casting a sideways glance at another woman singing slightly off key.

A smile pulls at my lips. Simply wonderful. Tilled soil. Smoothed, and ready for seed.

I toss a smirk at the fools hovering overhead. They dart across the ceiling, preparing for me to make my move. Positioning themselves. Ready to intervene should I choose to act. But I know my quarry well. I don’t need to do anything, really.

Folding my hands behind my back, under my wings, I saunter over to the heavy woman, and lean in close. “Poor girl,” I hiss, melding my words with her thoughts. “It’s not her fault. She doesn’t have your years of experience. What she needs is someone kind and gracious to take her under their wing. To help her. Someone to offer advice.” I glance up at the ceiling, at the angels practically stumbling over one another to intervene.

But they cannot. I’ve said nothing sinful. Nothing unkind. Nor shall I. And so even as I inject my poison into the fat ape’s psyche, Heaven’s armies stand impotent. “Perhaps you should speak to her after service,” I hum. “Offer to tutor her?”

I glance at the rafters, at the angels fluttering about, no doubt discussing what I said, and turn to leave.

A six-winged creature drops to the floor beside the fat ape as I near the exit. It sings to her. I can never quite make out what they say, but I’m not concerned. The fat woman’s arrogance was in place long before I arrived. Oh, I’m fairly certain I know what the angelic wretch is spewing, some nonsense about tact and delicacy. But it won’t matter. The seed has been planted. And with the Enemy’s own shovel.

I cast one last glance up at the Sons of Heaven, and laugh. Fools. The complete fools. They’ve done nothing to fortify their position. Nothing. With a thought, I dissolve into vapor and drift out of the church. They will regret their arrogance. But not here. Not now. Not yet. Patience. After all, even that fool peasant, George, knows the plow precedes the sower.

I retake my form under the shade of a juniper tree beside the entrance of the church, glance down the road toward the inn, raise my nose to the wind, and sniff. Searching for a hint of despair. Of hopelessness. Some traveler’s soul I can use. A drunkard or fornicator, even an arrogant merchant would do. But alas, only the scent of the innkeeper’s wife. Her bitter resentment I could use, but she’s known. I lower my muzzle. No, for my plan to succeed, I’ll need another. Perhaps in the next town over, Walnut Grove, I think it was. There, I’ll be able to find some worthless fodder I can use. Preferably, a soul already well in hand.

Glaring off toward Walnut Grove, I can’t help but snarl. Going there will mean competition. Oh, not that kind. Not rivals. Maggots. Base fiends. Beneath contempt. Quite skilled at plucking souls from the Enemy’s hand, but not spawning true evil. The souls they bring fatten our larder, but only with gruel. Tasteless souls too fuddled to know, or care, what they do is evil. Worthless filth who fornicate out of boredom, not passion. Barely sentient parasites. Incapable of rising to true wickedness.

I snort. The price of success, I suppose. After all, the fare may be tasteless, but we are in no danger of starving. One of the waiting horses gives his harness a shake. His mate stamps impatiently. “I understand, my friends,” I yawn, stretch my wings, and glance up at the sun nearing its zenith. “Forced to stand here and wait, when green grass and open pasture is calling. But it won’t be much longer.” I toss the team my best sympathetic nod. “But your masters will be out soon. Then, it’s just a short sprint home. The faster you run, the sooner you’ll be free.” The horses nicker in agreement, and it’s all I can do not to laugh. Someone will have a wild ride. I wonder who…

Folding my arms around my knees, I turn my attention to the doors of the church, and wait. But not long. Soon the hinges creak, the doors swing open, and the human beasts pour through. I watch the fat woman waddle toward the carriage, handkerchief knotted between her hands.

So, they’re her horses. I tip my head to the side. And she drives them herself. Delightful. She’s more capable than I supposed, and just the right temperament that I should have no trouble convincing her to whip them for their haste. I just start wondering if I can arrange a witness to her cruelty, when she draws to a stop. She turns, twists her handkerchief, huffs, and glances back at the younger woman, making her way out of the church.

A smile curls over my fangs as I watch her roll her eyes and stomp back to the younger woman. “It’s a lovely day.” She smiles and gestures at the sun.

The younger woman folds her hands low, elbows locked, and shrugs. “Don’t you just love spring?” She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “The birds singing, the sun, the scent of freshly tilled earth?”

As I watch, my attention drifts to the peasant, George, speaking to an elderly man just behind. The way he holds his head, the way he deliberately isn’t looking at either woman, tells me that he’s listening to their conversation too. “Hmm…” I tap a talon against my chin. “Spending a lot of attention on a girl not your wife, George.” It’s not ready, but perhaps there’s a future opportunity here. Perhaps. We shall see.

“Speaking of singing…” The fat woman lays her hand on the young woman’s elbow. “You have an amazing voice.”

The young woman’s eyes go wide. “Really?”

“Absolutely!” The fat ape withdraws her hand. “I’ve never heard anyone with more potential. With a little training, why, you’d be the talk of the town.” The younger woman’s jaw tenses, but the fat woman charges on. “If you like, I’d be more than happy to help you with your tone and rhythm.”

“O-oh.” The younger woman’s gaze drops to her folded hands. “I-I appreciate the offer, but-”

“Not at all.” The fat woman beams. “We’re here to glorify God. Why not do so with a heavenly sound? I’ll stop by your house this Tuesday.” She blinks, coming back to herself. “Oh, you’re not busy, are you?” The younger woman opens her mouth to reply, but before she can so much as utter a sound, the fat woman waves her hand as if shooing a fly. “Oh, what am I saying, of course not. You’re not even married.”

The younger woman’s lips press together in a thin straight line. “As it just so happens-”

But the fat woman cuts her off. “Pish posh.” She glances up at the sun, sighs, “Such glorious weather,” and makes for her carriage, leaving the younger woman frozen in place. Fuming and speechless.

I stretch out my legs, a rumble rising in my throat as I lean back against the tree, thinking about the Apple. About the weather. About Lucifer’s brilliance. “Indeed,” I laugh. “It is a glorious day.”

Nameless

Paperwork. I raise an eyestalk over the top of the page between my hands. A little wheel spins in the center of the computer screen and I go back to reading the form. “Instructions for section B are located on page one ninety-five of the third codex under the heading ‘Defiler’s Mantra.’” I push out another tentacle and flip open the cover. “Defiler’s Mantra…” A knot congeals at the end of the tentacle, I mean it to become a hand, but that already makes twenty. And just as many eyes.  Focusing on that particular appendage, I move to flip through the pages.

Blasted pile of Ooze…

The words press into my mind so suddenly, so unexpectedly, three of my hands crush their papers.

“Damn it all, Jezabelle! If you have something to say, come in and say it!”

“Probing my thoughts, hmm?” The succubus hums as she opens the door. “How very…” She turns, flicks her tail, and tosses a pouting smirk over her shoulder as she pushes the door closed behind her. “Naughty.”

Seduction. All my appendages fall limp against my mass. She knows it’s pointless. My kind has no sexual urges of any kind. But Jezabelle isn’t the usual succubus. Everything she does, the way she pushes her glasses up her nose, how she braids her hair, even her choice of skirt, has a purpose. And her attempt at seduction is no different. After climax, the succubus devours her lover’s life essence. The body may live a long, seemingly full life, but as a shell only. For her, with me, flirting is a threat. She’s warning me to watch my tone. And she’s right. We all have our superiors, and she is mine.

“Oh, look.” She sways over to the corner of my desk and sits down. “I was just starting to enjoy myself, and here you go all soft on me.” She crosses her legs. “How very disappointing. What ever is the matter?”

“It’s not you.” I hold up the papers. “Research and development has been working on a new project. They call it Tax Filing. Its rough, and needs to be adapted for humans, but?” I can’t help but crumple most of the forms just thinking about it. “It is quite effective at provoking murderous rage. Especially the online edition.”

Jezabelle glances at the wheel, still spinning in the center of my screen, and raises one of her perfect eyebrows. “So it seems.”

“Yes, well.” I draw in most of my eyestalks, lay down the prototype paperwork, and turn my attention entirely on her. “What brings you here?”

“In a word?” She notices one of the souls melded into my desk watching her, and strokes his chin with her little finger. “Bloodnut.”

“The Defiler?”

“Mm-hm.” She tips her head to the side, smiling as the soul pushes against her finger, enraptured by her touch. “That’s the one. It seems the Order faction has been causing quite the ruckus.” She peers at me over the top of her glasses. “Quite unlike you to grant second chances. Enough to draw the scrutiny of Upper Management.”

“U-Upper M-M-Management?” Dear Lucifer…

The soul sighs, relishing the pleasure only a succubus’s touch can give. She tips her head to the other side, a slight smile caught on her full, red lips. “Tell me. Why did you?”

“Because the situation warranted it,” I blurt out. “It was a simple case of ambition chopping the legs off a skilled Defiler.”

“But ambition is to be rewarded. That is standing policy,” she coos, almost singing.

“No. It’s not.”

“No?” She slowly licks her upper lip, pretending to be lost in pleasuring my desk.

“No. Every fiend has ambition. Not every fiend has cunning. Snot-rag acted too hastily. I simply let Bloodnut play his hand. If he demonstrates incompetence, Snot-rag will have her feast.”

“It’s been nine years, in the mortal realm.” Jezabelle giggles, still playing with the soul. “How much longer were you planning on giving him.”

Nine? Damn it, it’s so easy to lose track of mortal time. “Well?” I glance over at the hour glass, half hidden behind my computer screen. The timepiece I use to keep track of time on the mortal plane. But even at a glance, I can tell Bloodnut’s deadline is long past. “If I hadn’t got distracted by these taxes, I’d be there now.”

“You’re lying.” Without warning, she plunges her fingernail into the soul’s eye. It shrieks, and her smile twists from seductress to sadist. “Go to him now, but leave a bit of yourself here, will you? Upper Management would like to witness this for themselves.”

So, it seems Bloodnut isn’t the only one under scrutiny. Wonderful. “Y-yes, Jezabelle,” I stammer. “At once.”

The Apple

It’s a strange sensation, entering the domain of mortals, at least for my kind. The pulsing thrum of the machine resonating through me. The vastness of it. The complexity. A shiver ripples through my form, even as I congeal. Light flickers through my consciousness. I open my newly formed eyes and blink up at a mass of flittering shapes hovering above me. Leaves, I think they’re called.

See how slow it is to adapt? How unprepared it is? a voice hisses in my mind. Chaos fiends, bah!  Did I not say that planning and execution was more efficient? Did I not?

Still your forked tongue, Vermin, a deeper voice barks. I want to see and hear!

Ah, yes, the part I left with Jezabelle. I rub my temples, when my skull forms. Giving them a window to my senses, I can’t see the council, and I can’t hear their thoughts, but I’m not certain how to block out the voices when they speak.

Most distracting. Sighing, I take in the shape of the tree beside me, the road beyond that, the vast fields of grain waving in the warm summer breeze.

Snot-rag, another voice snarls. Isn’t that the same tree you showed us? The same fields?

Yes, Your Vileness. They are indeed, she snorts.

A fine crop, the voice replies. Looks to be a good harvest.

My new eyebrow twitches. I should say so. In fact, the wheat looks unnaturally good. The thought barely enters my mind when a loud bang jerks my attention back to the part of me in Hell.

Is there strife at all? Anywhere? Sniff, damn you, sniff! Another loud bang rips through my senses. Like a fist hitting the top of a table. How do you control this thing?

I told you, Jezabelle sighs. You’re only seeing and hearing what-

Silence, a low, quiet voice almost whispers. A voice I know well, that all Hell knows. A voice that makes me instantly regret forming a stomach. Beelzebub, the prince of demons. Second only to Lucifer Himself. Let us see what fruit our little Bloodnut has grown, shall we?

I can’t breathe, even with lungs. I can’t believe this fool dispute has gone so far.

Go on, Beelzebub purrs. Let’s not keep Lucifer waiting.

I nod. Beelzebub. I can’t think. I don’t know where to go. Beelzebub himself has come. I swallow hard. I need to gather my thoughts. Bloodnut. I shake my head. Where did Bloodnut go last time? The church. Just the thought sends my knees trembling. It’s the last place I want to be. But, I can’t think of any other place to look.

Just so. Go there. That should tell us very quickly the state of things.

“Yes, My Prince.” It’s a simple matter, dissolving this human body, and pressing it into the shape of a bird, a crow, and jumping into the air. I’m not sure which direction the church was, but I doubt it matters. I doubt it still exists at all, if I read Bloodnut right. If he hasn’t been eradicated by the Enemy’s forces.

I climb into the air, scanning the countryside for a church shaped barn, or fallen-in building. And that’s when I see it. There, just over the next hill. A grand steeple. Tall and proud. It pierces the sky like a spike of polished silver.

I almost forget to flap. Its over. For Bloodnut. For me.

Go there.

Heart pounding, I make for the blasted Cathedral, circle twice, land beside an open stained-glass window, and peer inside. There are no services in session, but the cushioned pews, the polished rafters, the golden décor. Simply extravagant. I fluff my feathers in disgust. Cursed Bloodnut…

Interesting, Beelzebub hums. What do you feel?

The question catches me off guard. “Outraged,” I blurt out. But then it hits me. There is no burning. No sense of unease. There’s no scent of the Enemy. No trace whatever. “Nothing.” I poke my head through the open window and glance up at the empty rafters, even chance a look at the altar itself. “Nothing at all.” Melting back into ooze, I pour through the window, and drip into the shape of a man. Once all of me collects, I add a suit jacket, shirt, and pants to the shape. “There’s no hint of the Enemy.”

Beelzebub doesn’t answer. I’m just about to ask Him if he knows where Bloodnut is, when I catch the scent of sulfur. When a familiar tone of thought presses into my mind. “Bloodnut,” I call.

A short, portly priest emerges from a door way near the altar. “Hello?” He fixes his gaze on me, and his lips widen into an impish grin. “Brother,” he snarls. “Welcome. I’ve been expecting you.”

But this, this is too much. “You possessed a priest?”

The shadow of the Defiler leans out from the human’s flesh. “Not right away, no.”

“I thought I understood you, Bloodnut.” The quick temper. The slow burning resentment. “I expected to find withered crops and an empty church. But this?” I gesture to the marble altar. The gold lampstands.

“Oh.” The priest shuffles a few steps down the aisle. “We’re full to capacity every Sunday. In fact, I’ve started doing several services, and one on Saturday.” He lays his hands on the edge of the row, leans over, and his brow creases in what looks like a contemplative, sympathetic frown. “When I first arrived, I had planned on doing just that… getting the fool ape to plant in the wrong places, disease, devastation. All that.”

“Why didn’t you?”

His lips draw into a pucker. “Cunning.” He straightens up. “I’ve been a Defiler for a long time, Brother. A long time. This was an Enemy stronghold. I knew that any hardship would simply strengthen their bond, to Him, and to one another. So, I took a lesson from Lucifer. I gave them the apple.”

For the first time since Jezebelle walked into my office, my body relaxes. “Explain.”

Bloodnut nods. “What was it that Lucifer offered Eve? What she wanted, yes? To choose her own path. Decide for herself what was right and wrong. But the cursed little maggots have no idea how the universe works.” He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, laughing. “That’s what I did. I helped the fool, George, get the best harvest he ever had. Gave him the notion to plant in the bog when I knew a drought was coming, and in the dry when the year would be wet. He became a very rich man. Then I convinced him that his wealth was the Enemy’s reward for his righteousness. That he deserved a younger, prettier wife. That was three women ago. He’s since given up on marriage entirely, and enjoys partaking in group sessions now.” His smile widens. “Well, now that I’ve done the same for most of the community, he has. Oh, I think you’ll find every flavor of corruption here, all mixed together with the wonderful elixir of self-righteousness.” He holds his arms wide, showing me his robes. “I make sure of that. We don’t even open that wretched book of the Enemy anymore. It turns out, granting wealth and fulfilling desire has the same effect on priests as it does laymen.” He folds his hands over his waist and licks his lips. “Children too.”

Somewhere, deep in the pits of Hell, Jezebelle laughs. Do you not see what Bloodnut has done? We need not plot and scheme to drive the fool beasts into our larder, My Prince. They come willing, and taste far better when called. We need only make them long for our delights, force the Enemy to urge them to abstain, if He wishes to save them from their folly. Make Him the villain in their eyes. Her laugh turns shrill. Why, they will dance into our very jaws!

And so they will. I offer Bloodnut a conciliatory nod. “It seems Management is pleased. Well done, Brother. Snot-rag is yours to do with as you please, the DMV succubus as well, but your station will remain as it is…for the now. You are far too valuable as you are.”