Hell’s Heresies, page 17
He kept that quiet. He’d barely avoided utter annihilation by the priest and his damned cursed gun; he was not about to reveal this rank inconvenience to the rest of them. It was purely ceremonial, anyway. Well, sort of. It had its…perks.
Come to think of it, what on earth was he doing? Cavorting with a priest and a witch, hanging around the beguiling yet bewildering Emerie…he told himself it was purely for amusement and to regain control of the Hell House again.
But if more demons caught wind of it…he had no idea what he would do.
Father Zebulun watched the merry-go-round carefully and took note of every child that shrieked in delight. It wasn’t uncommon for spirits to inhabit children—or demons to possess them. Children were rife with open possibility. They displayed a rare and beautiful vulnerability that engendered love and hope.
Evil hated children.
He sighed a little and pinched the skin between his brows for a moment. How on earth had he become mixed up in all this? He had sworn a long time ago that never again would he chase the darkness. And here he was, smack dab in the middle of it.
He supposed it was unfair to expect a quiet life after all he’d experienced—particularly since he’d chosen to retire in Milton, of all places. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened—but did it have to happen during his lifetime?
Something caught his eye and he sighed. He walked around the merry-go-round and took a seat next to someone who was hidden behind a copy of the Wall Street Journal. The pages of the newspaper riffled and the man next to him chuckle quietly.
“I heard you retired,” the man remarked. He circled something with a red pen.
“You heard wrong.” Father Zebulun crossed his arms. “And didn’t I warn you what would happen if I ever saw your face again?”
“Undoubtedly.” The man laughed and underlined the name of a columnist. “You’d send me back to Hell again.”
“Well.” Father Zebulun cleared his throat. “As long as we have an understanding. I can’t let you linger, Mephistopheles.”
The man lowered his newspaper. To the ordinary layman, he looked like an ordinary park-goer, someone who at first glance probably enjoyed cappuccinos and insisted on waiting for the tannins to develop in wine. Handsome, pretentious jawline, yet nondescript, like Joseph Quinn or Matthew Goode. But his eyes glinted disconcertingly. They were too dark for his complexion, for one thing. And far too clever.
“I mean, I can’t say that Milton is where I wanted to rejoin the world,” Mephistopheles said thoughtfully as he folded his newspaper. “I’d hoped for Manhattan. Or London. Tokyo, Beijing, Buenos Aires…I wouldn’t even mind Kiev again. We had fun in Ukraine, didn’t we?”
Father Zebulun did not answer. He stood up and heaved a large sigh. He then turned to face Mephistopheles.
“I will have to send you back to Hell,” Father Zebulun said wearily. “Again.”
“Hell?” Mephistopheles sniffed. “Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed/In one self place, for where we are in hell, And where hell is must we ever be./And, to conclude, when all the world dissolves/And every creature shall be purified/All places shall be purified, All places shall be hell that is not heaven.”
“I forgot how annoying it was when you quote your plays,” Father Zebulun grumbled. “I cannot allow you to remain.” His hand slipped into his pocket until it curled around his crucifix.
Mephistopheles didn’t seem the least bit worried. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned about my conjurer? After all, no one knows more than you how intoxicating the bond between conjurer and conjured.”
“Stand, Mephistopheles,” Father Zebulun said evenly. “Let’s end this quickly.”
Mephistopheles remained on the park bench. “Do you miss Lailah?”
The priest clenched his fist around the crucifix. His mouth went dry and he attempted to stave off the onslaught of emotion. The smell of lilacs, piercing violet eyes, an expression of sorrow and betrayal…
“Do you?” Father Zebulun asked quietly and that question finally seemed to irk Mephistopheles into standing. The newspaper was tossed carelessly to the side and Father Zebulun watched it ignite and flicker into ash.
“Careful, priest,” Mephistopheles warned. “Even today, even now…still so insolent.”
“Is this Love’s chosen element?” Father Zebulun quoted quietly. “The fire o’er all my body stings me…But should I like, just once, to see you smile…”
“You’re right,” Mephistopheles tented his fingers. “Quoting my play is annoying.”
Then he attacked.
It caught Father Zebulun off-guard. Mephistopheles was a dealmaker, a creature that existed between the fine lines of a contract, who rarely used his physical body for anything vulgar—and he considered physical fighting particularly vulgar. As Father Zebulun fell to the ground and struggled with the demon, it occurred to him that taunting Mephistopheles about Lailah right back must have seriously annoyed him.
Still, Father Zebulun wasn’t entirely sure what the demon hoped to accomplish. It is never wise for something supernatural to attack a priest; like witches, they are nearly always prepared. Before long, Mephistopheles had retreated after being doused with holy water. Father Zebulun raised himself up on one knee, breathing heavily.
Mephistopheles’ face broke into a smile. The holy water had pockmarked his face; he looked like a burn victim.
“Now, now, old friend. We lose our temper too easily! There’s an easy way to settle this.” He touched his face and the burns started to heal.
“I don’t make deals with demons,” Father Zebulun snapped. “Least of all with you.”
“Fair enough, fair enough.” Mephistopheles’ face healed rapidly. “But this is a small deal, something even you could not turn down. I promise to return to Hell, quickly and quietly, on one condition.”
“You cannot have my soul,” Father Zebulun retorted. “Nor Emerie’s, nor the witch girl’s.”
“Now, now now!” Mephistopheles raised his hands in defense. “Souls? Who said anything about souls? Nothing so dear as those. I know better than to try and barter souls with you, Boaz.”
“You should know better than to try and barter anything with me,” Father Zebulun growled. “I will not have it. You will return back to the shadows, fiend.”
“All I ask,” Mephistopheles plainly ignored him, “all I ask is the promise that Samael returns to Hell with me.”
Father Zebulun paused in confusion. Mephistopheles grinned again, in a deeply unsettling manner. They watched the merry-go-round spin a bit. A little girl pushed a young boy off one of the brightly colored horses and he called her a swear word, realized Father Zebulun was watching, and both children guiltily apologized.
“What’s going on?” Father Zebulun lifted his stern gaze from the children to Mephistopheles. “Are you…are the rest of you…planning something?”
“Oh, my!” Mephistopheles touched his heart in mock surprise. “Us? Work together? Plan something? Oh, you know how we all hate each other, how we enjoy devouring each other. And you know how deeply unpopular I am. If something were in the works, I’d hardly know.”
“Do you know Samael?” Father Zebulun raised his crucifix. “Leave me out of your devilish politics.”
“Only by hearsay. It’s a small request, Boaz. If I must go, so must Samael.”
There had to be some sort of trap in the words, but Father Zebulun could not detect it. Nor could he think of any way around the deal. It was imperative that Samael—along with all the bastions that had been unleashed—be banished back to Hell.
“I will say this…” Mephistopheles removed his hat and twirled it around his index finger. “Let’s say there was something in the works, something I’m not allowed to be involved in because of my questionable loyalty—it would have to be top brass to force cooperation between all the princes of Hell.”
“Listen well, fiend.” Father Zebulun, batted the spinning hat away.. “All of the demons will be sent back to Hell. You, Beelzebub, Mammon, Orobas—and Samael. Princes or none. I can promise you that.”
Mephistopheles’ grin looked positively radiant. “Then we have an accord.”
Before Father Zebulun could stop him, the demon seized his right hand and squeezed. White hot fire flooded Father Zebulun’s veins and he screamed in pain and sank to the ground. When he regained his senses, Mephistopheles was gone.
EIGHTEEN
Demons made Zephyr nervous.
She talked a big game about how they were all spirits to her, and she did truly believe that. However… ghosts were simple enough to eradicate—they were generally simple-minded, surviving on echoes of their former lives. What Emerie and the priest called “demons” were different. They were intelligent, sentient, and generally did not have good intent towards humans.
Zephyr had only come across a demon once, when she was a teenager. Her mother, the silly woman, had tried to contact her goddess but had completely botched the spell and channeled something far worse. It had taken nine castings and thirteen wards to clear the bad energy that had infected the house. Her mother hadn’t even thanked her, too upset at her “interference.” Sunflower often wavered between being deeply proud of her daughter’s gifts and bitterly jealous.
Demons casting…demons summoning…what would they want to summon? More of themselves, surely…or something truly nasty. But why here? Why in Milton?
The Fall Festival was in full swing. Zephyr’s hands fidgeted with her phone idly as she surveyed the area and opened all of her senses. If anything were amiss, she would know shortly.
For a long moment, she felt nothing, aside from the excited emotions of children and the patient exhaustion from parents. She inhaled deeply and the smell of crisp leaves and hot cider washed over her. Autumn festivals—any seasonal festival really—were excellent places to recharge.
Something brushed her cheek and she opened her eyes. There was nothing physically there—nothing except a path that led off the road and out of the town square. Zephyr’s brow furrowed. That path led into the woods. It was one of the hiking trails, favored by tourists due to its zig zag through the forest and town which showcased Milton’s best spots.
She felt a tug in her chest. Something wanted her to walk that path.
Her lips twisted slightly. That was the trouble with witchsense. You never knew if something positive or negative drew you, you only knew to follow.
Zephyr glanced behind her. She felt a brief pang of regret for storming away from the group, before she remembered her intense irritation with the priest. Never mind all that. If he didn’t want to listen to her…if Emerie trusted a holy man over her…
She felt the tug again and turned back towards the path. A blonde woman bumped into her, power walking in the opposite direction and yelling at someone on her phone. Zephyr rolled her eyes and rubbed her arms. She threw one last look behind her before she took off down the path.
Zephyr regretted kicking Father Zebulun’s sneakers off. Her heel sank into the soft earth, her other foot grew increasingly dirtier, and she tripped more than once.
Once she’d crossed the chapel yard, the path began to narrow and Zephyr could no longer hear the sounds of the Fall Festival behind her. There were fewer people too, though she strained her ears for the children’s noise she heard earlier. All she heard was the territorial chatter of birds and the wind whistling through the autumn leaves.
She paused for a moment. Her heart hammered in her chest and her palms began to sweat. That wasn’t a good sign. She was surrounded by forest. She should be in her element, she should be at peace. But the hair on her arms rose. The quiet around her was...unsettling.
Zephyr knew she ought to head back up the path and return to the festival. But the tug on her gut had not receded. There was something up ahead. She knew there was something up ahead.
It felt like she’d been walking for hours. Perhaps she had. Mysterious voices and eerie feelings tended to manipulate time and space for witches…she noticed the path had sharply inclined. Zephyr was half-tempted to give it up and go back to town—but her stubbornness won out, as it usually did. Raking her fingers through her hair, she continued up the path. Her ears pricked—the children’s laughter. She heard it again.
Phantom calls in the forest…how obvious could you get? She shook her head in disgust. Nevertheless, she pushed forward, the forest shade closing in.
Zephyr reached a familiar clearing and exhaled slowly. She knew this place. They called this area the “witches’ caves.” She was barely in Milton anymore, she was almost in Framingham county. There was a cliff face around the Crenshaw creek, honeycombed with odd, manmade hutches. These were the real curiosity of Milton—perfectly rectangular, completely empty, and over two-thousand years old.
Sunflower used to take her here for picnics, breathlessly telling her these caves were a safe haven for witches, a sacred and ancient realm. Witches had run from the Salem witch trials and sought sanctuary in these stone hutches.
This was not precisely true, as Zephyr later found out. Historians agreed that some women did hide in these caves—but it was a stretch to claim they were witches. Any woman who was the least bit peculiar or independent could be denounced as a witch, and executed for her trouble. Witches, Zephyr believed, were far too clever to let a bunch of narrow-minded clerics exterminate them. Historians had no idea where the hutches came from, who created them, or what they were for.
Still, the clearing unsettled her. She paused and attempted to listen for whatever creature lay in wait. She heard no more phantom laughs, no bird chirps, no leaves’ whispers.
Backing away, Zephyr turned to face the path that led her here. But before she could take a single step back to town, something struck her from behind.
“Here’s a dumb question,” Emerie remarked, a little dryly as they walked down the street. “If we find one of the demons, what do we do with it?”
Samael threw her an impatient glare. “First of all—I am a demon, Emerie. I don’t know why you keep forgetting that. Secondly—it’s probably best you do nothing. One hole to Hell in Milton is quite enough.”
Emerie glanced at Orobas, who appeared to be eating a bicycle tire. She decided against asking where he’d found it.
“Do you know any handy exorcisms?” Emerie asked the little demon.
“I know all of the major and minor exorcisms,” Orobas replied smugly, lifting his horsey head for chin scritches. “But they require more participants than an inexperienced human and a heretical demon.”
Samael flinched. “I am not a heretic,” he said crossly, “stop being so evangelical about those.”
“Thus far, you have broken two of the heresies of Hell and are edging dangerously near a third,” Orobas said matter-of-factly and Emerie rewarded him with more chin scritches. “Break three out of six, you are a heretic.”
“What are the heresies of hell?”
Orobas cleared his throat but Samael quickly stepped in front of him. “You’re not supposed to know them.”
He yelped suddenly and glared downward. Orobas had taken a chomp at his leg.
“I always tell the truth to my conjurer,” Orobas repeated righteously. “The six heresies of Hell are as follows: Love for humans, love for art, love for the Enemy, love of life over death, relationship over independence, and courage over fear. All are direct paths to anti-corruption, restoration, and redemption.”
Emerie’s brow furrowed. “I had no idea that Hell had—well—rules.”
She considered some more. “Sam, you said music was a heresy of Hell…I guess that falls under the ‘art’ umbrella. And love for humans…I guess that means your failure to drag me to Hell or possess me or whatever.”
“That’s not love!” Samael assured her quickly. “That’s just—me biding my time. It’s all an elaborate plan to get you to trust me. Read Faust. Happens all the time.”
“That’s the German play with the guy who summoned the demon, right? Wait a second—that really happened?!”
“Faust summoned Mephistopheles properly,” Orobas remarked, pacing as he lectured. “Had Faust accidentally opened a portal to Hell and unleashed legions of uncontrollable demons, Mephistopheles would not have protected him, he would have let them devour him. Therein lies the difference. Samael protected you, therefore—”
At this, Samael apparently lost patience with Orobas and promptly kicked him, the way one might punt a Yorkie over a garden fence. There was a great deal of force behind the action, so much so that Orobas went flying through the air. Emerie watched in brief horror as Orobas landed across the street. He didn’t seem any the worse for wear, merely went on eating the bicycle tire, which had remained clenched in his little fist.
Emerie turned towards Samael, who looked sullen. “That wasn’t very nice.”
He opened his mouth to argue when something caught his eye. About a block away from them, a grubby-looking man had spread out a blanket. He pulled out a somewhat battered guitar and started to play. He sang along, harmonizing with the music his fingers expressed, something about autumn days and towns full of witches.
Samael looked enchanted. Or as enchanted as a horned demon with giant bat wings could look. Still, his wide eyes made Emerie smile.
“Milton has a lot of street performers.” She tugged his sleeve. “Do you want to see?”
Samael’s sweet expression vanished into his usual guarded manner. “Uh…”
“C’mon.” Emerie grabbed his arm and dragged him towards the guitar player. She dug out a couple of dollars from her pocket and tossed it into the man’s guitar case. He nodded towards her, breaking into a smile as he sang. Samael watched the man’s fingers fly across the fretboard, utterly transfixed. Emerie couldn’t help but find his wonder charming.
The man finished his song and looked up towards Samael. He grinned cheerfully.
