Lancing
by elfin
"Did somebody teach you how to lie?
And take what you're feeling from your eyes?
It's a sad disguise...."
- from "When I Get Over You", Mike Rutherford.
At the time, Stone didn't know exactly what they had done to their victim,
how he had... ceased to exist. He knew now. He wished sometimes that he did
not, wished sometimes for blissful ignorance of the torment and agony the
other suffered before the final terrible release of death. More final for
him than for any.
Ezekiel had called him 'Myriad'. He was sure there was another name, a true
name, but Myriad was something that had stuck in his mind after reading
Milton's 'Paradise Lost' a few months back, and it seemed to suit his new
friend. If Myriad preferred another name, he never mentioned it.
After the angel had helped Zeke save Ros's life, had stood with him and
talked to him while he was forced to watch the only woman he had ever loved
fretting, shaken and scared outside the bank, they had become ... friends.
As close a friend as he had. Myriad had asked him much and listened
attentively. To speak to someone with no hidden agenda was refreshing, and
although *He* hated his co-called servant spending time with his 'brother',
Myriad neither feared him nor heeded his warnings. He told Stone not to
either.
One night Myriad had asked, in the easy, gentle way he had of asking
questions that had no right or wrong answer, whether Ezekiel had killed
Gilbert Jacks for Ros, or for himself. The question had actually made Zeke
smile, for it was one he had been asking himself for sixteen years. He
guessed that at the time he had justified murdering the man because of what
he had done to his wife, because he had loved her with everything that he
was. He had told himself that all women would be safer if Jacks were not to
live. That was what he had told himself that fateful night, and for a very
long time afterward. And yet, he didn't believe now that it was the truth.
Stone had killed Jacks for revenge, for himself. The bastard had wrecked
his marriage, his life, his love, had shattered everything he had, taken
from him all he ever wanted. Gilbert Jacks deserved to die. Stone had
wanted him to die. That was why he had killed him. Selfish to the end, he
had told Myriad ruefully. And then he had got himself killed. Selfish, to
leave Ros without anything, to take from her all that remained after Jacks'
brutal attack. Myriad had scolded him for thinking like that, told him off
for thinking the worst of himself. The angel saw someone in Zeke that Zeke
didn't believe anyone had ever seen in him before. Or would again.
Ezekiel had not experienced a sheltered life. When he had lived, he had
believed that he'd seen everything. He knew the absurd cruelty that humans
visit on other living creatures, had seen the results of brutality such as
most people never life to witness. And yet when he died and went to hell,
he discovered more. Hell was not, Stone discovered, as the living imagine
it; a place of brimstone and fire, of burning heat and sleeping on coals.
Hell was not a state of being, so much as a state of grace. Or lack of it.
When the devil visits in hell, it was not a case of him striding into your
room, it was knowledge, terrible knowledge shown to you so that you cannot
turn away nor cover your eyes and ears.
He saw much in hell. Yet when he returned to earth he realized that the
living were capable of far more cruelty than the dead. The thought of
eternity in Satan's embrace began to scare him less than it would scare
those who did not know yet lived in terror every day of their lives. The
best way he could describe his hell to Myriad was to like it to a fresh
memory. To standing on a street corner in New York and having the devil
inform him that the man he allowed go free because his girlfriend was a
snitch, was the very one who would live to rape his wife and finally seal
his fate. The rage that had filled him then, at Lucifer's words, at the
smug sureness, was his hell - the certainty that the devil was telling the
truth, the anger that made him draw his gun and shoot out the devil's eyes.
Stone had never shown nor felt any remorse at killing Gilbert Jacks. The
second time, after the bastard had escaped from hell and he had sent him
back to that eternal jail cell, he had actually enjoyed it, felt pleasure
in his enemy's fall. It was what the devil had wanted, of course, but he
didn't usually give in to his boss's whims. He did then, and had done
since. Stone had felt himself becoming more sinful with every moment spent
in the devil's service. Instead of cleansing himself of the wrong-doings
that had sent him to hell in the first place, he felt he was collecting
sins and starting to feel good about it. Until Myriad. Until the angel had
shown him that his work for the devil was doing good up on earth. He was
saving people, stopping more lives from being wrecked as his own had been.
Preventing tragedies that never should have been a threat.
Zeke had always wondered what made angels angelic. Myriad showed him that
it wasn't a matter of harps, wings and good deeds. It was simply the truth.
He was a balm for Ezekiel, such peace in a world of insanity and an
afterlife spent hunting down the dregs society believed long gone. He was a
friend, simple and easy. And then he was wiped out, spirit scattered far
away over the stars of the night sky. And Stone swore that he would find
those responsible and make them pay, not for revenge. For Myriad.
And maybe for his brother.
*
The call came from Detective Carl Bruen, a friend Stone had managed to make
in the NYPD just after Ash's disappearance. He thought Carl sounded a
little odd, but he caught the gist of what the detective was saying, and at
least managed to get an address. He turned from the breakfast bar and
regarded the devil, sitting in his chair watching his television. His
evilness had been unusually quiet for the last few hours and Stone had been
starting to become concerned.
Zeke remembered, as he often did, the words of Lucifer's note, scrawled
temporarily on his wall the night they'd... made out. 'How can nothing
change when everything's changed?'. Nothing had changed, not outwardly. He
had taken out another seven demons in the month since, helped by the fact
that four of them had formed some weird sort of vigilante group and had
been deeply involved in a heated debate when Zeke shot all four during a
group meeting. The devil had been pleased. He'd even bought dinner. Still,
that night had not been mentioned.
And then there had been the awkward time when Myriad had shown up. Just as
Lucifer was trying to talk Zeke into believing that he'd deserved to go to
hell, the devil's angel of a brother had turned up to counteract the
arguments. Luckily. Without him, Zeke would probably have been back in Hell
right now, and Lucifer would have another pet to frustrate and annoy. But
Myriad had shown up, and was still showing up for drinks, vanilla sundaes
and long chats about everything from the meaning of life to the more
complex body language used by players during football games.
Off-hand comments had shown Zeke that the devil was jealous. But the ruler
of Hell wasn't about to admit that in a hurry, and so the friendship had
grown unabated.
Ezekiel was still at a loss to explain why something had happened between
himself and his employer in the first place. Except for the occasional
drunken fuck with a stranger picked up in a bar, Zeke had never had much
attraction to men. He appreciated the fairer sex far too much. Yet... there
was something about the human form the devil had chosen. That one night he
had found himself wanting to touch the jet black, silky hair. He remembered
seeing the golden flecks in the dark eyes, if he looked closely enough.
The devil looked up, regarding him with suspicion. "What?"
"Oh, nothing. Just... a possible lead on one of your escaped convicts."
"Excellent." Zeke wondered if the smile that split his boss's face was
genuine. "Can I come?"
*
The address was downtown, in one of the rougher areas of New York. A run
down block in the projects. A single police car had made it to the scene
before them, although Zeke knew Bruen was around too. It was the follow-me
line of yellow police tape that led them to the basement of the building.
From there, the stink was easy enough to follow. Pushing open the outer
door, what was beyond reminded Ezekiel of the pervert's place in "Silence
of the Lambs" - a film he'd rented not to long ago and watched with Max and
three buckets of chicken. The air felt slick, hot. The walls had a terrible
sheen to them which made his skin crawl just looking at it.
As he entered the basement rooms, Stone found himself wondering what other
people saw when they saw the devil. They must see something, he'd guessed,
because no one had ever tried to walk through him, or questioned him when
he'd ordered ice-cream. He was never ignored, just always... welcomed.
Stone frowned to himself; that was the wrong word. Or maybe not. This was a
crime scene and no one was asking him to leave. Whatever that was, it was
what happened everywhere.
Stone continued through the dingy basement until he stepped into the room
in which Bruen stood. The detective looked up with a grimace.
"This is a bad one, Stone."
He didn't need to point that out. Just beyond the door, the room opened out
to something that would not have been out of place in a brewery. A huge vat
stood to the left, wide with low sides. Three circular rails were attached
to the ceiling, the outer one the radius of the vat itself. From this rail
hung meathooks. Five large hooks strong enough to hold a man. And at least
two of them had done. For the hands still remained, pierced by the sharp
hooks through the palms, torn off at the wrists, the fingers locked in
macabre grips around the tops.
Zeke swallowed the bile in his throat and stepped further into the room,
joining Bruen to get the rundown on whatever they knew. They knew nothing.
A woman upstairs had reported terrible screams, and for someone living out
here to report something like that, it had to have been bad. For someone
out here to call the police was almost unheard of. Bruen had been the first
on the scene and had called Stone. Two officers had arrived next, they were
outside throwing up. They had looked into the vat. As if reacting to some
pre-determined cue, Stone did the exact same thing. He stepped up and
peered over the low edges into the darkness. It took a moment for his eyes
to adjust. And then he was looking away, again fighting the urge to vomit.
The vat contained more remains. But it was liquid. The skin, muscle, blood,
insides of a body but no bones. Nothing to be identified. Nothing that
wouldn't have to be siphoned out. Stone felt nothing in that second but a
soul deep urge to run, to get out of the basement and into the sunlight
where nothing like this could ever happen. Or where he could make himself
believe that.
In an effort to look anywhere but at the vat, he turned to the tiny
blacked-out window and the filthy narrow ledge. A small, leather bound book
looked out of place there and he picked it up. In the same moment a
strangled noise turned his attention back in the direction of the horror.
Zeke frowned. The devil was standing side-on to the vat, one hand locked
over the edge, fingers digging into the rusted metal. The other was fisted
at his side, he was looking forward with unfocused eyes. And the expression
on his face was one of pain. Pain and loss.
Glancing at Bruen and wondering at the blank look on his face, Stone
stepped up to his boss. Satan surely had seen worse - had inflicted worse -
than this.
"Hey...." Ezekiel touched Lucifer's shoulder and the devil flinched,
looking up and taking a moment to focus. His sharp features were set in
terrible grief, something Zeke had never expected to see. As he watched,
the dark eyes changed, glazing over before tears began to form. Zeke's own
eyes widened. This was unexpected. This was creepy. Once again he tried to
touch the other's shoulder, and this time the contact wasn't shrugged off.
"What?"
When the devil still remained silent, eyes blinking away tears as more
formed, Ezekiel decided it was time to get them both out of here. Slipping
the small book into a deep pocket, he forcefully turned Lucifer toward the
door and directed him out, walking him through the corridor and up the
stairs until they were outside. He stopped them by a low wall and released
his hold. Lucifer remained standing, staring off passed the dilapidated
kids' play-area into nowhere. Zeke stood a little to his side, watching and
becoming more concerned as each long minute passed.
And then, in a tiny voice, he heard the devil speak the impossible. "It was
Quisander." Eyes flicked up to meet Zeke's. "Myriad."
The breath caught in Ezekiel's throat before he was shaking his head.
"It... can't have been. That's not possible! Myriad's an angel. Whoever
that was... he or she... there were human remains."
Lucifer did not seem to hear him. "It was my brother. I could feel... his
spirit. It was everywhere, trapped in that room, shattered." Tears cascaded
over the human face of the devil, astounding Zeke with their emotion.
"Someone... bound him to the flesh. And then... slayed him." More tears,
and now sobs were beginning, deep moans of pain.
Without thinking, unable to form a coherent thought, Zeke stepped forward,
putting one hand behind Lucifer's shoulder, the other going to his arm to
pull him gently but firmly into an enfolding embrace. He held onto the body
in his arms, feeling the deep tremors running through it, sensing the
devil's desperate, slipping hold on his own control. Resting his chin in
the black hair, he murmured, "Let go."
The devil cried out in sudden, excruciating pain and drew back, away from
Zeke, staring at him with wild eyes. "You've no idea!" He cried, voice
pitched hysterically high. "I can't let go. Everyone here would pay." He
took three steps back, and disappeared in a heated swirl of red-tinged
light. Zeke wiped his own eyes. Despite the enormity of it, it had to be
true. Myriad... Quisander... had died in that hell on earth. The gentle,
unassuming angel had only taken human form to help him - worthless Ezekiel
Stone. And now he was gone because of it. He had so many questions that
only the devil could answer. They would wait.
Pulling the small book from his pocket, he turned it in his hands to read
the gold scribe on the binding. The words looked Latin. Zeke headed back
into the city, heading for the university.
*
The professor was looking at him with a very definite mix of suspicion and
envy. "This, my young friend, is the Book of Black. And a very rare copy of
it." The older man pulled his glasses half way down his nose and regarded
Zeke over them. "May I ask where you found it?"
"A crime scene."
Professor Cranberry's bright blue eyes widened. "Really? A theft?"
"Murder." Zeke watched the other's expression change to something akin to
fear. "What's the book about?"
"It... it's not really about anything." The professor sat down hard behind
his desk, his mind - imagination perhaps - working overtime. "It is said
that there are passages in here, spells to summon the devil, to ensnare
demons in human forms, to subject victims to terrible horrors." Cranberry
had dropped the book to his desk but his hands rested on either side of the
black leather, as if he feared opening it. Zeke had no such reservations.
He reached down and flicked open the cover. Cranberry read the words there
as if entranced.
"'Kneel and learn all you who embrace good and reject the demons of Hell.
Herein are the incantations of the Kereb. With these weapons of words you
may rid this world of the devil and his demons.'" He looked up at Zeke
worriedly. "It is not right to read from the Book of Black."
"Yeah, yeah. Is there anything in there that might... cause... death by
melting?"
The professor frowned. "This is only... superstition." But he did not look
or sound convinced at his own conviction. He turned the first few pages and
stopped at a short passage under which an illustration caught Zeke's eye. A
pentagon, roughly drawn, and in the centre a horned creature, maybe meant
to be the devil.
Ezekiel placed his finger on the page. "What about that one?"
Had Cranberry chosen only to skip-read, or had his language skills not been
so honed, it might not have worked. But Professor Cranberry was leader in
his field, translated for historians and archaeologists.
"'Into this your own given sign we call you, devil of all, Satan cast down
from the godly skies to the burning pits of netherworlds. Cast off this
summoning you may not for it is right. We your servants are also your
master. We who you desire call you. Summoned you are therefore it is your
duty to...'"
It was the devastating cry of surprise, pain and fury that rocked Ezekiel.
At the very worst he had imagined that the devil would be standing there
before them, tapping his foot on the floor and demanding an explanation. It
was not even close. The floor before the desk was on fire. In the midst of
the flames knelt something... black and charred. Yet still moving. Trying
to stand.... Zeke realized belatedly that the professor was still reading.
He lashed out, knocking the book from his hands, ending the flow of words,
stopping the incantation. The devil let loose a cry of... despair?
And then it was gone, as quickly as Zeke had seen it. He approached the
front of the desk shakily, but there was no sign that anything had
happened, not a mark on the expensive carpet. Cranberry was looking at him
as if he'd grown horns and a forked tail. "Why did you do that?"
Zeke stared at him, open-mouthed. "You didn't... see that?!"
"See what?"
Ezekiel shook his head and moved around the desk to retrieve the book from
the floor. For a moment he thought the professor would ask for it back, but
he didn't.
"Thanks for your help." And Zeke was gone.
*
Pushing open the door of his apartment, he looked inside cautiously.
"Hey.... Are you here?" Nothing answer him but the eerie silence within. He
swore softly. He didn't really believe they had done anything from which
Satan himself couldn't heal, but he was aware of having hurt the devil, and
somehow that was wrong. Especially at a time like this.
Zeke banged the door closed just for the noise and chuckled at himself. 'At
a time like this'?! It was Satan for God's sake! He'd shot his eyes out not
so ago, sending him straight back to hell. No remorse there. That had been
personal, done in the heat of the moment in revenge for his boss being a
smug righteous bastard. This was different.
How long had that fire been eating away at him? How long had it taken for
the blackening, the charring to strip away his flesh?
Suddenly he was on the verge of panic. He caught himself, taking a deep
breath simply to calm. It was the devil, after all. Bringer of pain,
tormentor of souls. Anyway, since when did he care so damn much? //since
that night, as well you know, Zeke// He smiled ruefully to himself. Myr...
Quisander's murder had really shaken him up, worse than he'd realized
obviously.
Pulling the leather-bound book from his pocket he dropped it onto the
table. As he did, the cover fell open. He stared at the words written
there, seeing the translation of the ancient dialect, almost hearing it in
his mind. Quickly he reached down and closed the cover. //you have to
relax// he told himself. This whole situation was affecting him far too
much for his own good. It wasn't like he lead a easy life, wasn't like he
didn't deal with evil everyday, sometimes even ate with it. It was just
something.... What kind of person would murder an angel?
He needed normality for an hour or two before he went back to the crime
scene. The necessity of doing so made him shudder. But he knew he had to
go.
Locking his door behind him, he went for a walk in the park.
*
It was early evening when Ezekiel made it back to the tower block. He knew
for certain that he didn't want to be there when it got dark. This time he
took longer to investigate the best of the basement area before returning
to the vat room. But there was nothing. The place seemed like it hadn't
been lived in for years. The damp was ingrained into the walls, causing the
sheen he had seen earlier in the day, on his last visit here. There was
nothing supernatural about it, just stale water. Had he then, imagined more
of what he believed he had seen today, was his mind simply playing tricks?
It the vat room itself, the hands, and most of the remains had already been
removed by the police forensics team. Zeke wondered what they'd find in the
remains of a flesh-bound angel. They'd never identify him, that was for
sure. Without a family or loved ones to placate, the NYPD would soon move
on to other cases. He was the only one who would ever care enough to find
out who killed Quisander, and why. Maybe even how.
For a long time he stood still within the confines of the blood-splattered
walls and waited, hoping some spark of inspiration would come to him. He
listened, waiting for the dead cries of his friend to ring in his ears. Did
angels have souls? Surely Quisander would return to heaven, wouldn't he?
What was it Lucifer had said? Something about his spirit being shattered?
Zeke forced himself to lean into the vat and touch his finger to the
macabre goo that remained in the bottom. Bringing his hand up, he saw the
blood stain on the tip of that finger and watched it. Before his eyes, it
welled up into a single coherent drop, crystallising while he watched
before suddenly shattering into hundreds of tiny shards and dropping to the
floor. He swallowed and made to back out of the room before stopping
himself with a silent chastisement. "How old are you?" he muttered to
himself. Even as a kid he hadn't spooked easily, hadn't been allowed to
with his father around. How would that have seemed?
Ezekiel derailed that train of thought swiftly. Not now. There was no time
for old wounds. Too many new ones to deal with. Yet nothing was coming of
hanging around here. There were no clues as to who or how or why. The only
thing he had was the book. The professor had said it was very rare, so
where would someone get a copy of something like that? Turning his back on
the vat room, he stepped once more into the simple maze of corridors that
lead away from the horrors behind him.
He stood there in silence for a long minute before something on the floor
caught his eye. He leaned down to grasp the corner of white showing up in
the grime that seemed to cover everything. He recognised the feel of the
thick paper he held. A Polaroid photograph. Smiling to himself, hoping this
was the breakthrough he needed, he spat on the dirty-covered front and
wiped it on his coat sleeve.
Long seconds later he breathed again, having forgotten to. The photo was of
the devil - his devil - the same wide-brimmed hat and black hair, black
shirt and mischievous grin. It had been taken outside Zeke's own apartment
building. Finally the mental block cleared from his mind and he saw
everything; the plan, the motives. And the mistake. They had wanted the
devil. They had killed an angel. Did they realise? Ezekiel guessed they
were demons such as himself; some of the escapees looking to rid themselves
once and for all from the threat of their jailer.
What would happen if there were no devil, no Satan to reign in the evil of
Hell? Would the prisoners truly go free? Would he? Could he step back and
wait? Could he leave the devil to the same fate as his brother? If they had
realised that they had murdered the wrong one, would they now go after the
right one? A flash of the charred image in the professor's study flooded
his mind. They could call the devil to them... if they still had the book.
Which they didn't.
Fleeing the horrors of the basement, he headed out and home once more.
*
Max looked up from the paper as he wondered in to his apartment block.
"Hey."
"Hey yourself." Zeke leaned on the desk in front of her. "Would you do me a
favour?"
She gave him one of her best smiles. "For you, Stone. Anything."
"If anyone looks like they're waiting around here for someone, would you
call me. And if my friend - the strange guy with the black hair -" she
nodded, "- comes in, send him straight up and tell him it's urgent." He
knew Lucifer sometimes liked to enter via the front door, just to fuel
rumours.
She nodded. "No problems."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Again his apartment was eerily quiet. And empty. He kept expecting - or
rather hoping - that an enraged devil would turn up and give him hell
(metaphorically speaking) for what had occurred at the university. Sighing
to himself he grabbed a beer from the fridge and crossed to the table where
he knew he'd left it. It wasn't there.
*
There was always heat. It was comforting in a way, when he needed that.
Some claimed they could hear the screams of tormented souls, crying out for
mercy in their thousands. Because that was what they expected to hear. He
heard nothing just now. Down here, in his own realm, he just was.
Throughout the ages of man there had been drawings, representations, false
idols. None had been accurate. Where the horns, and the forked tail had
come from he would never know. He was an angel, albeit a fallen one. He had
the wings, the light. But only when he wanted them, only when he needed a
form.
He had chosen the human form carefully for his time with Ezekiel Stone, and
was uncertain why his brother had been possessed to mimic it. The knowledge
that he would never know stung him more deeply than he would ever have
imagined it could have done.
He dropped his head back into the molten bed on which he lay. Tendrils that
might have been fingers snaked into the hot mattress beneath him and
stretched apart. The summoning had hurt. The incantation read in English
had warped the effect somewhat. He remembered it being used in ancient
times, read in Latin and he had appeared strong and powerful, enveloped in
flames. He had always faced them in a rage, even if he had been stuck for
something to engage his time. He hadn't heard the words used in a
millennia. He had been more than a little surprised to find himself being
forcefully pulled from his grief into the arms of hellfire itself, to be
twisted and charred in the soaring heat and finally to appear before
Ezekiel Stone and mad professor friend. That trick had earned Cranberry in
place in hell if nothing else had.
He was rather pleased that Ezekiel had stopped the chant. His appearance
must have been startling. Or frightening. He smiled to himself. That would
pay the snivelling demon back for shooting him in the eyeballs some weeks
ago.
He allowed his thoughts to linger on his servant. Despite himself -
literally - he knew he felt deeply for the human, knew he was attached to
Ezekiel now. He had managed to admit it in the heat of the passion, and the
words he had left his lover with had been the naked truth. And Ezekiel
cared for him! That was perhaps the most amazing thing. This morning, at
Quisander's murder scene, the embrace, the murmurs of comfort, the care
Ezekiel had shown him from the outset. Throughout their relationship,
despite everything he tried to wind Ezekiel up, it was only the final blow
concerning Gilbert Jacks that had turned his detective against him. And
even after that, after his anger, his claiming Zeke was his and his alone,
the man had still returned to joking with him over breakfast.
He found himself constantly amazed by the human spirit. Especially by
Ezekiel's. Maybe he should go up and just let Zeke know he was okay.
*
Instead of simply appearing in the apartment as was his wont when he was in
a hurry, tonight the devil decided to go in through the building. Zeke's
cute little landlady always regarded him with such a feral expression, and
he wondered if he could push her suspicions further with a few selected
words. He stepped into the dingy hallway. Max was at her usual spot,
reading some trash novel. Lucifer straightened his deep blue shirt and
stepped up to her. And stopped at the sound of voices.
Max turned as Zeke's odd friend pushed the door open and came inside.
"Hey," she called to him. He did look up. He even smiled at her - a smile
that sent shivers down her spine. But whatever she might have said to him
was lost as two other men followed him inside. They were speaking in a
language she did not recognise, chanting almost, and if it annoyed her, it
was having a more intense impact on Zeke's friend.
He froze in place. The words were stinging him, as if they were physical
darts cast in his direction. He flinched and tried to move, but the two
simply moved closer and continued the barrage of words. At her desk, Max
cautiously picked up the phone and called Zeke's apartment.
Ezekiel half ran half flew down the stairs. He was too late. He saw his
erstwhile boss kneeling on the floor of the hallway, face tilted upwards,
eyes screwed shut in agony. His arms were stretched out, hands up, as
trying to shield himself from the power of the incantation that was calling
his ancient soul, binding him to the human flesh. Zeke screamed, trying for
'no' but probably not getting too close for as he opened his mouth the
vision of terror simply vanished. The men, the devil, the chanting. All
gone. He looked to Max, whose life-tinted eyes had gone wide, her face
white. He had been about to ask her if he'd really seen that. But her
expression told him it had been real, and he knew deep within him that he'd
witnessed the summoning and the binding as it was supposed to have been
done.
So where were they now?
Taking a wild guess, he set out for that building and that basement at a
running pace.
*
He struggled, gave them as much to fight off as he could. But in the end
there were five of them and one of him, and he felt so weak....
He screamed too. The pain of the thick metal forced through sensitive flesh
almost blinded him, and when the second hand was subjected to the same
abuse, the white-hot agony simply merged into one flame that began at the
base of his neck and seemed to spread like wildfire along his nerves.
Only when the torturing hands left him, did he dare to open his eyes. He
recognised the vat room where his brother had met his own final death. He
could still feel the tormented, scattered spirit fighting against the
physical walls that held him here. To free him, the place would have to be
destroyed. Would he also become trapped here? Him? Satan? The ruler of the
netherworlds? He raged against the bonds that held him; the spiritual
binding to this putrid flesh, and physical grip of the cold metal hooks
through his hands.
It hurt. More than he could have imagined. Physical pain was something he
doled out, something he enjoyed when he was in his own realm, his own form
could stand so much more. The pitiful limits of the flesh were nothing new
to him. Except that he had never experienced them from within before. His
entire weight was held up through the torn muscle and skin of his palm. The
hooks had sliced up as he had been released to drop, and were now scraping
against the small bones in his hands. He could feel the blood running in
steady streams over his wrists, down his arms under his shirt. If he turned
his head he knew he would see the blood pooling in the material at his
elbow and slowly starting to leak through the delicate fabric to join his
brother's remains in the vat just below.
Opening his eyes had also brought another fact into clear view. He
recognised his attackers. Five demons that Ash had assisted in escaping
from his hellish embrace. All were ancient souls, cast into Hell for
playing with black magic. He believed, if his mind was still functioning
correctly, that one of them was the author of the damned book - The Book of
Black. The one Ezekiel had had in that room to which he'd been summoned.
The one now held in the loving grasp of one of his tormentors. Should that
be executioners?
He almost laughed at the stray thought that if he were really human, if he
had truly belonged in the fleshy prison to which he had been condemned, he
would have been going straight to Hell. The one place, ironically, that he
wished he were at this very moment. He tried to laugh. But it came out as a
horrible mix, half way between a sob and a scream. Two of the demons
standing in a semi-circle around the vat looked up at him and smiled.
And then the words began. A different chant, different sounds that would
not bind, but would undo. He could feel their terrible effect almost
immediately. The damnable skin covering this body began to heat up, started
to feel that it was melting beneath his clothes. Deeper inside, he had the
impression of important body parts failing in their duties. He had never
had need of them before; this physical state had been nothing more than an
illusion, a trick of the light so as not to scare his Ezekiel....
Ezekiel.... Had he known? He had worked out what the book was for and
returned it to these demons so that they might end his torture and finally
free him?
Somehow that thought cut deeper than the words being flung at him.
He closed his eyes, squeezing burning tears of pain through his lids to
send them cascading over his cheeks. As they ran, he swore he could feel
them tearing the skin in their path.
The agony clouded his mind, centring his focus on nothing but the nerves
aflame within him. He tried to struggle against everything that was being
done to him, but the movements simply pulled the hooks further through his
hands, snapping at least one bone in each. If he pulled too hard they would
slice up and through, and he would fall into his bother's decaying flesh
that awaited him at the base of the vat.
Tipping his head back, he screamed.
Zeke heard that. He jumped the final steps and flung himself at the
basement door, running, gun in hand, straight into the vat room that was
scene to the horrors he was hearing. That scream had at least told him he
was in the right place. But was he in time? As he barrelled into the vat
room, his subconscious picked up the sound of police sirens getting closer.
For some reason he felt relieved. A feeling that deserted him when he saw
the awful scene in front of him.
Before any demon could react he had fired two bullets.
One took out the left eye of the demon holding the book. He dropped the
leather bound copy and cried out as his soul dragged itself back to Hell.
The second ripped through the face of the demon next to the fallen one. It
was enough.
The chanting had stopped and the three remaining were almost on top of him
when he fired again, straight into the right eye of the one closest to him.
The bullet excited by some miracle and plunged with equal vigour into the
fourth demon.
One left. Zeke took a moment to glance at the now struggling form of the
devil and wanted to use his fingers to dig out the eyes of this last
unfortunate one. Instead, he aimed carefully and found no resistance. A
moment before he pulled the trigger, he heard the words, 'you could have
been free' echo around him. And he fired. And the words - and their speaker
- were gone.
Dropping his gun, Zeke dragged a table from the back of the room to the
edge of the vat and leapt up onto it. Hushing his frantic boss, he hooked
one arm around the sweat-soaked waist body and pulled it forward with care
until the devil's feet touched the table on which he was standing.
Not thinking of anything passed this sudden offered escape, Lucifer pulled
hard against the hooks stilled searing his flesh. Zeke stilled him. "Easy.
Let me." Reaching up, he apologised under his breath before sliding first
one then the other hook from the bloodied palms. Bitten back yells of pain,
and then arms dropped before coming up around him to cling desperately.
Steadying them both, Zeke took a moment to simply hold on. Harsh sobs of
pain and terror were torn from the unwilling soul in his arms. He held
tighter, murmuring softly, reassuring where he wasn't sure what reassurance
would be. Lucifer felt so small at that moment, so powerless. He
unreasonably remembered the last time they'd embraced.
Easing them both down, he finally slipped off the table and helped the
devil down too. With one arm around the shaking shoulders, and the other
hand holding him close to his side, Zeke led his temporary ward out of the
room and up into the night as the police arrived.
*
Max was waiting for them. Zeke saw her and asked her to fetch a first aid
kit of some kind, hoping this nightmare of an apartment building actually
had such a thing. Luckily, by the time Zeke had the devil sitting on the
edge of the couch, she had found one. Without asking anything, she knelt in
front of 'Zeke's friend' and began to dress and bandage the deep wounds.
Zeke watched her, sitting one the arm of the couch in silence, hands folded
in his lap.
Finally she finished and sat back on her heels, not taking her eyes from
the man in front of her who was turning his bandaged hands over and back,
staring at them, obviously in shock. "He really needs a hospital, Stone.
He's lost a lot of blood and those wounds won't heal on their own."
Ezekiel shook his head. "He'll be all right, trust me." He did look at her
then. "Please?"
She hesitated, but nodded. "Call if you need me?"
"Thanks."
Once she'd gone, Zeke slipped off the arm to sit in the corner of the
couch. Lucifer was still staring at the bandages. Reaching forward, Zeke
touched his shoulder, ignored the flinch, and carded his fingers through
the damp black hair. There was no sign of any more wounds. If he was right
in his thinking then the spell had been stopped. With any luck, the binding
had a time limit, as the summoning did.
"I think this'll wear off soon." Lucifer nodded vaguely. "These are just
physical wounds...." Zeke wished he sounded more sure of himself. But the
devil looked up at him then, and nodded, letting out a deep sigh.
"Yes. Soon... my... spirit will be released from this hell and I return to
mine." He smiled a little uncertainly. "It won't be pleasant. To be trapped
in this form for too long is uncommon."
Ezekiel moved closer, one arm around the devil's shoulders. "You'll be all
right." Another nod. Zeke tugged persuasively, and Lucifer allowed himself
to fall against the strength beside him. Ezekiel simply held him.
"Would Quisander have gone to heaven?" The question, asked some time later,
stirred the devil from an uneasy slumber. He had moved his legs up onto the
couch, and was leaning back against Zeke, the man's arms encircling him
almost possessively. He moved his head from the pillow of the crook of
Ezekiel's shoulder, but dropped it back when the spike of pain shot down
his spine.
With much regret, he told Ezekiel the only truth. "Quisander... all of us
angels are souls. If we are destroyed, there is nothing more. His spirit is
trapped inside the walls that witnessed his death. When I am able, I shall
release him."
Zeke wanted to ask what that meant, but he thought he already knew. And he
had not the desire to stop it. Quisander - Myriad - had been his friend.
And Lucifer.... "They stole the book back, I didn't give it to them."
The devil actually smiled. "I... did wonder."
"I know. That's why I told you. You're a pain in the ass sometimes... but I
wouldn't want... that."
Zeke expected some witty comeback. Instead, he just heard, "thank you." He
hugged the weary form in his arms closer to him, offering comfort for them
both.
The devil tensed in his arms when the binding started to wear off. Ezekiel
held him, and softly whispered, "Close your eyes." The devil, for once, did
as he was instructed. First spirit, released from the terrible prison,
escaped. Eyes covered so as to stop the crashing, hurried exit from the
physical form, it left via the holes in the hands, slowly and with aching
relief. As the last fled back to Hell, the body in Zeke's arms simply
vanished.
He dropped his head back to the cushions and closed his eyes. "Get well
soon." He murmured.
//soon...// came the unexpected reply.
fade out