Azrael styles himself an author.
General disclaimers apply. This has no bearing on Theatrical Muse or the RP associated with it. Azrael is still an asshole, because this is what he does to me when I try to sleep. Sorta/kinda/maybe beta'ed by the lovely Miss T.
No Title.
Work in Progress. How much progress is relative.
Approx. 8600 words
Rated R for mild non-con.
Constructive criticism v. much appreciated.
Elzarial, the prim and proper secretary to Nehamud, the head of the Department of Temporary/Quasi-Legitimate Tenancy, pursed her thin lips and gave the demon leaning on her desk her best glare. And what a glare it was--sharp horns curving gracefully into tightly bunned gray hair, red eyes snapping through thick cat-eye glasses, faint trails of smoke rising from her nostrils. The Epitome of Evil, and in Hell, that's saying a lot.
"You do not have an appointment, Mister Azrael. Mister Nehamud has a very busy schedule and cannot possibly see you today. Try back in two weeks." Azrael wondered briefly how she managed a tone that icy in the middle of the hottest place on--well, anywhere.
His eyes flitted about the outer office. A dozen or so assorted demons, no doubt all with appointments, waiting to see the Department Head. One or three looked like Acquisitions Managers--individuals who scouted out potential possession victims, or Semi-Permanent Residencies. You could always tell AMs by the overly-broad smiles plastered on their overly-sweaty faces. They didn't spend much time in Hell, so the conditions always came as a shock when they eventually reported in.
The rest of the lot looked like the various middle managers and sycophantic cockroaches that crawl out of the woodwork of every bureaucracy. Azrael sighed. He did not want to wait for all these idiots to finish before he talked to Muddy. His business was much more important. Or something, he snorted to himself. He grinned his shiniest apple-polishing grin.
"I know Muddy is busy. Head of the Department, and all, probably has meetings from here to next week. And you, his trusty right hand Elzarial, you're just doing your job. But this, this is really important. I have INSTRUCTIONS," he let his voice linger over the word, threading strains of FROM THE BOSS and OF UTMOST IMPORTANCE into the thought. "INSTRUCTIONS to report first thing." A lie, but then again, this was Hell.
The secretary was clearly wrestling with visions of INSTRUCTIONS that she knew nothing about and the (very full) schedule open on the desk before her. Azrael whistled happily as he passed her and strode into the inner office, sparing only a second to wink at the glowering demons he was leaving behind.
Muddy, a tall devil of the orange variety, was leaned all the way back in his Genuine Human Leather Executive Chair. Soft snores filled the room. Azrael took a moment to lift and pocket several of Muddy's special cigars from the desktop humidor before leaning over the reclining demon and whispering in his ear.
"Quick! My husband's coming!"
The sleeping devil half-rolled onto his side and mumbled something that sounded like, "Not on me, he's not." He started snoring again as Azrael's eyes widened. Why, you old devil, he laughed. Helping himself to another cigar and lighting it with a click of his fingers, Azrael sat down and propped his feet up on the desk to wait.
He had just broken his personal record for consecutive smoke rings when the office door burst open and Elzarial stormed in. Nehamud was upright and attempting to look busy in a matter of milliseconds, not even noticing Azrael sitting across from him.
"Mr Nehamud," she started in a pinched voice, "I trust that you are finished with Mister Azrael? You have several appointments to see and the Quarterly Transient Custody meeting at three. And afterward, you're to give a speech to the new Temporary Tenancy Agents. We're sending them out into the field tomorrow. And--"
The bright orange devil held up a hand. "Enough, Elzarial. I have not finished with Mr Azrael." He smiled at her. This was not as congenial as it sounds--his mouth was fully of very pointy teeth. "Be a dear and reschedule the rest of today's appointments. They can wait till tomorrow. Or next week. Whenever."
She shot Azrael a look that implied a lot of running through dark forests with several packs of dogs baying in the not-too-distant distance, muttered "Yes, sir" and slunk off. He blew a smoke ring at her back and, in a fit of inspiration, formed it into a disembodied hand, middle finger extended.
Nehamud rolled his eyes and cleared his throat. "Nice of you to drop by, Az. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" He paused to frown at the demon. "And is that one of my cigars?"
"Anytime, favors, and yes. In that order. Good cigar, where'd you get them? Did Castro finally kick the bucket?"
"No, not yet," Nehamud laughed. "He's got a few years left. Or at least that's what Dazolpimael down in UEIPP tells me."
"UEIPP?"
"Unfortunate Entity Initiation Planning and Processing. You should know that. And you still haven't told me what you're doing here. Believe it or not, I do have things to be doing today."
Azrael sighed. He was confident his proposal would be accepted, but it might be a hard sell. Muddy was awfully principled for a devil. "Well," he grinned conspiratorially, "I have a scenario for you. You're aware of the pool on Metatron and the Boss, right? Well, it's off. Metatron gave up already. Couldn't take the heat." He laughed at the joke.
"Right. And I'm very put out with you about that. You assured me it'd be at least a month. I put three months' petty cash into it. I'm going to be stuck eating my wife's packed lunches." He shuddered. "She got a Nepalese cookbook for her birthday--you can't even believe the shit she's trying to pass off as food."
"Well, that's what I'm talking about. Nobody actually had the day right, so I've got a bit of a conundrum. Hell knows I don't want to refund the money," Azrael's lip curled, "that's practically immoral. But what to do with it? And that's when I thought of my good friend Muddy." He leaned in close. "I'd be more than willing to cut you in on the action. Give you most of it, even."
"And what do you get out of it, Azrael? You're not that generous. And don't try the innocent routine. I don't know anyone who buys it." Nehamud growled.
At that moment, they were interrupted by a knock at the door. It opened, revealing a demoness in most of her glory. It was the shortest skirt and lowest top Azrael had ever seen, and he had been to the Playboy Mansion. He stared up, down, left, right, and sideways before turning to his friend for an introduction. It occurred to him that Nehamud was not staring. In fact, the devil was going out of his way to examine the Real Bonsai Human® perched precariously on the edge of the desk. An idea began to take shape as he watched Muddy deal with the demoness. Esuran, he had called her Esuran. They traded a few files and she sauntered off, swinging her hips in very interesting ways.
Azrael cleared his face of all emotion and turned to face his friend. "She...she doesn't happen to be married, does she?"
Nehamud glanced at him sharply and nodded. "She and Oxhuacal from Tribulation Equipment Requisition hooked up last year. Now will you get to your point, already?"
Azrael's eyebrow lifted a fraction of an inch as he filed away his observations for later use, then fell as he turned to the subject at hand. He carefully laced his voice with ideas of possibility, mutual benefit, and greed. "This is what I propose. You 'win' the pool. All of it. And all you have to do is assign me to a particular Semi-Permanent Residency. I've got the case all scoped out." It was only a little lie, really. "The vic--" Nehamud cleared his throat. He was a big proponent of political correctness. "Sorry, the Prospective Displaced Occupant was a lovely little morsel. Good, but corruptible. And on top of that--you get all the pool money. And there was a metric shit load of it--trust me. With a couple of souls and random body parts, as well. No one would know, and we'd both make out like bandits. What do you say?"
Nehamud frowned, shadows distorting his bright orange face. "It'd be our hides if someone found out you threw the pool, you realize that, right?" Besides. You could just go to your AM with a request for this assignment. There's a reason you've come to me." He gave the demon a hard stare. "What's the catch, Azrael?"
"No one will find out. I've had the calendar locked up in my office since I started the thing. And there's really no catch. Well, just a small one. But it's really nothing big at all. Just a little--"
"Get to it."
"Well, I sort of need to maybe borrow the Timeclock Savings Distorter. Just for a few minutes. It's not a big deal or anything, right?" The Timeclock Savings Distorter was a new invention, reportedly purloined from Microsoft, that made time travel possible. Nehamud had immediately declared it property of the department, claiming that he could use it to raise quotas while lowering overhead. The machine had only been brought in a week ago, accompanied by the giant scurrying sound of TTAs and AMs running to update their resumés.
Nehamud whistled. "When you ask for favors, you ask a lot, don't you? You know I can't let you use the TSD. We haven't settled on who gets clearance. Who is going to get the shaft--layoffs are always such a bitch. And all the paperwork this is going to require hasn't even been printed up yet. Can't you find someone that's up there now to play with?"
"No. I want this boy, Muddy. I ran across him a while back, but never had the opportunity to go back and deal with him. I really, really want this."
"...How far back do you need to go? And how much was in the pool, again?"
Azrael grinned. Muddy was coming around. "A hundred years and change. And it was thousands. Nine or twelve, if I'm not mistaken."
"A hundred years? And you never dealt with her then? Ridiculous, Azrael. I know you went on a bender, but that's a little much, even for you."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Now are you going to let me use it legitimately, or do I need to break in and hope I can figure it out? Of course, then you'd be out all that money, and possibly one time distorter, as well. Just give me the pass and make it easy on us both, would you? Come on, Nehamud, do it for old time's sake. You know, back in the day."
"There was no 'back in the day,' Azrael. You minced into me in The Devil's Advocate. You spilled your drink on me." He laughed. "A shirley temple, if I remember correctly. With a little pink umbrella."
"And I'd do it again, if you'll only give me a pass to get out of Hell. Please?"
"Oh, fine." Nehamud rolled his eyes and rummaged through the various piles on his desk, finally pulling out a black pad. He fished out a flaming pen and scrawled across the pad. "Now. I expect the money and such before you go. Because if I don't have it," he smiled again, "I'll revoke your pass and pull you back here so fast it'll make your head stop spinning. And then I'll drop you in the Lake of Fire, just for kicks."
"No worries, Muddy. You'll have it by the end of the day. And thanks. Really. You're a lifesaver." He stood up, reaching into the humidor. "Mind if I take a few for the road? I'll bring you back a box."
"Sure, whatever. Just get out of here. Elzarial's probably having fits by now. Send her in on your way by, would you? And don't piss her off too much. I'm the one who has to deal with her."
"Anything you say, boss." Azrael nodded. "I'll send the stuff by imp. We both win. It'll be great." He was smirking as he passed by the secretary's desk. "He wants you. In that way. You might want to hurry along."
The secretary leapt from her chair and bustled into the inner office. Azrael caught a glimpse of her loosening her bun as he whistled he way out of the building and off to collect Nehamud's prize. This was going to be a very good day.
Revenge was just a hop, skip, and jump through time away. He laughed aloud. Étienne, my dear, you are mine.
***
It was one of those rare days where everything is perfect. Azrael both loved and hated these days. They were glorious while they lasted, but left a bittersweet taste on his tongue as the sun set.
But he didn't want to think about the day ending, not right yet. It was noon and the sun shined warm upon his face, a teasing caress, not the overbearing heat of Hell. Azrael had relaxed his control of the body he was inhabiting--against the rules, but occasionally worth a laugh, to see what they would do--and the woman had decided on a long walk through the Jardin des Tuileries.
Azrael relaxed as she wandered along the Seine, occasionally pausing to watch the tourist boats pass by. Possessing without controlling was a little like being a boat at night, he thought to himself. Riding through the victim's dark subconscious; occasionally trailing a hand along to muddy the water, influence the thought patterns. But mostly just idly floating wherever the waves took him.
She saw him first-the racing heartbeat and quickened breaths jolting Azrael out of his reverie. The man sat at a wrought iron table, sipping coffee and looking out over the water. He was well-dressed, tall black hat on the chair beside him, and from a distance, fairly attractive. The demon's shock of recognition was almost palpable. Azrael and she sighed simultaneously, and he decided it was time to reclaim control over the body. The sensation of taking over was less violent than usual because he already inhabited her mind. A gentle push, and Azrael was flooded with the infinite, and infinitely minute, sensations that most corporeal beings take for granted. It took him a moment to readjust, catch his balance. And then he approached the man.
“Pardon me, monsieur. Would you mind greatly if I had a seat? I have been for a walk and I am feeling fatigued.”
The man looked up from his coffee, and hastily stood as he realized there was a woman looking down at him.
“Of course, madame.” He pulled out a chair. “Please, be seated.”
Azrael laughed-a light, tinkly sound in this particular body, and moved the man's hat from the chair to the table. “I do not think you would want me to sit on this.” He laughed again and seated himself.
“Would you care for some coffee?” He signaled the waiter.
“Oh, that would be lovely. Thank you...?” Azrael wanted a name.
“Étienne. Étienne Marceau, at your service, madame. And you are?”
“Thérèse de Beaulieu. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. And thank you for the coffee.” The demon and his body smiled. Up close, Étienne was beautiful. Full lips, deep brown eyes, curly brown hair. Oh yes, Azrael thought, this will be fun. The man-boy, really; he couldn't be a day over twenty-seemed to return the interest in Thérèse. Of course, she was gorgeous. Azrael fancied himself a connoisseur and would rarely settle for less. Of course, there was the slight problem that he was currently inhabiting the body of a woman, but Azrael was certain it could be worked out.
They talked for a long while, moving from small talk to much more impertinent questions, which Azrael answered with glee. He could feel Thérèse recoiling inwardly as the limits of propriety were pushed further and further. They finally shattered as Azrael reached into his reticule and slid a key across the table.
“Le Cygne Noir, on Rue des Écoles. Room three. Shall we say, 8pm?” He smiled sweetly, mentally shoving Thérèse as far down into the darkness as he could.
Étienne's eyes went wide, and for a moment Azrael wondered if he had made a miscalculation. But the young man's hand slowly crept across the table and took hold of the key. He licked his lips and repeated the demon's words. “Eight o'clock. Le Cygne Noir. Room three. Rue des Écoles.”
Azrael nodded encouragingly at the young man, stood, and walked away. He turned back once, and smirked when he saw Étienne grasping the key like a drowning man who has been thrown a rope.
***
Thérèse's mind struggled violently as the appointed time drew near. Azrael spent several minutes seated quietly, his awareness battling to keep hers under control. He was surprised, and not a little disappointed when the chime of the clock on the long mantle broke his concentration. Half past, and Étienne had not arrived.
The demon could feel Thérèse's growing relief as the minutes rolled inexorably by. It annoyed him. As a rule, Azrael did not allow his emotions to come into play while on a possession, but somehow, this time was different. It must be the girl, he thought to himself, she's a fighter. Spirited. I've been here nearly three months. She must be rubbing off on me. Whatever it was, he decided to embrace it.
Locking Thérèse's waking mind so deep in her subconscious she would be almost unable to even feel her own heartbeat, Azrael took a deep breath. Locating one man in a city the size of Paris would normally be almost impossible. Fortunately, I have other means at my disposal. Azrael grinned to himself and began.
He envisioned an ocean, a great sea of ethereal faces and limbs and bodies-the collected populace of the city around him. As long as he knew something about an individual-a name, a face, anything, he could locate them. Azrael spread his arms wide and waded in, fingers and eyes sweeping a thousand faces and fingers and eyes at a time. Searching for Étienne.
He ignored the tentative brushes that marked people he had passed on the street, who had waited on him in shops. He pushed away the more forceful tugs of those Thérèse had known-family and friends reaching out to her, even as deeply buried as she was. None of these people mattered. Azrael widened the arc of his senses and called softly to his prey.
A hand shot up from the writhing mass of spirits in front of him. He paused a moment, and recognized the hand as that of Étienne. Long fingers, soft palms, garnet ring on the last finger. The demon smiled wickedly and pushed his way through the sea of souls to the hand. Humans were just too easy, desperate for any sort of contact, even when the intentions were dubious.
Grasping the hand, Azrael felt himself spill down Étienne's arm and behind his eyes. The world tilted and spun for a brief moment, then righted itself. Azrael's vision was glassy, almost too bright, moving just a little too fast. He was seeing through Étienne's eyes, and Étienne had obviously had too much to drink. Moulin Rouge, eh? Bad boy, Étienne. You'll pay for this later. Azrael sent a small shudder of trepidation through the young man's brain and pulled himself back through the ocean and into Thérèse's body. It would be easy now to follow Étienne, no matter where he went. Once a demon felt his victim, he never let go.
Azrael rummaged through the trunk of Thérèse's clothing. The outfit he had had picked out for the evening's first encounter was not quite appropriate for being in public, even in the Moulin Rouge. Thérèse was struggling again, but nothing he couldn't control. With one last thought warning her to behave, Or else...he headed off to confront the wayward suitor.
***
He was moving from one place to another, Azrael could feel it. Like iron filings aligning to a magnet, the feeling got stronger and stronger the closer he got. Finally, he stopped at a small apartment building on the outskirts of the Jardin du Luxembourg. Étienne was inside; second, no, third floor. A predatory smile flowed across Azrael's face, melding strangely with Thérèse's features. He climbed the stairs and didn't bother to knock.
Étienne was sprawled across the bed, vest off, shirt unbuttoned to the waist. He raised his head and looked shakily at Azrael. “What are you doing here?”
The sound of Étienne's voice roused Thérèse and she beat against the walls Azrael had created around her thought. His eyes twinkled as he felt her fear course adrenaline through their shared veins.
“You didn't visit me, naughty boy. I am very disappointed in you.” Azrael put on his best pout. He enjoyed playing the games of flirtation, and caught himself hoping that Étienne did, too.
The young man rose unsteadily to his feet and took the demon's hand, sending jolts of terror mixed with lust through his body. Azrael laughed inwardly, recognizing that the lust was not his alone. I told you you'd like it, Thérèse. Like him. Thérèse's mind let out a long, low howl that Azrael could barely suppress. No more of that, girl. Sharp this time, no blandishments. It's going to be a long night, whether you like it or not. Relax.
“...and I really couldn't miss my appointment, you understand.” Étienne trailed off lamely. He pressed Azrael's hand to his lips. “I do hope, madame, you will forgive me. Brown eyes darted up to meet blue, and Thérèse cringed to feel her body take a half step forward.
Azrael allowed the predatory smile to return. “Make it up to me.” He closed the small distance between them and pressed his lips to Étienne's.
All at once, a rush of extraordinary sensations washed over Azrael, threatening to pull him under. Thérèse was in his mind screaming and trying to wrest back control. He was kissing with a woman's mouth and found it moving of its own accord-tongue working apart Étienne's lips, teeth worrying at them, the ridges of lips fusing them together. And then there was Étienne himself-tasting of whiskey and wine and something smoky and dark, hands and arms curling around him to push away the dress and scrabble over bare skin. Azrael forgot to breath.
And then buttons were popping on his dress and his hands careened across Étienne's ribbed stomach and Thérèse was attacking his thoughts and taking over and it was all just too much. Something slammed into the side of Azrael's mind and everything went dim. The last thing he saw was Étienne's face, a haunted, hungry look in his eyes.
He awoke with a massive headache. Oh, fuck. Oppressive heat rolled over Azrael, and he knew he was back in Hell. He opened his eyes and tried to stand up. Dizzy. Too dizzy. Fucking fuck! There was only one thing that could have sent him reeling back to Hell like this, and it was bad-a small imp pfffted into view right in front of Azrael's face.
“Boss wants to see you, Az. Now. I'd run along, if I were you.” It grinned wickedly and winked. “Good luck, man. You're going to need it.” And he pfffted away.
“This is just getting better and better.” Azrael shook his head and looked around. He was in the small park across from the Hub, the building that housed the Department of Temporary/Quasi-Legitimate Tenancy, aka Possessions. It seemed to be present day-or at least what had been the present the last time he left Hell. He trudged toward his doom.
For once, The Department Head's secretary didn't try to stop him from waltzing into the inner office. Of course, Azrael was hardly waltzing now. The head of the department, Nehamud, sat behind a large desk. Arrayed out behind him were the five tiers of management between him and Azrael-Asiril the Regional Deputy for Western Europe, Ntielelion the Nation-Specific Adviser for France, Elsoheax the Project Liaison, Tabraboas the Project Manager, and Rusalash the Creative Consultant. When all of them turned out, you knew you were in trouble.
Nehamud spoke first. “Do you know what you're doing here, Azrael? You were evicted. Dispossessed. Not exorcised, just drummed out by your host.” He grimaced and then looked down at a file spread out on the desk. “We've pulled the fine on this particular case and you seem to have broken a number of regulations. Voluntarily loosening control, entanglement, failure to demonstrate demonic possession to other mortals...The list goes on and on. And dispossession! Ridiculous, Azrael. And after I go out of my way to let you use the TSD, too. Very disappointing. I don't know what you were thinking, but you're confined to Hell until we release you. That is all.”
“But, Muddy, it wasn't like that at--” Nehamud put up a hand, and the minor officials around him glowered.
“No, Azrael. The decision of this panel is final.” He shrugged. “You're stuck. Now why don't you go home and get cleaned up. I expect you here first thing tomorrow morning. I'm sure Tabraboas and Rusalash have plenty of paperwork to keep you busy.” Nehamud turned to look at the demons arced around him. “Is there anything else?”
***
Azrael was always surprised that anything got done in Hell. He sat at his desk staring at the backlog of paperwork Tabraboas and Rusalash had deposited. Rusalash had seemed almost sorry about it, a sure sign that he had climbed as high on the career ladder as he ever would. Tabraboas, on the other hand, set her huge stack of files down reverently, giving Azrael detailed instructions on their care, as if the files were Holy Writ.
It didn't help that he hadn't filled out a Temporary Residency Debriefing Report in well over two centuries. Agents were required to fill one out after each possession, documenting every minor detail in quadruplicate. In addition, there were old expense reports to be justified, tables of demographics to be constructed to show that he was an equal opportunity possessor, and so on and so forth. Ridiculous.
“Busywork,” Azrael snarled as he swept all the files into the trash. He looked around his cubicle for something more interesting to do. Nothing. He could feel his frustration building-a steadily increasing pressure in his ears, muscles tightening, horns itching. Time to go. Have to get out of here.
He grinned at the floor receptionist as he passed by. “Early lunch break-all this work makes me hungry!” She didn't even look up. Azrael skulked his way out of the building, hiding in corners and restrooms whenever necessary. The last thing he needed today was to be caught skivving.
The weather outside was awful. Hideous. Humidity near 100%, But God forbid it ever actually rain down here. Azrael laughed half-heartedly at the joke. Too damned hot to go for a walk, that's for sure. So. What to do?
He finally settled on nabbing a seat at his favorite bar and drowning his sorrows. He may have forbidden the angels to drink, but luckily demons suffered under no such strictures. Some days, Azrael wasn't certain how he'd ever survive without vodka.
The Hellraiser was a very exclusive bar-mostly because the average self-respecting demon cared about things like hygiene and lack of odor. Azrael didn't really mind, as long as you wiped down your stool before you sat and tipped Nephrazael the bartender well enough to ensure a clean glass, you were fine. Besides, the liquor was cheap, no one tried to get too friendly, and Nephrazael was notoriously good at solving problems. Of course, his solutions were not always particularly legal, but what sort of demon followed the rules all the time?
Azrael pushed through the door and waited for his eyes to adjust. Nowhere else did he have problems with light levels-he always figured it was meant to add to the ambiance. It worked. The bar was almost completely dark, and that's how everyone liked it. He selected a stool at the end of the bar and fished for a handkerchief to wipe it off.
Nephrazael was busy with another customer, but paused long enough to nod at Azrael. He was the most demonic-looking demon Azrael had ever seen. The monster-in-the-closet type, from the three eyes all the way down to the cloven hooves, with stops at the silver in his ears, nose, and chest. He occasionally wondered how much of Nephrazael's appearance was natural and how much had been supplemented by various discreet professionals. If there was anything that had been his from birth, however, it was his wings. Taller than Nephrazael himself, they arched up over his head and end in wicked points just above the floor. Azrael spent a moment trying to figure out how he could sleep with those things sticking out of his back, and finally decided that it must be impossible. He had never been one for wings, anyway, mostly because he didn't have any.
Azrael was still lost in thought when the bartender tapped his shoulder. “Haven't seen you in a while.” He set Azrael's usual-tall vodka and cranberry, heavy on the vodka-down in front of him. “What you been up to?”
Azrael shook his head and slammed back half his drink. “Not enough. Too much. The usual, really.” He grimaced. “That last assignment-it just sucked.”
Nephrazael leaned his elbows on the bar and raised his eyebrows. He'd never actually ask what happened-part of the bartender's code or something-but Azrael could tell he was interested. “Things don't usually go so bad that I see you in here at 9AM. It must have sucked pretty badly...” He trailed off.
“Yeah.” Azrael sighed. Getting Nephrazael's advice had been the whole reason he had come to the Hellraiser, so why did he not want to tell the story? He finished his drink. Well, advice, and the vodka's not bad either. “It was supposed to be easy. Routine.” Azrael decided it wouldn't be such a bad idea to bend the truth, just a little. “French girl from the country. You know the drill-take her to the big city, corrupt her as thoroughly as possible, and then get her to do herself in with a mortal sin on her back. Or cause trouble for the priests.” Nephrazael nodded. Azrael knew he had never done temporary residency, but the big demon had certainly listened to enough stories to get the general idea. “So anyway, here I am in this body, and I'm having a great time. Spiking the Holy Water fonts with dye and replacing the Host with tea biscuits and stealing from blind people, whatever. But I decide it's time to really start on the big sins. The bosses, you know, were getting up my ass.”
Nephrazael nodded. “They have a tendency to do that. Now just one quick question.” He reached under the bar for a bottle of vodka to refresh Azrael's drink. “Why did they put you into a woman? I thought they usually assigned victims by sex?” He pushed the full glass across the bar to Azrael.
“Yeah, usually. Unless the victim is clergy. Nehamud has a bastard sense of humor-he knows that if you throw a demon into the body of the opposite sex, the first thing they're going to do is masturbate. And for some reason, that tends to make the faithful despair.” He grinned. “That's always fun. But in this case, it was just bureaucratic error. There wasn't really anything special about Thérèse.” He sighed almost fondly. He had, after all, been in constant contact with her for almost three months. “Well, except, just, she was stronger than most. A fighter. And not happy about being possessed, if you can imagine that.”
Azrael took another long sip of his drink. “So anyway. Long story short, we were in the park and saw this beautiful boy. I decided it was time to move up to the Sins-with-a-capital-S, one thing led to another, and she dispossessed me.” That admission deserved another drink.
Nephrazael stared at Azrael and slowly shook his head. “She kicked you out?”
“Yeah. And landed me back here--”
“In shit so deep you could swim in it.”
“Exactly.”
“So, you planning another trip up to get even with her?” Nephrazael's eyes glimmered in the dark, like he had a very good idea of just what 'getting even' would entail.
“Now see, that's the crazy thing. She was a pain in the ass, but I almost feel like she deserves to be left alone. She beat me. It's the other one I keep thinking about.”
“The man?” Azrael nodded and Nephrazael laughed. “Well that one's not so hard to understand. He's more your type.” Azrael had hit on him exactly once, and Nephrazael never let him forget it.
“Now, you know that I don't discriminate, 'Razael.” He grinned. “No, it's different. We were just getting into it when I got popped back here. I mean, he was beautiful, and he'd already tried to avoid me once, and...” Azrael shrugged. And those pesky personal reasons, he added silently to himself.
“He tried to avoid you?” the bartender asked. Azrael nodded and explained about having to go looking for Étienne. “Well, it's simple. Insatiable curiosity. Unattainability. Whatever you want to call it, you can't have him, so it's going to drive you bat shit.”
Azrael sighed. “It's only been a few hours. Maybe it'll go away after a couple of days.” He checked the time. If he left now, he could make it back to the office in time for lunch. Azrael finished his drink. “I'm sure it will go away. Just need a few days of hard rest and relaxation.”
Nephrazael grinned, exposing shining pointed teeth. “Sure it will. I'll see you in a few days, then-when you've decided to do something about it.” He turned away to get drinks for a group of devils who were waving their tails and snapping their fingers. Azrael stared after him for a minute, then dug through his pockets for some money. He laid it on the bar and left.
A week passed in a blur for Azrael. All the files he had thrown away had mysteriously reappeared on his desk, and they brought friends. Every time he tried to minimize his workload via 'creative filing,' as he called it, it doubled. Finally he gave in and tried to work. Which was absolutely useless because he couldn't get the memory of his last glimpse of Étienne out of his head. The young man had been almost completely overthrown-all it would take was one good shove to push him over the line.
Azrael reasoned that this was part of his job-wasn't everyone in Hell involved in temptation in one form or another? At least, that's how he presented it to Nehamud. Who promptly laughed at him.
“You're not going anywhere near the mortals, Azrael. Not unless you want to spend some time down by the Lake of Fire with the Creative Retributionists. And if you're so convinced that he can be turned, I'll get in touch with Morxtan over in Public Relations and have her send up a Temporary Wish Fulfillment agent.
Azrael declined all around. He had hoped for better results-he and Nehamud were old friends. But Muddy was sort of a bastard when it came to work. He took his position very seriously.
Eight days after he'd been bounced back to hell, Azrael again found himself in the Hellraiser. Nephrazael had offered, in a roundabout way, help, and he was determined to take it.
The dim barroom was fairly full, so Azrael amused himself by arguing with a pack of imps over the latest war. By the time he threw up his hands in disgust, the bar had begun to empty and Nephrazael was leaning against the back wall toying with a newly-acquired nipple ring.
“Pacifist imps, 'Razael. Do you believe that? Fucking pacifists! And what the hell prompted you to put another set of holes in yourself?? Azrael eyed his friend's latest jewelry--a thick silver ring closed with an intricately-carved pair of wings.
Nephrazael just smiled. “It takes all kinds.” Azrael wasn't sure just whom he was talking about. “So. Settled your human problem yet?”
“Not yet. Azrael had known he was going to have to admit that Nephrazael was right, and had prepared himself by drinking everything in sight. “You were right. I can't get it out of my mind. And it's damned distracting. I'm useless in the office,” he glared at his friend, who had snorted and was trying very hard not to laugh. “They told me to take a few days off, which is usually a good thing, but. I can't let it go. I didn't even go home last night, just walked back and forth around the city. But I can't go back to the mortal world. Nehamud told the Gate Clerks not to let me out. Bastard.”
Nephrazael nodded sympathetically. “Yeah. I've heard about him. He's real big on rules.” He paused for a second, eyes taking the measure of Azrael. “You, though. You're not much for rules, are you.”
It wasn't a question, and Azrael's mood lifted. Nephrazael knew a way out. He had hoped that was so, but hadn't known for certain. Time to tread carefully. Azrael shrugged, overly cool. “Not really. Most can be bent, if not broken. We're demons, after all. If we want something, what's to stop us from taking it? Besides,” he grinned, “following the rules is so incredibly boring.”
Nephrazael was silent, eying Azrael appraisingly. Finally, he pushed himself off the wall and evicted the last few die-hard drinkers. He closed and locked the door after them. “Are you ready to leave tonight? Right now? There's not much time for side trips. It'll be light soon enough and we've got a long way to walk.”
Azrael nodded. “Let's go. The sooner I can get this over with, the better.”
Nephrazael gave him a quizzical look, then led him though the back of the bar and into an alley. The big demon moved silently trough mostly empty streets to the eastern edge of the city. He stopped in front of a rundown shack and turned to Azrael. “Stay here. Don't move.” He disappeared inside.
Azrael was hyperconscious of the passage of time. He stood motionless, listening intently for the sound of people coming to get him. Sneaking around in the dark was second-nature to demons, but trying to sneak out of Hell, well that was something entirely different. Or so I would imagine, anyway.
For all his talk of bending and breaking rules, Azrael normally followed most of them. It's easier that way. No one gets upset. Of course, if I don't know some thing's not allowed, well, I can always apologize later. He made it a habit not to ask too many questions.
Nephrazael appeared at his side and Azrael jumped. “Some lookout. Come on.” He gestured toward the decrepit building. “We're ready for you.”
Azrael looked at the house-boarded up windows, sagging roof, buckled foundation-and shuddered. “Are you sure it's not going to fall down around our ears?” The other demon frowned. “Alright, alright. You're trying to help and I should just shut up. Sorry.” He stopped, surprised. It wasn't like him to apologize.
“Are you going in or did I close my bar for nothing?” Nephrazael growled.
“Sorry, sorry.” There it was again. Strange. “I'm going.” Azrael climbed the rickety stairs to the porch and pushed through the door. He found himself in a brightly-lit foyer that looked as if it belonged in a totally different house, if not a different universe.
The walls were painted a true white, the mahogany furniture was so clean it shone. A matronly demoness stood, arms folded across her chest, in a doorway to Azrael's right. At least, he thought she was a demoness. She still had soft, feathery wings, something extremely rare in Hell, even among the original fallen angels. Their wings had mostly dropped, or been cut, off, or been transformed into scaly, sinister things.
“Azrael, this is Horemheb.” Nephrazael moved smoothly to his side. “She doesn't entirely approve, but she agreed to help you.”
Horemheb gave him a dour look. “I am not convinced this is worth it. But Nephrazael says this will be good. So fine. Come in.” She turned, leading the other two into the room she had been guarding.
It was big, much bigger than it should have been to still fit in the house. That didn't bother Azrael much, though. Space was sort of a fuzzy concept in Hell, anyway. No, what got him was the décor. Dozens of floor-to-ceiling paintings decorated the walls, each showing a life-sized landscape. Azrael recognized several of the scenes-Paris, London, New York City, Shanghai there were even locations in Hell represented. Closer inspection revealed that not only were various places portrayed, several times were, as well. He peered at the picture of Paris recognizing it as a spot next to the Pont Neuf. There was a small dial to the side of each mural--maybe to set the date? How would that work?
“This is a magnificent representation--” Azrael blinked and shook his head. It couldn't have been-but it was. As he watched, a flock of birds on the bridge took flight. He whistled, impressed. “These are portals, aren't they? Every one of them.” He looked around. “I could just step through and be in Moscow or Johannesburg or,” his eyes widened, “Lucifer's throne room? I'm impressed.”
Horemheb nodded. “You should be. And you understand that if you tell anyone, I'll kill you, right?”
“Oh yes. Definitely.” Azrael didn't doubt that she was capable of it. He noticed one panel covered with a dark cloth and was about to ask where it led when Nephrazael spoke.
“For the moment, these only work one-way. You'll need to be back in the same spot you materialize in in four days. I'll come and get you at midnight. And pay attention, Az, because this is important. If you aren't there when I come to get you, not only am I going to get your bosses out looking for you, I'll be looking too.” He cracked his thick knuckles. “And I don't think you want me to have to do that.” When he was smiling, Nephrazael's fangs seemed to grow several inches.
Azrael blanched, in spite of himself. “Four days. No problem, I'll be there. Is there anything else?” He'd had enough of people threatening to kill him for one night.
Horemheb cackled as he stood in front of the Paris doorway. “Bon voyage!” and she pushed him through.
Paris at midnight was cold, or maybe it was just the shock of suddenly jumping worlds and back to the past. Azrael shivered and tried to think of a plan. He hadn't quite believed Nephrazael could get him out of Hell, but here he was...First things first. I want a drink.
***
Azrael sat at a table in the corner of his favorite bar sipping at a large vodka. Four days wasn't enough to grab a body and get it under enough control to go looking for Étienne. He briefly considered reestablishing contact with Thérèse, but didn't feel up to being dispossessed again. He finally settled on using his own form for the duration.
But for what? Azrael laughed at himself. Dumb question. Every demon had a taste for temptation. Nothing was sweeter than causing a fall. He had explained it to one of the Department's interns once: 'The truly good are the hardest to entice, of course, but many find them to be the most rewarding.' He shrugged. 'Personally, I think it gets boring. They fall, they repent, and you have to start all over again. Very repetitive. The truly wicked are more fun, definitely, but not really much of a challenge. You suggest something and they do it, and it's still boring. No, the most fun are those in the middle. Who long for all the pleasures we can offer, but are terrified by the consequences. Because they know, as you do, that once they have tasted the forbidden, they can never go back. And it scares them. Humans are creatures of fear, it runs their lives. And the look in their eyes when desire trumps conscience?' He smiled deeply. 'It's precious.' He had caught a glimpse of that look on Étienne's face, and he wanted nothing more than to see it through to completion.
Azrael carefully shut out the sounds of the crowd around him, turning simultaneously inward and outward to find Étienne. This time, there was no searching through the churning sea of shadows. He called the young man's name and his awareness rose to the top and floated toward him. Azrael couldn't suppress his smile. This was going to be fun.
***
He tracked Étienne to a private gentleman's club in the fashionable district and persuaded the doorman to let him in. Étienne was sitting in the library down a long paneled hall, quietly reading a book. Azrael selected a chair close to him and sat down, pulling a newspaper from an adjacent table. He studied Etienne intently while pretending to read. The trick was to find the mortal's weakness and exploit it to greatest advantage. Usually, Azrael preferred to get to know his victims face-to-face, but he now didn't have the luxury of time.
His eyes again went vacant as Azrael sent his thoughts across to Etienne. It was no trouble to crawl through his waking mind and down into the subconscious. Azrael smiled at what he found. Pride, of course, and quite a lot of vanity. That's always helpful. Generosity-but that may come in handy, as well. Plenty of lust, but that's hardly even a challenge. Save that for last resort. And, oh, what's this? His deepest fear is being inadequate? Very interesting.
A plan of attack formed quickly in Azrael's mind. He reached into his breast pocket and casually withdrew a cigarette case. He looked at Etienne and drew a deep breath. “Pardon me, but do you have a lighter?”
Etienne looked up from his book and glanced around the room. His eyes settled on Azrael. “Oh. Um. Somewhere.” The young man fumbled through his pockets, knocking the book off his lap.
Azrael dove for the book and ended up sprawled at Etienne's feet, book still open in his hands. The demon smiled up shyly at him. “Oh dear. I didn't mean to disturb you quite so much.” He paused. “I don't suppose you're hungry, are you? I'm not very familiar with Paris, and was hoping for a late supper. If you would be kind enough to accompany me, I would certainly be willing to treat...”
“Oh, well,” Etienne looked down at the book resting in Azrael's upraised hands. “Well, I should really finish my reading.”
Azrael snapped the book shut. “Oh dear. I seem to have lost your spot. How tragic.” He smiled. “Besides. What would a gentleman of your obvious status need with,” he checked the book's spine, “a medical text?”
“Actually, I'm studying to be a physician.”
“Oh really? What a coincidence! I am a student of medicine at King's College in London. Well, I've just begun, really. Maybe you could give me the benefit of your experience over supper?”
Etienne laughed. “Oh, well. Why not?” He looked down at Azrael. “And the first thing you must learn, my dear--”
“John.” Azrael supplied helpfully.
“Well, John, the first thing you must learn is professional dignity. Come, get up off the floor and let us go.”
Azrael allowed the young man to help him up off the floor. “Your name, friend, I didn't quite catch it.”
“I'm Etienne. Now, if you'll follow me, I know this wonderful little bistro just around the corner. So, is this your first time in Paris? You must allow me to show you the sights.”
Azrael just grinned. Hook, line, and sinker.
***
The bistro was small and intimate, doubly so because it was almost empty. The wait staff greeted Etienne and his guest with cheerful smiles, despite the late hour. One waiter brought them a particularly nice red wine, another brought dishes of a magnificent beef stew, the chanteuse returned from a break and sang songs of heartbreak and love.
They stayed there, laughing and drinking, till dawn. Finally, when the waiters could no longer stand and Azrael and Etienne were in not much better condition, Azrael paid the truly impressive bill and half-carried, half-dragged his giggling companion out into the street.
“Well, my young friend, what do we do now?”
Etienne laughed and stumbled over his shoes, landing sprawled at Azrael's feet. He broke into uncontrollable sobs of laughter. “Our-our positions-positions-have been---reversed!”
Azrael didn't think it was quite that funny, but he was nowhere near as drunk as Etienne. “Well, what do you know, you're right!” He made no move to help him up.
Etienne had stopped laughing and was looking at the demon with an intense expression. “Where are you staying?” His eyes traveled up Azrael's body, taking a long rest just below his waist. Azrael named a hotel at the opposite end of the city. “Oh, that will never do. I don't think I can walk that far.”
“Your place, then?” The demon smiled. Lust was an easy vice to exploit-no real challenge-but when it was dropped in your lap...Who am I to argue?
***
Fortunately, Azrael remembered the way to Etienne's apartment. The young man was too preoccupied trying to attach his lips to any free bit of skin Azrael showed to be of much use.
“The door is locked.”
Etienne didn't take his lips off the back of Azrael's neck. “Immy pohet.”
Azrael grinned and reached his hands back toward the young man's pockets. Was that the key? A sudden hiss from Etienne. Guess not. He finally extracted a long, graceful skeleton key and inserted in the lock. The door swung silently open. Looks just the same as when-- and the person presently stuck to his right earlobe shifted his weight and dropped Azrael to the floor.
He smirked and allowed himself to be maneuvered beneath Etienne. Staring down at the demon, Etienne seemed to regain his manners. “You don't mind, do you?” He smiled hopefully.
“Not at all,” Azrael laughed as he pulled the young man's mouth toward his own. As their lips met, Azrael felt a sudden twisting, wrenching, pulling sensation. He could feel the wooden floor beneath him dissolving--or is that me?--and he blacked out.
He hoped it was only some sort of technical glitch, but as soon as his head cleared, his heart sank. He had been pulled back, not to the ratty house on the outskirts of Hell, but to an interrogation room in the basement of the Hub. Azrael thought frantically about what he could have done to end up below Hell itself. Leaving through an unauthorized exit wouldn't merit this sort of treatment.
A table and four chairs sat heavily in the center of the room, shining silver chains and cuffs on the walls. He knew they were there mainly for intimidation-a devil of Nehamud's rank could crack pretty much anyone without resorting to accessories.
A door in the seamless white walls open, and Nehamud himself entered the room.
“Well. Speak of the devil,” Azrael couldn't help but joke.
No Title.
Work in Progress. How much progress is relative.
Approx. 8600 words
Rated R for mild non-con.
Constructive criticism v. much appreciated.
Elzarial, the prim and proper secretary to Nehamud, the head of the Department of Temporary/Quasi-Legitimate Tenancy, pursed her thin lips and gave the demon leaning on her desk her best glare. And what a glare it was--sharp horns curving gracefully into tightly bunned gray hair, red eyes snapping through thick cat-eye glasses, faint trails of smoke rising from her nostrils. The Epitome of Evil, and in Hell, that's saying a lot.
"You do not have an appointment, Mister Azrael. Mister Nehamud has a very busy schedule and cannot possibly see you today. Try back in two weeks." Azrael wondered briefly how she managed a tone that icy in the middle of the hottest place on--well, anywhere.
His eyes flitted about the outer office. A dozen or so assorted demons, no doubt all with appointments, waiting to see the Department Head. One or three looked like Acquisitions Managers--individuals who scouted out potential possession victims, or Semi-Permanent Residencies. You could always tell AMs by the overly-broad smiles plastered on their overly-sweaty faces. They didn't spend much time in Hell, so the conditions always came as a shock when they eventually reported in.
The rest of the lot looked like the various middle managers and sycophantic cockroaches that crawl out of the woodwork of every bureaucracy. Azrael sighed. He did not want to wait for all these idiots to finish before he talked to Muddy. His business was much more important. Or something, he snorted to himself. He grinned his shiniest apple-polishing grin.
"I know Muddy is busy. Head of the Department, and all, probably has meetings from here to next week. And you, his trusty right hand Elzarial, you're just doing your job. But this, this is really important. I have INSTRUCTIONS," he let his voice linger over the word, threading strains of FROM THE BOSS and OF UTMOST IMPORTANCE into the thought. "INSTRUCTIONS to report first thing." A lie, but then again, this was Hell.
The secretary was clearly wrestling with visions of INSTRUCTIONS that she knew nothing about and the (very full) schedule open on the desk before her. Azrael whistled happily as he passed her and strode into the inner office, sparing only a second to wink at the glowering demons he was leaving behind.
Muddy, a tall devil of the orange variety, was leaned all the way back in his Genuine Human Leather Executive Chair. Soft snores filled the room. Azrael took a moment to lift and pocket several of Muddy's special cigars from the desktop humidor before leaning over the reclining demon and whispering in his ear.
"Quick! My husband's coming!"
The sleeping devil half-rolled onto his side and mumbled something that sounded like, "Not on me, he's not." He started snoring again as Azrael's eyes widened. Why, you old devil, he laughed. Helping himself to another cigar and lighting it with a click of his fingers, Azrael sat down and propped his feet up on the desk to wait.
He had just broken his personal record for consecutive smoke rings when the office door burst open and Elzarial stormed in. Nehamud was upright and attempting to look busy in a matter of milliseconds, not even noticing Azrael sitting across from him.
"Mr Nehamud," she started in a pinched voice, "I trust that you are finished with Mister Azrael? You have several appointments to see and the Quarterly Transient Custody meeting at three. And afterward, you're to give a speech to the new Temporary Tenancy Agents. We're sending them out into the field tomorrow. And--"
The bright orange devil held up a hand. "Enough, Elzarial. I have not finished with Mr Azrael." He smiled at her. This was not as congenial as it sounds--his mouth was fully of very pointy teeth. "Be a dear and reschedule the rest of today's appointments. They can wait till tomorrow. Or next week. Whenever."
She shot Azrael a look that implied a lot of running through dark forests with several packs of dogs baying in the not-too-distant distance, muttered "Yes, sir" and slunk off. He blew a smoke ring at her back and, in a fit of inspiration, formed it into a disembodied hand, middle finger extended.
Nehamud rolled his eyes and cleared his throat. "Nice of you to drop by, Az. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" He paused to frown at the demon. "And is that one of my cigars?"
"Anytime, favors, and yes. In that order. Good cigar, where'd you get them? Did Castro finally kick the bucket?"
"No, not yet," Nehamud laughed. "He's got a few years left. Or at least that's what Dazolpimael down in UEIPP tells me."
"UEIPP?"
"Unfortunate Entity Initiation Planning and Processing. You should know that. And you still haven't told me what you're doing here. Believe it or not, I do have things to be doing today."
Azrael sighed. He was confident his proposal would be accepted, but it might be a hard sell. Muddy was awfully principled for a devil. "Well," he grinned conspiratorially, "I have a scenario for you. You're aware of the pool on Metatron and the Boss, right? Well, it's off. Metatron gave up already. Couldn't take the heat." He laughed at the joke.
"Right. And I'm very put out with you about that. You assured me it'd be at least a month. I put three months' petty cash into it. I'm going to be stuck eating my wife's packed lunches." He shuddered. "She got a Nepalese cookbook for her birthday--you can't even believe the shit she's trying to pass off as food."
"Well, that's what I'm talking about. Nobody actually had the day right, so I've got a bit of a conundrum. Hell knows I don't want to refund the money," Azrael's lip curled, "that's practically immoral. But what to do with it? And that's when I thought of my good friend Muddy." He leaned in close. "I'd be more than willing to cut you in on the action. Give you most of it, even."
"And what do you get out of it, Azrael? You're not that generous. And don't try the innocent routine. I don't know anyone who buys it." Nehamud growled.
At that moment, they were interrupted by a knock at the door. It opened, revealing a demoness in most of her glory. It was the shortest skirt and lowest top Azrael had ever seen, and he had been to the Playboy Mansion. He stared up, down, left, right, and sideways before turning to his friend for an introduction. It occurred to him that Nehamud was not staring. In fact, the devil was going out of his way to examine the Real Bonsai Human® perched precariously on the edge of the desk. An idea began to take shape as he watched Muddy deal with the demoness. Esuran, he had called her Esuran. They traded a few files and she sauntered off, swinging her hips in very interesting ways.
Azrael cleared his face of all emotion and turned to face his friend. "She...she doesn't happen to be married, does she?"
Nehamud glanced at him sharply and nodded. "She and Oxhuacal from Tribulation Equipment Requisition hooked up last year. Now will you get to your point, already?"
Azrael's eyebrow lifted a fraction of an inch as he filed away his observations for later use, then fell as he turned to the subject at hand. He carefully laced his voice with ideas of possibility, mutual benefit, and greed. "This is what I propose. You 'win' the pool. All of it. And all you have to do is assign me to a particular Semi-Permanent Residency. I've got the case all scoped out." It was only a little lie, really. "The vic--" Nehamud cleared his throat. He was a big proponent of political correctness. "Sorry, the Prospective Displaced Occupant was a lovely little morsel. Good, but corruptible. And on top of that--you get all the pool money. And there was a metric shit load of it--trust me. With a couple of souls and random body parts, as well. No one would know, and we'd both make out like bandits. What do you say?"
Nehamud frowned, shadows distorting his bright orange face. "It'd be our hides if someone found out you threw the pool, you realize that, right?" Besides. You could just go to your AM with a request for this assignment. There's a reason you've come to me." He gave the demon a hard stare. "What's the catch, Azrael?"
"No one will find out. I've had the calendar locked up in my office since I started the thing. And there's really no catch. Well, just a small one. But it's really nothing big at all. Just a little--"
"Get to it."
"Well, I sort of need to maybe borrow the Timeclock Savings Distorter. Just for a few minutes. It's not a big deal or anything, right?" The Timeclock Savings Distorter was a new invention, reportedly purloined from Microsoft, that made time travel possible. Nehamud had immediately declared it property of the department, claiming that he could use it to raise quotas while lowering overhead. The machine had only been brought in a week ago, accompanied by the giant scurrying sound of TTAs and AMs running to update their resumés.
Nehamud whistled. "When you ask for favors, you ask a lot, don't you? You know I can't let you use the TSD. We haven't settled on who gets clearance. Who is going to get the shaft--layoffs are always such a bitch. And all the paperwork this is going to require hasn't even been printed up yet. Can't you find someone that's up there now to play with?"
"No. I want this boy, Muddy. I ran across him a while back, but never had the opportunity to go back and deal with him. I really, really want this."
"...How far back do you need to go? And how much was in the pool, again?"
Azrael grinned. Muddy was coming around. "A hundred years and change. And it was thousands. Nine or twelve, if I'm not mistaken."
"A hundred years? And you never dealt with her then? Ridiculous, Azrael. I know you went on a bender, but that's a little much, even for you."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Now are you going to let me use it legitimately, or do I need to break in and hope I can figure it out? Of course, then you'd be out all that money, and possibly one time distorter, as well. Just give me the pass and make it easy on us both, would you? Come on, Nehamud, do it for old time's sake. You know, back in the day."
"There was no 'back in the day,' Azrael. You minced into me in The Devil's Advocate. You spilled your drink on me." He laughed. "A shirley temple, if I remember correctly. With a little pink umbrella."
"And I'd do it again, if you'll only give me a pass to get out of Hell. Please?"
"Oh, fine." Nehamud rolled his eyes and rummaged through the various piles on his desk, finally pulling out a black pad. He fished out a flaming pen and scrawled across the pad. "Now. I expect the money and such before you go. Because if I don't have it," he smiled again, "I'll revoke your pass and pull you back here so fast it'll make your head stop spinning. And then I'll drop you in the Lake of Fire, just for kicks."
"No worries, Muddy. You'll have it by the end of the day. And thanks. Really. You're a lifesaver." He stood up, reaching into the humidor. "Mind if I take a few for the road? I'll bring you back a box."
"Sure, whatever. Just get out of here. Elzarial's probably having fits by now. Send her in on your way by, would you? And don't piss her off too much. I'm the one who has to deal with her."
"Anything you say, boss." Azrael nodded. "I'll send the stuff by imp. We both win. It'll be great." He was smirking as he passed by the secretary's desk. "He wants you. In that way. You might want to hurry along."
The secretary leapt from her chair and bustled into the inner office. Azrael caught a glimpse of her loosening her bun as he whistled he way out of the building and off to collect Nehamud's prize. This was going to be a very good day.
Revenge was just a hop, skip, and jump through time away. He laughed aloud. Étienne, my dear, you are mine.
***
It was one of those rare days where everything is perfect. Azrael both loved and hated these days. They were glorious while they lasted, but left a bittersweet taste on his tongue as the sun set.
But he didn't want to think about the day ending, not right yet. It was noon and the sun shined warm upon his face, a teasing caress, not the overbearing heat of Hell. Azrael had relaxed his control of the body he was inhabiting--against the rules, but occasionally worth a laugh, to see what they would do--and the woman had decided on a long walk through the Jardin des Tuileries.
Azrael relaxed as she wandered along the Seine, occasionally pausing to watch the tourist boats pass by. Possessing without controlling was a little like being a boat at night, he thought to himself. Riding through the victim's dark subconscious; occasionally trailing a hand along to muddy the water, influence the thought patterns. But mostly just idly floating wherever the waves took him.
She saw him first-the racing heartbeat and quickened breaths jolting Azrael out of his reverie. The man sat at a wrought iron table, sipping coffee and looking out over the water. He was well-dressed, tall black hat on the chair beside him, and from a distance, fairly attractive. The demon's shock of recognition was almost palpable. Azrael and she sighed simultaneously, and he decided it was time to reclaim control over the body. The sensation of taking over was less violent than usual because he already inhabited her mind. A gentle push, and Azrael was flooded with the infinite, and infinitely minute, sensations that most corporeal beings take for granted. It took him a moment to readjust, catch his balance. And then he approached the man.
“Pardon me, monsieur. Would you mind greatly if I had a seat? I have been for a walk and I am feeling fatigued.”
The man looked up from his coffee, and hastily stood as he realized there was a woman looking down at him.
“Of course, madame.” He pulled out a chair. “Please, be seated.”
Azrael laughed-a light, tinkly sound in this particular body, and moved the man's hat from the chair to the table. “I do not think you would want me to sit on this.” He laughed again and seated himself.
“Would you care for some coffee?” He signaled the waiter.
“Oh, that would be lovely. Thank you...?” Azrael wanted a name.
“Étienne. Étienne Marceau, at your service, madame. And you are?”
“Thérèse de Beaulieu. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. And thank you for the coffee.” The demon and his body smiled. Up close, Étienne was beautiful. Full lips, deep brown eyes, curly brown hair. Oh yes, Azrael thought, this will be fun. The man-boy, really; he couldn't be a day over twenty-seemed to return the interest in Thérèse. Of course, she was gorgeous. Azrael fancied himself a connoisseur and would rarely settle for less. Of course, there was the slight problem that he was currently inhabiting the body of a woman, but Azrael was certain it could be worked out.
They talked for a long while, moving from small talk to much more impertinent questions, which Azrael answered with glee. He could feel Thérèse recoiling inwardly as the limits of propriety were pushed further and further. They finally shattered as Azrael reached into his reticule and slid a key across the table.
“Le Cygne Noir, on Rue des Écoles. Room three. Shall we say, 8pm?” He smiled sweetly, mentally shoving Thérèse as far down into the darkness as he could.
Étienne's eyes went wide, and for a moment Azrael wondered if he had made a miscalculation. But the young man's hand slowly crept across the table and took hold of the key. He licked his lips and repeated the demon's words. “Eight o'clock. Le Cygne Noir. Room three. Rue des Écoles.”
Azrael nodded encouragingly at the young man, stood, and walked away. He turned back once, and smirked when he saw Étienne grasping the key like a drowning man who has been thrown a rope.
***
Thérèse's mind struggled violently as the appointed time drew near. Azrael spent several minutes seated quietly, his awareness battling to keep hers under control. He was surprised, and not a little disappointed when the chime of the clock on the long mantle broke his concentration. Half past, and Étienne had not arrived.
The demon could feel Thérèse's growing relief as the minutes rolled inexorably by. It annoyed him. As a rule, Azrael did not allow his emotions to come into play while on a possession, but somehow, this time was different. It must be the girl, he thought to himself, she's a fighter. Spirited. I've been here nearly three months. She must be rubbing off on me. Whatever it was, he decided to embrace it.
Locking Thérèse's waking mind so deep in her subconscious she would be almost unable to even feel her own heartbeat, Azrael took a deep breath. Locating one man in a city the size of Paris would normally be almost impossible. Fortunately, I have other means at my disposal. Azrael grinned to himself and began.
He envisioned an ocean, a great sea of ethereal faces and limbs and bodies-the collected populace of the city around him. As long as he knew something about an individual-a name, a face, anything, he could locate them. Azrael spread his arms wide and waded in, fingers and eyes sweeping a thousand faces and fingers and eyes at a time. Searching for Étienne.
He ignored the tentative brushes that marked people he had passed on the street, who had waited on him in shops. He pushed away the more forceful tugs of those Thérèse had known-family and friends reaching out to her, even as deeply buried as she was. None of these people mattered. Azrael widened the arc of his senses and called softly to his prey.
A hand shot up from the writhing mass of spirits in front of him. He paused a moment, and recognized the hand as that of Étienne. Long fingers, soft palms, garnet ring on the last finger. The demon smiled wickedly and pushed his way through the sea of souls to the hand. Humans were just too easy, desperate for any sort of contact, even when the intentions were dubious.
Grasping the hand, Azrael felt himself spill down Étienne's arm and behind his eyes. The world tilted and spun for a brief moment, then righted itself. Azrael's vision was glassy, almost too bright, moving just a little too fast. He was seeing through Étienne's eyes, and Étienne had obviously had too much to drink. Moulin Rouge, eh? Bad boy, Étienne. You'll pay for this later. Azrael sent a small shudder of trepidation through the young man's brain and pulled himself back through the ocean and into Thérèse's body. It would be easy now to follow Étienne, no matter where he went. Once a demon felt his victim, he never let go.
Azrael rummaged through the trunk of Thérèse's clothing. The outfit he had had picked out for the evening's first encounter was not quite appropriate for being in public, even in the Moulin Rouge. Thérèse was struggling again, but nothing he couldn't control. With one last thought warning her to behave, Or else...he headed off to confront the wayward suitor.
***
He was moving from one place to another, Azrael could feel it. Like iron filings aligning to a magnet, the feeling got stronger and stronger the closer he got. Finally, he stopped at a small apartment building on the outskirts of the Jardin du Luxembourg. Étienne was inside; second, no, third floor. A predatory smile flowed across Azrael's face, melding strangely with Thérèse's features. He climbed the stairs and didn't bother to knock.
Étienne was sprawled across the bed, vest off, shirt unbuttoned to the waist. He raised his head and looked shakily at Azrael. “What are you doing here?”
The sound of Étienne's voice roused Thérèse and she beat against the walls Azrael had created around her thought. His eyes twinkled as he felt her fear course adrenaline through their shared veins.
“You didn't visit me, naughty boy. I am very disappointed in you.” Azrael put on his best pout. He enjoyed playing the games of flirtation, and caught himself hoping that Étienne did, too.
The young man rose unsteadily to his feet and took the demon's hand, sending jolts of terror mixed with lust through his body. Azrael laughed inwardly, recognizing that the lust was not his alone. I told you you'd like it, Thérèse. Like him. Thérèse's mind let out a long, low howl that Azrael could barely suppress. No more of that, girl. Sharp this time, no blandishments. It's going to be a long night, whether you like it or not. Relax.
“...and I really couldn't miss my appointment, you understand.” Étienne trailed off lamely. He pressed Azrael's hand to his lips. “I do hope, madame, you will forgive me. Brown eyes darted up to meet blue, and Thérèse cringed to feel her body take a half step forward.
Azrael allowed the predatory smile to return. “Make it up to me.” He closed the small distance between them and pressed his lips to Étienne's.
All at once, a rush of extraordinary sensations washed over Azrael, threatening to pull him under. Thérèse was in his mind screaming and trying to wrest back control. He was kissing with a woman's mouth and found it moving of its own accord-tongue working apart Étienne's lips, teeth worrying at them, the ridges of lips fusing them together. And then there was Étienne himself-tasting of whiskey and wine and something smoky and dark, hands and arms curling around him to push away the dress and scrabble over bare skin. Azrael forgot to breath.
And then buttons were popping on his dress and his hands careened across Étienne's ribbed stomach and Thérèse was attacking his thoughts and taking over and it was all just too much. Something slammed into the side of Azrael's mind and everything went dim. The last thing he saw was Étienne's face, a haunted, hungry look in his eyes.
He awoke with a massive headache. Oh, fuck. Oppressive heat rolled over Azrael, and he knew he was back in Hell. He opened his eyes and tried to stand up. Dizzy. Too dizzy. Fucking fuck! There was only one thing that could have sent him reeling back to Hell like this, and it was bad-a small imp pfffted into view right in front of Azrael's face.
“Boss wants to see you, Az. Now. I'd run along, if I were you.” It grinned wickedly and winked. “Good luck, man. You're going to need it.” And he pfffted away.
“This is just getting better and better.” Azrael shook his head and looked around. He was in the small park across from the Hub, the building that housed the Department of Temporary/Quasi-Legitimate Tenancy, aka Possessions. It seemed to be present day-or at least what had been the present the last time he left Hell. He trudged toward his doom.
For once, The Department Head's secretary didn't try to stop him from waltzing into the inner office. Of course, Azrael was hardly waltzing now. The head of the department, Nehamud, sat behind a large desk. Arrayed out behind him were the five tiers of management between him and Azrael-Asiril the Regional Deputy for Western Europe, Ntielelion the Nation-Specific Adviser for France, Elsoheax the Project Liaison, Tabraboas the Project Manager, and Rusalash the Creative Consultant. When all of them turned out, you knew you were in trouble.
Nehamud spoke first. “Do you know what you're doing here, Azrael? You were evicted. Dispossessed. Not exorcised, just drummed out by your host.” He grimaced and then looked down at a file spread out on the desk. “We've pulled the fine on this particular case and you seem to have broken a number of regulations. Voluntarily loosening control, entanglement, failure to demonstrate demonic possession to other mortals...The list goes on and on. And dispossession! Ridiculous, Azrael. And after I go out of my way to let you use the TSD, too. Very disappointing. I don't know what you were thinking, but you're confined to Hell until we release you. That is all.”
“But, Muddy, it wasn't like that at--” Nehamud put up a hand, and the minor officials around him glowered.
“No, Azrael. The decision of this panel is final.” He shrugged. “You're stuck. Now why don't you go home and get cleaned up. I expect you here first thing tomorrow morning. I'm sure Tabraboas and Rusalash have plenty of paperwork to keep you busy.” Nehamud turned to look at the demons arced around him. “Is there anything else?”
***
Azrael was always surprised that anything got done in Hell. He sat at his desk staring at the backlog of paperwork Tabraboas and Rusalash had deposited. Rusalash had seemed almost sorry about it, a sure sign that he had climbed as high on the career ladder as he ever would. Tabraboas, on the other hand, set her huge stack of files down reverently, giving Azrael detailed instructions on their care, as if the files were Holy Writ.
It didn't help that he hadn't filled out a Temporary Residency Debriefing Report in well over two centuries. Agents were required to fill one out after each possession, documenting every minor detail in quadruplicate. In addition, there were old expense reports to be justified, tables of demographics to be constructed to show that he was an equal opportunity possessor, and so on and so forth. Ridiculous.
“Busywork,” Azrael snarled as he swept all the files into the trash. He looked around his cubicle for something more interesting to do. Nothing. He could feel his frustration building-a steadily increasing pressure in his ears, muscles tightening, horns itching. Time to go. Have to get out of here.
He grinned at the floor receptionist as he passed by. “Early lunch break-all this work makes me hungry!” She didn't even look up. Azrael skulked his way out of the building, hiding in corners and restrooms whenever necessary. The last thing he needed today was to be caught skivving.
The weather outside was awful. Hideous. Humidity near 100%, But God forbid it ever actually rain down here. Azrael laughed half-heartedly at the joke. Too damned hot to go for a walk, that's for sure. So. What to do?
He finally settled on nabbing a seat at his favorite bar and drowning his sorrows. He may have forbidden the angels to drink, but luckily demons suffered under no such strictures. Some days, Azrael wasn't certain how he'd ever survive without vodka.
The Hellraiser was a very exclusive bar-mostly because the average self-respecting demon cared about things like hygiene and lack of odor. Azrael didn't really mind, as long as you wiped down your stool before you sat and tipped Nephrazael the bartender well enough to ensure a clean glass, you were fine. Besides, the liquor was cheap, no one tried to get too friendly, and Nephrazael was notoriously good at solving problems. Of course, his solutions were not always particularly legal, but what sort of demon followed the rules all the time?
Azrael pushed through the door and waited for his eyes to adjust. Nowhere else did he have problems with light levels-he always figured it was meant to add to the ambiance. It worked. The bar was almost completely dark, and that's how everyone liked it. He selected a stool at the end of the bar and fished for a handkerchief to wipe it off.
Nephrazael was busy with another customer, but paused long enough to nod at Azrael. He was the most demonic-looking demon Azrael had ever seen. The monster-in-the-closet type, from the three eyes all the way down to the cloven hooves, with stops at the silver in his ears, nose, and chest. He occasionally wondered how much of Nephrazael's appearance was natural and how much had been supplemented by various discreet professionals. If there was anything that had been his from birth, however, it was his wings. Taller than Nephrazael himself, they arched up over his head and end in wicked points just above the floor. Azrael spent a moment trying to figure out how he could sleep with those things sticking out of his back, and finally decided that it must be impossible. He had never been one for wings, anyway, mostly because he didn't have any.
Azrael was still lost in thought when the bartender tapped his shoulder. “Haven't seen you in a while.” He set Azrael's usual-tall vodka and cranberry, heavy on the vodka-down in front of him. “What you been up to?”
Azrael shook his head and slammed back half his drink. “Not enough. Too much. The usual, really.” He grimaced. “That last assignment-it just sucked.”
Nephrazael leaned his elbows on the bar and raised his eyebrows. He'd never actually ask what happened-part of the bartender's code or something-but Azrael could tell he was interested. “Things don't usually go so bad that I see you in here at 9AM. It must have sucked pretty badly...” He trailed off.
“Yeah.” Azrael sighed. Getting Nephrazael's advice had been the whole reason he had come to the Hellraiser, so why did he not want to tell the story? He finished his drink. Well, advice, and the vodka's not bad either. “It was supposed to be easy. Routine.” Azrael decided it wouldn't be such a bad idea to bend the truth, just a little. “French girl from the country. You know the drill-take her to the big city, corrupt her as thoroughly as possible, and then get her to do herself in with a mortal sin on her back. Or cause trouble for the priests.” Nephrazael nodded. Azrael knew he had never done temporary residency, but the big demon had certainly listened to enough stories to get the general idea. “So anyway, here I am in this body, and I'm having a great time. Spiking the Holy Water fonts with dye and replacing the Host with tea biscuits and stealing from blind people, whatever. But I decide it's time to really start on the big sins. The bosses, you know, were getting up my ass.”
Nephrazael nodded. “They have a tendency to do that. Now just one quick question.” He reached under the bar for a bottle of vodka to refresh Azrael's drink. “Why did they put you into a woman? I thought they usually assigned victims by sex?” He pushed the full glass across the bar to Azrael.
“Yeah, usually. Unless the victim is clergy. Nehamud has a bastard sense of humor-he knows that if you throw a demon into the body of the opposite sex, the first thing they're going to do is masturbate. And for some reason, that tends to make the faithful despair.” He grinned. “That's always fun. But in this case, it was just bureaucratic error. There wasn't really anything special about Thérèse.” He sighed almost fondly. He had, after all, been in constant contact with her for almost three months. “Well, except, just, she was stronger than most. A fighter. And not happy about being possessed, if you can imagine that.”
Azrael took another long sip of his drink. “So anyway. Long story short, we were in the park and saw this beautiful boy. I decided it was time to move up to the Sins-with-a-capital-S, one thing led to another, and she dispossessed me.” That admission deserved another drink.
Nephrazael stared at Azrael and slowly shook his head. “She kicked you out?”
“Yeah. And landed me back here--”
“In shit so deep you could swim in it.”
“Exactly.”
“So, you planning another trip up to get even with her?” Nephrazael's eyes glimmered in the dark, like he had a very good idea of just what 'getting even' would entail.
“Now see, that's the crazy thing. She was a pain in the ass, but I almost feel like she deserves to be left alone. She beat me. It's the other one I keep thinking about.”
“The man?” Azrael nodded and Nephrazael laughed. “Well that one's not so hard to understand. He's more your type.” Azrael had hit on him exactly once, and Nephrazael never let him forget it.
“Now, you know that I don't discriminate, 'Razael.” He grinned. “No, it's different. We were just getting into it when I got popped back here. I mean, he was beautiful, and he'd already tried to avoid me once, and...” Azrael shrugged. And those pesky personal reasons, he added silently to himself.
“He tried to avoid you?” the bartender asked. Azrael nodded and explained about having to go looking for Étienne. “Well, it's simple. Insatiable curiosity. Unattainability. Whatever you want to call it, you can't have him, so it's going to drive you bat shit.”
Azrael sighed. “It's only been a few hours. Maybe it'll go away after a couple of days.” He checked the time. If he left now, he could make it back to the office in time for lunch. Azrael finished his drink. “I'm sure it will go away. Just need a few days of hard rest and relaxation.”
Nephrazael grinned, exposing shining pointed teeth. “Sure it will. I'll see you in a few days, then-when you've decided to do something about it.” He turned away to get drinks for a group of devils who were waving their tails and snapping their fingers. Azrael stared after him for a minute, then dug through his pockets for some money. He laid it on the bar and left.
A week passed in a blur for Azrael. All the files he had thrown away had mysteriously reappeared on his desk, and they brought friends. Every time he tried to minimize his workload via 'creative filing,' as he called it, it doubled. Finally he gave in and tried to work. Which was absolutely useless because he couldn't get the memory of his last glimpse of Étienne out of his head. The young man had been almost completely overthrown-all it would take was one good shove to push him over the line.
Azrael reasoned that this was part of his job-wasn't everyone in Hell involved in temptation in one form or another? At least, that's how he presented it to Nehamud. Who promptly laughed at him.
“You're not going anywhere near the mortals, Azrael. Not unless you want to spend some time down by the Lake of Fire with the Creative Retributionists. And if you're so convinced that he can be turned, I'll get in touch with Morxtan over in Public Relations and have her send up a Temporary Wish Fulfillment agent.
Azrael declined all around. He had hoped for better results-he and Nehamud were old friends. But Muddy was sort of a bastard when it came to work. He took his position very seriously.
Eight days after he'd been bounced back to hell, Azrael again found himself in the Hellraiser. Nephrazael had offered, in a roundabout way, help, and he was determined to take it.
The dim barroom was fairly full, so Azrael amused himself by arguing with a pack of imps over the latest war. By the time he threw up his hands in disgust, the bar had begun to empty and Nephrazael was leaning against the back wall toying with a newly-acquired nipple ring.
“Pacifist imps, 'Razael. Do you believe that? Fucking pacifists! And what the hell prompted you to put another set of holes in yourself?? Azrael eyed his friend's latest jewelry--a thick silver ring closed with an intricately-carved pair of wings.
Nephrazael just smiled. “It takes all kinds.” Azrael wasn't sure just whom he was talking about. “So. Settled your human problem yet?”
“Not yet. Azrael had known he was going to have to admit that Nephrazael was right, and had prepared himself by drinking everything in sight. “You were right. I can't get it out of my mind. And it's damned distracting. I'm useless in the office,” he glared at his friend, who had snorted and was trying very hard not to laugh. “They told me to take a few days off, which is usually a good thing, but. I can't let it go. I didn't even go home last night, just walked back and forth around the city. But I can't go back to the mortal world. Nehamud told the Gate Clerks not to let me out. Bastard.”
Nephrazael nodded sympathetically. “Yeah. I've heard about him. He's real big on rules.” He paused for a second, eyes taking the measure of Azrael. “You, though. You're not much for rules, are you.”
It wasn't a question, and Azrael's mood lifted. Nephrazael knew a way out. He had hoped that was so, but hadn't known for certain. Time to tread carefully. Azrael shrugged, overly cool. “Not really. Most can be bent, if not broken. We're demons, after all. If we want something, what's to stop us from taking it? Besides,” he grinned, “following the rules is so incredibly boring.”
Nephrazael was silent, eying Azrael appraisingly. Finally, he pushed himself off the wall and evicted the last few die-hard drinkers. He closed and locked the door after them. “Are you ready to leave tonight? Right now? There's not much time for side trips. It'll be light soon enough and we've got a long way to walk.”
Azrael nodded. “Let's go. The sooner I can get this over with, the better.”
Nephrazael gave him a quizzical look, then led him though the back of the bar and into an alley. The big demon moved silently trough mostly empty streets to the eastern edge of the city. He stopped in front of a rundown shack and turned to Azrael. “Stay here. Don't move.” He disappeared inside.
Azrael was hyperconscious of the passage of time. He stood motionless, listening intently for the sound of people coming to get him. Sneaking around in the dark was second-nature to demons, but trying to sneak out of Hell, well that was something entirely different. Or so I would imagine, anyway.
For all his talk of bending and breaking rules, Azrael normally followed most of them. It's easier that way. No one gets upset. Of course, if I don't know some thing's not allowed, well, I can always apologize later. He made it a habit not to ask too many questions.
Nephrazael appeared at his side and Azrael jumped. “Some lookout. Come on.” He gestured toward the decrepit building. “We're ready for you.”
Azrael looked at the house-boarded up windows, sagging roof, buckled foundation-and shuddered. “Are you sure it's not going to fall down around our ears?” The other demon frowned. “Alright, alright. You're trying to help and I should just shut up. Sorry.” He stopped, surprised. It wasn't like him to apologize.
“Are you going in or did I close my bar for nothing?” Nephrazael growled.
“Sorry, sorry.” There it was again. Strange. “I'm going.” Azrael climbed the rickety stairs to the porch and pushed through the door. He found himself in a brightly-lit foyer that looked as if it belonged in a totally different house, if not a different universe.
The walls were painted a true white, the mahogany furniture was so clean it shone. A matronly demoness stood, arms folded across her chest, in a doorway to Azrael's right. At least, he thought she was a demoness. She still had soft, feathery wings, something extremely rare in Hell, even among the original fallen angels. Their wings had mostly dropped, or been cut, off, or been transformed into scaly, sinister things.
“Azrael, this is Horemheb.” Nephrazael moved smoothly to his side. “She doesn't entirely approve, but she agreed to help you.”
Horemheb gave him a dour look. “I am not convinced this is worth it. But Nephrazael says this will be good. So fine. Come in.” She turned, leading the other two into the room she had been guarding.
It was big, much bigger than it should have been to still fit in the house. That didn't bother Azrael much, though. Space was sort of a fuzzy concept in Hell, anyway. No, what got him was the décor. Dozens of floor-to-ceiling paintings decorated the walls, each showing a life-sized landscape. Azrael recognized several of the scenes-Paris, London, New York City, Shanghai there were even locations in Hell represented. Closer inspection revealed that not only were various places portrayed, several times were, as well. He peered at the picture of Paris recognizing it as a spot next to the Pont Neuf. There was a small dial to the side of each mural--maybe to set the date? How would that work?
“This is a magnificent representation--” Azrael blinked and shook his head. It couldn't have been-but it was. As he watched, a flock of birds on the bridge took flight. He whistled, impressed. “These are portals, aren't they? Every one of them.” He looked around. “I could just step through and be in Moscow or Johannesburg or,” his eyes widened, “Lucifer's throne room? I'm impressed.”
Horemheb nodded. “You should be. And you understand that if you tell anyone, I'll kill you, right?”
“Oh yes. Definitely.” Azrael didn't doubt that she was capable of it. He noticed one panel covered with a dark cloth and was about to ask where it led when Nephrazael spoke.
“For the moment, these only work one-way. You'll need to be back in the same spot you materialize in in four days. I'll come and get you at midnight. And pay attention, Az, because this is important. If you aren't there when I come to get you, not only am I going to get your bosses out looking for you, I'll be looking too.” He cracked his thick knuckles. “And I don't think you want me to have to do that.” When he was smiling, Nephrazael's fangs seemed to grow several inches.
Azrael blanched, in spite of himself. “Four days. No problem, I'll be there. Is there anything else?” He'd had enough of people threatening to kill him for one night.
Horemheb cackled as he stood in front of the Paris doorway. “Bon voyage!” and she pushed him through.
Paris at midnight was cold, or maybe it was just the shock of suddenly jumping worlds and back to the past. Azrael shivered and tried to think of a plan. He hadn't quite believed Nephrazael could get him out of Hell, but here he was...First things first. I want a drink.
***
Azrael sat at a table in the corner of his favorite bar sipping at a large vodka. Four days wasn't enough to grab a body and get it under enough control to go looking for Étienne. He briefly considered reestablishing contact with Thérèse, but didn't feel up to being dispossessed again. He finally settled on using his own form for the duration.
But for what? Azrael laughed at himself. Dumb question. Every demon had a taste for temptation. Nothing was sweeter than causing a fall. He had explained it to one of the Department's interns once: 'The truly good are the hardest to entice, of course, but many find them to be the most rewarding.' He shrugged. 'Personally, I think it gets boring. They fall, they repent, and you have to start all over again. Very repetitive. The truly wicked are more fun, definitely, but not really much of a challenge. You suggest something and they do it, and it's still boring. No, the most fun are those in the middle. Who long for all the pleasures we can offer, but are terrified by the consequences. Because they know, as you do, that once they have tasted the forbidden, they can never go back. And it scares them. Humans are creatures of fear, it runs their lives. And the look in their eyes when desire trumps conscience?' He smiled deeply. 'It's precious.' He had caught a glimpse of that look on Étienne's face, and he wanted nothing more than to see it through to completion.
Azrael carefully shut out the sounds of the crowd around him, turning simultaneously inward and outward to find Étienne. This time, there was no searching through the churning sea of shadows. He called the young man's name and his awareness rose to the top and floated toward him. Azrael couldn't suppress his smile. This was going to be fun.
***
He tracked Étienne to a private gentleman's club in the fashionable district and persuaded the doorman to let him in. Étienne was sitting in the library down a long paneled hall, quietly reading a book. Azrael selected a chair close to him and sat down, pulling a newspaper from an adjacent table. He studied Etienne intently while pretending to read. The trick was to find the mortal's weakness and exploit it to greatest advantage. Usually, Azrael preferred to get to know his victims face-to-face, but he now didn't have the luxury of time.
His eyes again went vacant as Azrael sent his thoughts across to Etienne. It was no trouble to crawl through his waking mind and down into the subconscious. Azrael smiled at what he found. Pride, of course, and quite a lot of vanity. That's always helpful. Generosity-but that may come in handy, as well. Plenty of lust, but that's hardly even a challenge. Save that for last resort. And, oh, what's this? His deepest fear is being inadequate? Very interesting.
A plan of attack formed quickly in Azrael's mind. He reached into his breast pocket and casually withdrew a cigarette case. He looked at Etienne and drew a deep breath. “Pardon me, but do you have a lighter?”
Etienne looked up from his book and glanced around the room. His eyes settled on Azrael. “Oh. Um. Somewhere.” The young man fumbled through his pockets, knocking the book off his lap.
Azrael dove for the book and ended up sprawled at Etienne's feet, book still open in his hands. The demon smiled up shyly at him. “Oh dear. I didn't mean to disturb you quite so much.” He paused. “I don't suppose you're hungry, are you? I'm not very familiar with Paris, and was hoping for a late supper. If you would be kind enough to accompany me, I would certainly be willing to treat...”
“Oh, well,” Etienne looked down at the book resting in Azrael's upraised hands. “Well, I should really finish my reading.”
Azrael snapped the book shut. “Oh dear. I seem to have lost your spot. How tragic.” He smiled. “Besides. What would a gentleman of your obvious status need with,” he checked the book's spine, “a medical text?”
“Actually, I'm studying to be a physician.”
“Oh really? What a coincidence! I am a student of medicine at King's College in London. Well, I've just begun, really. Maybe you could give me the benefit of your experience over supper?”
Etienne laughed. “Oh, well. Why not?” He looked down at Azrael. “And the first thing you must learn, my dear--”
“John.” Azrael supplied helpfully.
“Well, John, the first thing you must learn is professional dignity. Come, get up off the floor and let us go.”
Azrael allowed the young man to help him up off the floor. “Your name, friend, I didn't quite catch it.”
“I'm Etienne. Now, if you'll follow me, I know this wonderful little bistro just around the corner. So, is this your first time in Paris? You must allow me to show you the sights.”
Azrael just grinned. Hook, line, and sinker.
***
The bistro was small and intimate, doubly so because it was almost empty. The wait staff greeted Etienne and his guest with cheerful smiles, despite the late hour. One waiter brought them a particularly nice red wine, another brought dishes of a magnificent beef stew, the chanteuse returned from a break and sang songs of heartbreak and love.
They stayed there, laughing and drinking, till dawn. Finally, when the waiters could no longer stand and Azrael and Etienne were in not much better condition, Azrael paid the truly impressive bill and half-carried, half-dragged his giggling companion out into the street.
“Well, my young friend, what do we do now?”
Etienne laughed and stumbled over his shoes, landing sprawled at Azrael's feet. He broke into uncontrollable sobs of laughter. “Our-our positions-positions-have been---reversed!”
Azrael didn't think it was quite that funny, but he was nowhere near as drunk as Etienne. “Well, what do you know, you're right!” He made no move to help him up.
Etienne had stopped laughing and was looking at the demon with an intense expression. “Where are you staying?” His eyes traveled up Azrael's body, taking a long rest just below his waist. Azrael named a hotel at the opposite end of the city. “Oh, that will never do. I don't think I can walk that far.”
“Your place, then?” The demon smiled. Lust was an easy vice to exploit-no real challenge-but when it was dropped in your lap...Who am I to argue?
***
Fortunately, Azrael remembered the way to Etienne's apartment. The young man was too preoccupied trying to attach his lips to any free bit of skin Azrael showed to be of much use.
“The door is locked.”
Etienne didn't take his lips off the back of Azrael's neck. “Immy pohet.”
Azrael grinned and reached his hands back toward the young man's pockets. Was that the key? A sudden hiss from Etienne. Guess not. He finally extracted a long, graceful skeleton key and inserted in the lock. The door swung silently open. Looks just the same as when-- and the person presently stuck to his right earlobe shifted his weight and dropped Azrael to the floor.
He smirked and allowed himself to be maneuvered beneath Etienne. Staring down at the demon, Etienne seemed to regain his manners. “You don't mind, do you?” He smiled hopefully.
“Not at all,” Azrael laughed as he pulled the young man's mouth toward his own. As their lips met, Azrael felt a sudden twisting, wrenching, pulling sensation. He could feel the wooden floor beneath him dissolving--or is that me?--and he blacked out.
He hoped it was only some sort of technical glitch, but as soon as his head cleared, his heart sank. He had been pulled back, not to the ratty house on the outskirts of Hell, but to an interrogation room in the basement of the Hub. Azrael thought frantically about what he could have done to end up below Hell itself. Leaving through an unauthorized exit wouldn't merit this sort of treatment.
A table and four chairs sat heavily in the center of the room, shining silver chains and cuffs on the walls. He knew they were there mainly for intimidation-a devil of Nehamud's rank could crack pretty much anyone without resorting to accessories.
A door in the seamless white walls open, and Nehamud himself entered the room.
“Well. Speak of the devil,” Azrael couldn't help but joke.