PLEASE NOTE: The original text for Books & Brimstone was published first at my other FF account, Ninja Fangirl. I've fixed up a bunch of my mistakes and am reposting it here. I hope you all enjoy it! Remember, this is oooooooold writing, except for the Epilogue, so it's allowed to be craptastic.
DISCLAIMER AND WARNING: The characters Hastur, Crowley, and Aziraphale, as well as the basic plot ideas and setting, belong to the almighty genius that is Terry Pratchett.
Jezebel is supposed to be a darling little Mary-Sue. It makes her far easier to hate. Her creation involved a very drunk succubus, a dare, a bet, and a large jar of marshmallow cream. Not a pretty sight.
Oh, and this may be mild, but it is slashy. If you don't like it, darling, I have no idea why you clicked on the link. 3
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One minute she was smelling brimstone, and the next the faintly lemony scent of floor wax. Jezebel stood up slowly, taking in the neatly marble-tiled foyer of which she was the sole occupant. Several large plastic trees flanked two horribly uncomfortable looking plaid benches against one wall. Through a window in the opposite wall she could see a bored looking receptionist filing her ruby red nails and snapping her chewing gum noisily. The only other noise was the faint, tinny sound of a far of speaker playing a soft-rock(1) version of Elvis Presley's "Heartbreak Hotel". It was all quite horrible and unpleasant. Jezebel felt right at home.
The sound of footsteps approaching her from behind caused her to swing around, preparing to rend the person's head from their shoulders should they be a threat. Instead of a possible threat, her eyes fell on a small, pudgy, balding man in a tweed suit, who was hurrying towards her across the expanse of marble. His round little face was worried and he occasionally mopped the sweat from his brow with a red tartan handkerchief.
"Dishonorable Mistress!" The little man panted as he got close enough to stop an catch his breath. "I'm sorry, Dishonorable Mistress, but we weren't expecting thee for a few days yet and we don't have thy rooms ready yet-"
She cut off his words with an imperious wave of her hand. "Stop blathering, fool. So I felt like coming early, so what? Is it my fault that you are incompetent, as well as being an obvious idiot?" The man started to squeak an apology, then stopped himself after a potent glare was pointed in his direction. "Now, take me to my rooms. I don't care what sort of state they're in, I need a bath. I smell like brimstone and damned souls."
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One of the many advantages of Earth over Hell would be the existence of the Hydro Jet Bath. Or baths in general. After spending a few centuries baking your skin to a crisp in the Infernal Regions (what with dry heat and all) a demon really could use an exfoliation. She leaned back, toweling her hair off to the strains of a Metallica guitar riff. Another thing Earth was good for. Heavy Metal rock music. Sure, Hell had certainly had a hand in it's creation, but no one could jam like humans. It probably had something to do with having souls, or some rot like that. The blaring tones that echoed from her state-of-the-art speaker system rattled the panes of glass in the windows and sent ripples flowing across the glass of 1948 Sauvignon that stood on her bathroom counter.
Clad in a red silk camisole and matching silk sleep pants Jezebel, only daughter(2) and heir of Hastur, duke of Hell, inspected her appearance in the huge bathroom mirror. Her hair was dark, thick, and curly, but never tangled or frizzed. Her skin was peerless white, almost vampiricly pale, her lips full, sensuous, and dark, her eyes the deep rusty red of dried blood and ringed by think dark eyelashes. She sighed happily. She was beautiful and she knew it. One did not become a Succubus First Class by looking like a mortal's ass. Daddy had been so proud... Daddy was an old fool, but there you go. C'est la vie, as the human saying went.
Jezebel smiled a smile that would have made the fake plants in the foyer wilt. She wasn't in the human world for vacation. She was here for revenge. Oh, this was going to be fun. The hollow chuckle that echoed through the bathroom would give a grown man nightmares for weeks. The fact that she choked on a sip of the sauvignon and gave herself the hiccups would have increased those nightmares to a span of years.
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The dusty little sign in the window read 'Open', belying the apparent lack of light inside and emptiness of the store front. This was an unusual sight, seeing as how most shops in the Soho district closed well before eight o'clock on a Sunday night. The tall man in sunglasses pushed the door open, poking his head inside and called "Knock, knock". Somewhere further inside the little shop a bell jingled cheerfully. Crowley stepped through the doorway, closing the door behind himself. He leaned his umbrella against the base of an unhandily placed coat stand(3) and draped his black coat over one of the pegs. Tucking his hands into his pockets, the demon ambled between the over-loaded shelves and into the small back room of the shop.
As he expected, he found the shop's proprietor bent over a dusty old volume with his spine bent in such a position that would make a chiropractor crack his knuckles in anticipation. The book wasn't the only thing in the room that was gathering dust. The piles of books that stood all over the floor were dusty. The cheap computer that stood in one corner looked as if it hadn't been turned on in weeks. The mug of stone cold tea that stood on the desk next to the book had a fine film of dust floating on it's surface. Even the proprietor was dusty.
"Good book?" Crowley asked casually, leaning his hip on the edge of the desk. A grunt rose from the reader. A long pause stretched out for a good minute and a half before the demon broke it. "By the by, angel," He asked, all innocence. "How long has it been since someone dusted you?"
Aziraphale jolted into awareness, uncomprehending eyes falling on his friend's sunglass-clad face. "Eh?" he asked intelligently. His face slowly took on an expression of dawning comprehension. "Oh, hullo Crowley. When did you get here?" He asked, stretching and popping several joints in his back that will remain unmentioned. He carefully marked his place in the ancient tome, closing the cover and sneezing at the cloud of dust that rose from it's yellow pages.
"About ten minutes ago, actually." The demon fanned the dust away from his face distastefully. "You do know that the cream in your tea is attempting to evolve into a higher life form, don't you?"
Aziraphale jumped, looking suspiciously(4) into the mug. "No it isn't." He said sulkily. "It's just a bit green and fuzzy, that's all." He stood stiffly, picking the vessel up with the delicacy that most people reserve for handling venomous reptiles. He limped into the adjoining kitchenette, scraping the tea into the dustbin and dropping the mug into the sink. He walked back to the doorway, leaning on it. "So, what are you doing here? The world isn't about to end again is it?"
Crowley took on the appearance of one who has been deeply wounded. "Would you believe me if I said that I simply wanted to treat an old friend to dinner?" He asked, poutily inspecting an ancient and rusty fountain pen that he had found lying under a pile of papers.
The Angel smiled wryly, "No, my dear boy, I wouldn't." He said in exasperated tones. "Let me shower and change first. I'm all coated in dust..."
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Jezebel leaned across the small wooden podium that protected the concierge from personal space invasion by disgruntled guests. The succubus was far from disgruntled, but she was definitely invading his space. The middle aged man didn't exactly mind this invasion, but he leaned away from her anyway. This gave him a better view of the three and a half inches of cleavage that peeked up above the low-slung collar of her black mini-dress. "Reservation for one, under 'Wormwood'." She purred. "Jezebel Wormwood."
The man stood for a second, staring at that inviting cleavage, before the power of thought was transferred back to his brain. He shuffled through his book of reservations.
"I'm sorry miss--uhm, we don't seem to have a reservation for..."
Jezebel pouted at the hapless concierge, who broke out into a cold sweat. "I'm sure that someone who is obviously as important as you are," The man preened. "...Can a measly little table for one, for my only lonely." She crooned, shifting her weight so that her hip moved upwards. Everyone passing behind her was treated to a taunting view of her long pale thigh. She peered a the man through her eyelashes, running her teeth over her lower lip. She had him, hook, line and dropper, or something. It was a human saying. It meant that, if she wanted to, she could make him pay for her meal, all the time making it look like it was his idea. She was quite good at what she did.
The man came closer, eyes glancing around furtively. In a conspiratorial whisper he said, "Look, I don't do this for everyone but I think I can get you a table in the back." He gestured and an eager young waiter appeared. After a murmured conversation and an appreciative glance from the waiter Jezebel was lead between the maze of tables, waiters carrying trays and diner's legs. Her ankle-strapped black three inch heels clicked as she walked down the tile. (She barely succeeded in not breaking her ankle. How did mortals walk in those things?) She was deposited at a small table with her back to the wall and a great view of all of the occupants of the large room. She settled back, glanced at the wine list, and promptly ordered the most expensive wine in the house. She was relaxing tonight, a little celebration before the real fun began. Little did she know that her quarry was about to tumble right into her scantily clad lap.
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Alfred the valet stood up quickly, a stiff attention as the vintage black Bentley pulled up in front of him. A tall man in dark sunglasses (At night? Who did he think he was?) stepped from the driver's side, going round to the passenger door to help his companion out of the car. Alfred was bemused to see, however, that the man's companion was not a skinny woman in a slinky black dress, but a blonde man in a white turtleneck sweater with exquisitely manicured nails. The guy in shades helped the blonde up over the curb, and handed Alfred the parking fee before disappearing inside with the sweater-clad man glued to his side. Alfred shook his head, letting out a slow whistle of amazement. Times were a-changing.
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The concierge was shuffling papers on his little podium in a very businesslike manner, and he didn't even glance up as Crowley and Aziraphale approached. He didn't seem to notice, either, when the demon rested his hands on the podium. "Ahem." He cleared his throat meaningfully. The concierge ignored him. Crowley silently cursed the man's immortal soul. Of course, someone had gotten a commendation for the invention of the concierge, but Heaven had countered by inventing the busboy. Similar job, less pay, but (oddly) less evil. Yet another example of the great Cosmic game of One-Uppance that went on worldwide.
Finallythe man behind the podium stopped his paper shuffling and looked up, glaring in a reptilian manner at Crowley over the wire rims of his spectacles. He pulled the cap off of a ball-point pen and replaced the cap at the end of the pen for safekeeping, then waited expectantly.
"Crowley, party of two." The demon said in a voice tight with pent up exasperation. Behind him Aziraphale bent to inspect the potted rubber tree that was placed at the end of a table, which held brochures that spoke warmly of the comfort and hospitality this particular restaurant offered.
The bespectacled man took his time looking through the reservation book in front of him. He found the name, put a tidy checkmark by it, and gestured for a waiter to take them to their table.
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Aziraphale jogged to catch up with Crowley and the waiter, following them to a comfortable looking table-for-two with a small white votive candle burning in a jar in the center. The demon seated Aziraphale before sitting down himself, passing the wine list to his companion. Aziraphale looked the list up and down and finally selected a red wine that was described inexplicably as having "a coffee finish with a hint of banana on the nose". He ordered and sent the waiter off again, then rested his elbows on the table, eyes on Crowley's face. The demon seemed to be scanning the faces of those people seated around them. (One couldn't be sure, on account of him still wearing his sunglasses.) He was probably looking for poor innocent souls to corrupt, the scoundrel. That was, however, one thing he admired about the demon; he may not have any sort of honest employment worth mentioning,(5) but he never stopped working. Quite brilliant really. Of course he would never say it to Crowley's face, he did have his image to maintain after all...
Suddenly Crowley froze, all of the color draining from his face. If his eyes were visible, they would be the size of saucers.
Aziraphale furrowed his brow worriedly. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"Sitting in the table right behind you -No, don't turn around you daft fool!- is one of Hell's top sucubi." The demon murmured lowly, one hand balling itself into a fist.
"What, and she's an assassin or blatant killer or something?"
"Both. But it's worse than that. Far worse."
"How?"
"She's my ex-girlfriend."
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(1) Soft rock was one of the more terrible inventions of a certain A. J. Crowley, and it had already pushed over a million humans to commit terrible acts of cruelty, such as stealing from elderly persons and becoming telemarketers.
(2) Only one demoness in the Underworld would ever sleep with him, and she still thinks it was a mistake.
(3) This is one of the many tactics employed by the owner of the shop to dissuade people from purchasing any of his books. The theory behind it is that if the coat rack is far enough out of the way people will feel awkward using it. They will, thus, be forced to carry their coats with them, quite an uncomfortable predicament, and will leave more quickly because of it.
(4) He has had sentient forms come into existence in long forgotten mugs of cocoa, coffee, and tea. One woke him once by asking him quite rudely to stop snoring "in such a bloody loud manner, seein' as how some people were tryin' to sleep themselfs." This was quite traumatic. Aziraphale squashed the mould-thing with one of his shoes
(5) He had once been gainfully employed as a hamburger flipper at one of the first Burger Lord establishments in London, but that didn't last long as customers kept finding "questionable" objects in their food.
(6) A fish that is cured in brine and left outside for a long time. It's considered a delicacy in Norway. Norwegians eat it on Christmas and every other day of the year. I'm perfectly serious. (Look below for the subject of this not-so-footnote.)
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Please R&R as soon as I have all the chapters up! I will reward you with cookies and leutafisk.(6)