Comments - Not much to say except thank you reviewers - You keep me writing, seriously. Oh, and Smokey2307, so if you're reading/enjoying this, then you might want to thank her. She bugs me to keep going :D

Chapter Seven

He didn't bother to go back to the bookshop to do the rite – after all, Crowley's apartment was quite near some good occult shops, and if his plan went right, then the people Upstairs would most likely be looking for him. The bookshop would be the first place they looked.

Crossing his legs, he sat in the centre of the rather shaky salt pentagram and put the mixing bowl containing the ingredients in front of him, trying to shelve his disgust at the pungent scent of clotting blood, dead meat and sulphur rising in the heat of the many candles he'd had to light in the room. Suspiciously, he was sure that all this wasn't strictly necessary, but who was he to say that rats' blood could be used instead of prime cockerel? Besides, if he was going to get chucked out of Heaven, he might as well, as Crowley always said, do it in style.

The words sounded strange on his tongue. The incantation was in an obscure mix of Arabic and some words he recognised from Their language, and the combining result was a fluid susurrus of noise that seemed to fall into the very air. Candles flickered as they reached for oxygen, their warmth flowing over his skin and increasing as the spell continued. The smell of sulphur – far too much to merely be the teaspoon or so he added earlier – crept around him and he choked on a word. Immediately, the salt around him smoked and caught fire.

Before he could contemplate the strangeness of this, he felt invisible arms cross over his chest, and with a yell he was dragged backwards and down.

The carpeted floor he expected to feel as he fell back was gone, and he tumbled backwards into the newly created hole. Closing his eyes as he turned over and over, he tucked himself in and just hoped it would stop before he threw up.

Luckily for him, it did, and he hit the ground with a loud thud that rattled his bones, adding bruises to his bruises. He lay like that, knees to his chest, for a few minutes, waiting for his head to stop spinning and for the initial wave of pain from impact to fade away a little. Then, gingerly, he lifted his head and squinted at his surroundings.

It was most definitely Hell. If there had been somewhere else he could've been, like a dungeon dimension or maybe Australia, the first clue that he was in fact in the Nether Regions of the Underworld was probably the fire. Random spurts of it almost grew out of the ground like a pyromaniac's dream come true. Sulphurous smoke hung in the air like fog, yet his vision was quite good, and he could clearly distinguish the shadowy shapes of Hell's employees moving in and out of large, looming buildings.

Picking himself up, he nervously raised a hand to flatten down his hair, thanking providence that he had thought to dirty up it's marvellous gold tint and that his eyes were now rather dull. What was the etiquette in Hell anyway? Did demons just waltz around, did they automatically know their way? Did, and this made his stomach sink in horror, they know each other by sight? Did they have some form of angel or ex-angel sensor?

Squaring his shoulders, he berated himself for panicking and reminded himself that he was here to rescue Crowley. Besides, if he looked confident and like he belonged, then maybe he'd get away with it.

He headed for the biggest and nearest building, reasoning that the enchantment would probably have put him somewhere vaguely central and that if he didn't try something he'd be stood around in Hell until someone found him. A good defence is a good offence, and all that.

Surprisingly, the large, intricately-carved doors (depicting images of human suffering and the like) opened to reveal an almost ordinary foyer, complete with bored receptionist. However, this receptionist differed from most on Earth in that her eyes were a dark scarlet, and a sleek black tail swished through the air behind her as she painted her nails.

"Hello," Aziraphale said, trying to combine a tad of smirk into his usual winning smile. Did one have manners in Hell? Did they smile?

"If you want to be recorporated, it's the second door on the left," she stated disinterestedly, glancing at him only once before going back to her impossibly black nails.

"Why would I go there?" he asked before he could catch himself, surprised.

She just looked at him. "It's the most common, and like that," she gestured at his attire, "you look like you could do with a new body."

"Oh. Right. Well, I'm not looking for a new body, I'm looking for, er," a friend of mine? "someone I know. Name's A.J. Crowley."

"Oh, one moment then," the receptionist recapped her nail varnish and turned to a shiny new computer next to her. "What's the first name?"

"Anthony," Aziraphale supplied. "Anthony J. Crowley."

The screen flashed as she typed, and, glancing over the file, the receptionist's eyebrows rose.

"The Crowley? It says here that he was responsible for stopping Armageddon and is known to have consorted with angels. What do you want with him?"

Aziraphale's mouth ran dry, but he schooled his expression. "Erm, he offended me once. Discorporated me a couple of times." Well that was hardly lying, was it? "I thought I'd get him back for it."

"Ah, revenge," the receptionist grinned, giving him a knowing look. "Well, this says he's being pretty well looked after by the boys, but if you want you can go down, kick him in the ribs, something like that. I can get you a pass."

"Er, thanks," the ex-angel replied, bewildered. Who would've thought it would be so easy to sneak into Hell?

She snapped her fingers and a piece of yellowed parchment appeared between her fingers. Grabbing a handsome raven's quill from her desk tidy, she scrawled a few barely comprehensible lines in the spaces provided and signed it with a flourish.

"Here, that'll let you in," she handed it over. "Give him one for me – I've been dying for the end of the world, get out from behind this desk, see some fun."

"Er, yes. OK. I will."

"Take the last door on the right, you want the third floor down, then the black door. Can't miss it."

"Thanks."

Feeling strangely cheated by her jovial attitude, he headed for the door she had pointed out, which turned out to be a lift. Hitting the third button, he waited as the doors closed and it jerked into life.

He was fine until he got to the second floor, where he had to move over to make room for a suave-looking demon in a black and red silk suit. They didn't talk, luckily, but Aziraphale could feel the demon's eyes on him as he waited for his floor, resplendent in jumper and tweed trousers. He was thankful when they stopped again and he got off leaving Aziraphale to follow the receptionists directions without too much discomfort.

Well, apart from having to ignore the agonised screams of countless millions as they were tortured. It took all of his common sense and will to stop himself from opening any door save that she had indicated. He had to keep his mind on Crowley. Crowley was in danger, and he couldn't help those people.

Besides, one angel against the whole of Hell was really crap odds.