Baal Zebub

Mayflies are much like humans
they spring from sweet waters,
burn their tallows at both ends
ensnared, sieve through my web.

Many call me Lord of Flies
but in truth I am a spider,
a weaver of fate and secrets.
Hell’s general, yes – also
a spinner of temptation
skeins of sin in pedipalp
my bed of maggots and silk.

A ring of garnet eyes, my crown
in dark robes like rosary beads
I nest in the highest of places
my swarms your heart’s swift buzz.

I am Baal Zebub,
Lord of Hordes,
Lord of Souls.

Eve’s Unexpected Teenage Motherhood, Samael is a Wino, & Jesus Drives a Yugo

The end of the first book in the Death and the Maiden Trilogy and a hint of the second novel.  I had far too much fun writing this.

The Gaia hypothesis states that the Earth functions like a living organism – upset the balance, and everything hangs askew.  As a biology major, I was intimately familiar with the theory.  Scientists said we had exacerbated the planet, accelerating climate change.  Zealots said it was the End Times.  For the first time in history, the fanatics were right, and the rationalists wrong.

Natural disasters increased tenfold – each week, a hurricane, a tsunami, an earthquake.  The death toll climbed and climbed.  Wars broke out over resources.  I read the papers, numb.

It had been easy enough to lie to my parents.  Samael had bound the horsemen in my twin’s comatose body, but when he had wanted to keep Mo under the archdemons’ watch in Hell, I had exploded.  And so we’d staged a car crash, wrecking Mo’s car, with my brother behind the wheel, limp like he’d had a head-on collision with a tree.  I had called my family from the passenger seat, faking panic, when all I could feel inside was nothing.  Nothing but bitter cold.

The ambulance had arrived, sirens wailing like the cries of a banshee.  They had carried Mo out in a stretcher.  He was a prisoner in his own body – brain activity raging, trapped immobile in his own limbs.  I could only imagine what war burned on in his undead mind.

I was beside him in the hospital, reading him his favorite author, Stephen King, in the hopes that he might hear.

Mo’s heart rate spiked.


His eyes shot open.  He began to seizure.

“Mo?  Mo!  Doctor, doctor, he’s awake!”

The hospital staff flooded in.  Nurses ushered me out of the room.  And so my dead brother rose, soul trapped in his body, Samael’s binding not strong enough to stand up to the horsemen.


“I’m fine, Shannikins.  Stop watching me.”  Mo tried to move from his bed.  He lost his balance and fell onto the mattress, clutching his temple.  “Ugh, my head.  Man, I feel like I ran skull-first into a tree.  Wait – I did.”  Mo grinned.

“Don’t joke about that,” I said, secretly relieved he didn’t remember what had really occurred.  He was pale, so pale, almost the same shade as Samael.  I set a breakfast tray on his nightstand.

Mo’s recovery had thawed my heart.  For the first time in weeks, there was a flicker of hope – Samael’s binding had contained the horsemen in my brother, and for all intents and purposes, Mo was alive, with no knowledge that he was a vessel for Pestilence, Famine, and War.

Things weren’t as bright in the celestial realms.  Michael, Heaven’s foremost archangel, was possessed by God’s Word, forced to act out his role as Heaven’s general in the final battle between Heaven and Hell.  At his side were countless angelic drones, unthinking vessels of God’s wrath.

The other archangels, their free will still intact, had sided with Hell to prevent a premature Apocalypse.  Forced out of Heaven by Michael, they had taken refuge in Hell, much to their chagrin.  It was an awkward family reunion, especially considering that a third of their siblings had been disowned.

The only angel who seemed happy was Raphael, whose joviality wouldn’t deflate even if he was a balloon with a pin pushed in.  He had taken over Samael’s kitchen, treating me daily to a world of cuisine – Creole recipes, Thai curries, Mexican innovations.  Tonight was his famous gumbo.  Demons and angels lined up with bowls, stretching out into Samael’s parlor, waiting for the archangel to ladle out gumbo by the liter.

I stood between Uriel and Izrail, salivating at the scent of the stew.  Uriel’s tattoos shone on her dark skin.  Izrail, the angel of souls, was busy studying one of the butterflies that she carried on her shoulders.  The subject of Izrail’s fascination was a blue Morpho, just like I had seen on my trip to the Amazon.

“Shannon, hold out your finger,” Izrail said, voice like wind chimes.

I obliged.  Izrail coaxed the scintillating blue insect onto my hand.

The butterfly crawled onto my wrist.  “It’s beautiful.  Like a slice of sky.”

Izrail smiled.  “Butterflies are symbols of the soul.  Isn’t that right, Beelzebub?”

Beelzebub glanced over his shoulder.  “Flies are better,” he grumbled.

Uriel snorted.  “Flies eat crap, Beel.  They’re disgusting.  I hate bugs.  Bugs and worms.”

Samael sidled up to me, glass of absinthe in hand.  “Did someone say worms?”

I rolled my eyes, handing the butterfly back to Izrail.  “Thanks, Izzy.”

“Someone said worms, right?” Samael repeated, clearly drunk.  Alcoholism was his coping mechanism for the Apocalypse.

Uriel ignored him, holding out her bowl for Raphael.  Raphael gave her a hearty serving of shrimp-and-sausage gumbo.  It was my turn next.  Samael hovered beside me.

Raphael grinned.  “If it isn’t my favorite human.”  He held his hand out for a fist bump.  I pounded it.

“Hey Raff,” I said.  He filled my bowl to the brim.

Samael reached for my spoon.  Raphael swiped his hand away.

“Sam, back of the line,” Raphael chuckled.  “You can’t mooch off Shannon.”

Samael narrowed his eyes.  “I’m the eldest, Raphael.  I should eat first, especially before a mortal.”

“Hey!” I said, punching him in the side.

Samael smirked.

The gumbo was delicious.  I ate it in the courtyard, which had been converted into a mess hall.  The archdemons’ dwellings, including Samael’s, had become living quarters for the angelic host.  Hell’s cramped capital, Pandemonium, already overflowing with immigrants from the otherworlds, had little space for Heaven’s inhabitants.  The angels sat with the angels and the demons with the demons, still uncomfortable with their forced closeness.

Samael was a drunken heap at the head of the archdemons’ table.  He leered at me as I bit into a sausage chunk.

“What?” I said.

Samael looked at his empty bowl, then back to my half-filled one.  He pursed his lips, pleading.

“No!  This is my dinner.”

“Stop bothering her,” Beelzebub said.  “You’re irritating everyone.”

“Irritating you?” Samael said.  “I’m not the one who’s been a pill since two-thirds of our family gate-crashed the underworld.”

Beelzebub narrowed his eyes.  “No, you’ve just been an alcohol-ridden slob.”

Samael blew air through his teeth.  He surreptitiously reached for my spoon.  “Give me a break.  It’s called the demon drink, after all.  How else am I supposed to blow steam in this hellhole?”

I wrestled my spoon from Samael’s grip.

“Maybe by relying less on absinthe and more on your supposed wits to plan our next attack,” Beelzebub said.  “Michael’s forces are making advances into the Sixth Heaven, moving down the celestial ladder rung by rung.  We have little time for dinner parties or flirtation.”

“We’re not flirting!” I said, anger red on my cheeks.

Samael laughed.  “I am.”  He released my spoon without warning and it went flying across the table, into Astaroth’s champagne.

The demoness smiled and delicately removed my spoon.  “Remember when we were young, Beel?” Astaroth said to her husband.

Beelzebub grumbled.

“Beel wrote me poetry, Shannon – sonnets, villanelles, ballads,” Astaroth teased, taking Beelzebub’s hand in hers.

Beelzebub adjusted his collar.  He said nothing, eyes burning holes in the ground.

“Crappy ones, if I remember,” Samael said.  “A Shakespeare Beel is not.”

“I thought they were lovely,” Astaroth said.

Someone cleared their throat.  I looked behind me to see Asmodeus, bowl in hand.

“Any room for me?” Asmodeus said.

“Sure.”  I slid over on the bench to make space for him.

“How’s your brother?” Asmodeus asked, carefully eating his gumbo.

I sighed.  “Mo’s doing better.  He doesn’t remember anything.  We’re getting ready to go back to college, and he’s pissed he can’t play football.  Maybe all this sitting around on his butt will turn him into an intellectual.”

Samael snorted.  “That kid has about fifteen brain cells, maggot.  Probably less now that he’s the Horsemen’s vessel.”

“Hey!” I said.  “Mo’s smart in his own way – a way that doesn’t involve school.  He’s people-smart.  A lady-killer.”  I shook my head.  “God, why is he dating my roommate?”

The demons laughed.

“Probably to torment you,” Samael said.  “I’ll need you to keep an eye on your twin on campus and make sure he remains stable.  The closer Michael’s forces get to Earth, the more likely the horsemen will act up.”

I nodded, nervous.  “Okay.  And what about Metatron?  Where is he?” I asked, referring to the Watcher’s ally, the angel that had made it possible for Raziel to start the Apocalypse.

Samael’s face darkened.  “We don’t know, not yet.  After the chaos of the Ark of the Covenant’s destruction, the Watchers fled, supposedly to wherever Metatron is hiding.  They’re biding their time, waiting for the chaos to begin.”

“We can’t let that happen,” I said.

Asmodeus gave a throaty laugh.  “You don’t have to tell us that.”

Dinner passed and I found myself on the outskirts of Samael’s practice field, in a section that had been converted into a shooting range.  Angels and demons ran drills around me.  Having already mastered Samael’s scythe and Asmodeus’ swordstick, my training with the shards of the Lapis Exillis had progressed to Beelzebub’s revolver.  The compound-eyed demon guided my arm into the right position.  I aimed at a target’s bullseye.

“Get ready for the recoil, Shannon,” Beelzebub buzzed, letting go of my arm.

“Okay.”  I pulled the trigger.

The bullet ripped loose, faster than any manmade weapon.  Smoke that smelled of brimstone rose from the barrel of the gun.  I missed the target by a foot, further proving I was a lousy shot.

Beelzebub sighed.  He crossed his arms.  “It’s about perspective.  You have to have a feel for your target.  Samael tells me you’re an artist.  Apply that eye for detail to your aim.”

I stared intently at my sneakers.  “I just can’t do it.  Every time I fire a round, it’s like my vision goes wonky.  I focus so much on the target that I miss it, if that makes sense.”

Raphael, done jogging laps with his regiment, smiled toothily at us as he came running over.  “Go easy on her, Beel.  You were always the best at marksmanship.  Living up to your legacy is hard.”  Raphael ruffled my hair.  “God knows I’m a lousy shot.”

“We don’t have time for anything less than perfection,” Beelzebub said.  “She’s obstinate – like she’s not even trying.”

My patience snapped.  “I am!”

“Beel, relax,” Raphael said.  “She’s only human.  Not a war drone.  Shannon, have you tried closing your eyes?”

My lips opened in an O of surprise.  “What do you mean?”

Raphael grinned.  “Exactly what I said.  Trust in the weapon.  It’s a shard of the Lapis Exillis – it’s alive, in its own way.  You might be surprised.”

Beelzebub narrowed his eyes.  “You know, that sounds ridiculous, but might possibly work.  It can’t make her any worse than she already is.”

I looked at the revolver and shrugged.  “Here goes nothing.”  I raised the gun, focused on the target, and closed my eyes.  The weapon was hot in my hands.  It seemed to hum.  Curious, I slightly lowered, then lifted, the gun, until the humming was near constant.

I pulled the trigger.

The bullet cracked out of the barrel.  I heard Beelzebub draw a sharp intake of breath.  I opened my eyes to see a perfect hole in the center of the target.

I gaped.  “It worked?”

“Told you,” Raphael said, slipping his headphones back on, humming along to rap music, and running like a gazelle into the night.

Beelzebub smiled, a rare sight.  “Perhaps I misjudged you.”

“You think?”  I handed him the gun, which he slipped into a holster at his belt.

I smelled alcohol.  I turned to see Samael stumbling towards us.  “My maggot, lethal as always,” he slurred.  He collapsed against a fence, a dopey smile on his face.  Samael reached for a flask from the pocket of his robe and drained the remnants of absinthe within.

Beelzebub cursed.  “You git.”

Samael gazed at the stars.  “Please, spare me your lecture.  I’m just trying to enjoy the fact that my home has been turned into barracks.”

Beelzebub muttered to himself and left without a backwards glance.  Samael slumped to the ground, yawning.

“You smell like a bar,” I said, leaning down to help him up.

“It’s my aesthetic.”  Samael burped.

“Being an alcoholic?”

Samael hooked his arm around me, pulling me unceremoniously down into the dirt, wrapping his arms around me.  “Don’t judge me.  I was ancient before atoms were created.  I was millenia old before you were a figment of God’s imagination.  I have been to the outer boundaries, seen the face of existence, and laughed.  Laughed at the folly of being.”

I pried his viselike grip from my shoulders.  “You’re ranting again.  I think you should go to bed.”

Samael mumbled and tried to kiss my neck.  I grabbed his hands and hauled him to his feet.  He stumbled after me into his mansion, up the main staircase and into his room.  It was more cluttered than usual, which was saying something.  I shoved a heap of laundry off his comforter – all black reaping robes that smelled of cigarettes – and forced Samael onto the bed.  He protested half-heartedly, squirming as I drew the blankets over him.

I dimmed the lights.

“Don’t I at least get a goodnight kiss?” Samael said.

“Fine.  Just one.  I have to go, it’s late – hey!”

He caught my wrists as I was leaning down over him and pulled me on top of him.  Samael burrowed his head into the crook of my neck.  “You’re not going anywhere.”  He hiccupped.

I struggled to rid myself of him, to no avail.  “Yes, I am.  You’re plastered, and I’m moving back to Hortense tomorrow.  I need sleep, and if I stay here, I won’t get any.”

He smoothed the hair on my forehead.  “But I have to show you something.  Something beautiful.”

“If this is you trying to seduce me, I’m going to castrate you.”

He twined his fingers through mine.  “No.  It’s more important than that.  Close your eyes.”

“If you’re trying to fondle me-”


Okay, okay.”  I squeezed my eyes shut, humoring the addict.

The air cooled, and I opened my eyes to see that we were in the Cave of Souls, the candlelit repository of spirits at the base of the Tree of Knowledge.  I was calmed by the lullaby atmosphere.

Samael released me, and I rolled off him, staring up at the roots far above us.

“Why did you bring me here?” I asked, mesmerized by the candles’ slow burn.

Samael smiled.  “To show you this.”  He flicked his wrists, and the stone pews of souls shifted, parting like a curtain to expose more tapers.  The gulf of candles widened, leaving a stretch of darkness.  A single candle emerged, high above the others, three-quarters full.  Its flame, unlike the soft yellow of the others, was a bright blue.

Samael sighed.  “Gorgeous, isn’t it?”

I squinted, trying to see what made it so remarkable.  “Umm, not really – it looks like something I could buy at the Yankee Candle Factory in Williamsburg.”

Samael lightly squeezed my arm.  “It’s your soul, Shannon.”

My skin crawled.  “Oh.  Why… why is it blue?”

“Blue flames are the hottest.  Your soul and Adam’s, as the first humans created, are closest to the Source.  They’re the brightest of them all.”

“The Source?”

He snaked his arm under my waist.  “You, me, God – we’re all just emanations of the Source, the force that binds Creation together.  It’s what makes up your atoms and my ether.  It’s what joins us.  Angels call it Shekinah – the Holy Spirit.”

I thought back to Sunday school.  “I thought the Holy Spirit was God – part of the Trinity.”

“It’s more complicated than that.  The Shekinah has no personality.  It’s the eldritch mother of all, the faceless Source from which we spring.  Think of the Venus figurines ancient man carved.  Gods, angels, mortals – we’re all just dancers on the Shekinah’s stage.  If we were actors, the Shekinah would be the theater our lives played out on.  My Father fancied Himself one with the Shekinah, but He’s no more one with the Source than I am.”  Samael scoffed.  “My Father is a fool.”

“Why is God letting the Apocalypse happen?”

“My Father tends to be very laissez faire with humanity – He lets free will play its course.  You chose to start the Apocalypse to save your brother’s life, and so it came to pass.”

I slumped.  “I didn’t mean to.  I wasn’t thinking, Sam – I just couldn’t let my brother die.”

Samael hushed me.  “It’s alright.  No one blames you.  Fine, maybe some do, especially Beelzebub, but I don’t.  And you’ve met the angels.  They’re a very forgiving lot.  Raphael has nothing but glowing things to say about you.”

I rolled onto my side, facing away from Samael.  “But Raff likes everybody,” I muttered.  “The world might end, and it’s all my fault.  Look at all the wars that I started.  The outbreaks of disease.  The natural disasters.  They’ve all been exacerbated by my… my decision.”

Samael ran a finger down my spine.  “Shannon, you’ve been kicking yourself in the gut ever since the Apocalypse started.  Go easy on yourself.  We’ll fix this.”



August heat beat down on my back as I hauled my belongings up three flights of stairs to my new apartment.  Rosanna, Divya, and I had lucked out in the housing lottery, securing a spot in an on-campus apartment complex right near the dining hall.  With three bedrooms, a living room, and communal kitchen, we were living large.

“You’re not putting up that god-awful David Bowie poster, are you?” Mo teased, carrying a box of my clothes.  He dumped it on my bare mattress.

“Be careful with that!” I said, watching dresses spill from the container and onto the floor.

“Sorry.  Ever since the accident my hand-eye coordination has gone to crap,” Mo said.  He helped clean up the mess.

“Sorry,” I said.

“It’s fine,” Mo said.

“Hey, kiddo.  Where does your chair go?” my dad said, entering the room, trailed by my mom.

“In the corner near the window,” I said.

“That’s the last of your things,” my mom said, gently putting my printer on my desk.  Within the hour, my room was cozy as a clam.  I hugged my parents goodbye and lounged in the living room, reading a travelogue by a turn-of-the-century naturalist.  Mo rigged our TV so he could play a first-person shooter.  My page-flipping was interspersed with screams of virtual characters meeting untimely demises.

I finished my book and looked up to see my twin, still absorbed in his game.

“Hey Mo?” I said.

He cocked his head over his shoulder.  “Yeah?”

“You’d tell me if you started to feel off, right?”

Mo’s temple throbbed.  “Shannon, would you do me a favor?”


Mo flicked the controller.  “Stop treating me like broken glass.  Ever since the accident, you’ve been walking on eggshells around me.  It’s like you think I’m a different person or something.”

“I don’t.  I’m just worried.  I know how much football means to you, and – and if I were in your position, I would be pissed at the world.”

Mo shrugged.  He gave me his signature crooked smile.  “Don’t sweat it.  To be honest, I’m kind of glad I’m not playing football this season.  I’d rather spend more time with Rosanna and my friends, maybe get in some practice on the drums.”

I raised my eyebrows.  “Drums?”

Mo smirked.  “Yeah.  I’m taking drumming lessons.  Rosanna and I were thinking of starting a band.  She sings like Amy Winehouse, but you knew that already.  Baxter is a bassist, and I figured the three of us together would make a kickass group.”

I grinned.  “That sounds like a great idea.  Maybe you’ll actually learn how to keep tempo.”

Mo laughed.

There was a knock at the door.  “Hey, Shannon, it’s me.  Unlock the door!” came Rosanna’s voice.  I jumped off the couch and welcomed her family in.

We hugged hard, and she pecked Mo on the lips.  “My two favorite twins,” Rosanna said, one arm around each of us.  “Mo, I was so damn worried about you.  The minute I leave, you become a reckless driver.”  She shook her head and mussed his hair.  “I’m glad you’re better, cariño.”

We helped Rosanna unpack.  She talked our ears off about her internship at a literary agency in New York City and the hundreds of romance novel queries she’d had to read:

“Really, guys, these women have never had sex in their lives.  The way they described anatomy made me want to stab myself with a pen.”

We laughed.

“Why romance novels?” I asked.

Rosanna smiled.  “I thought they would be more entertaining than highbrow literary fiction.”

Divya arrived soon after, with boyfriend Seth Yoon in tow, and the five of us went to our usual hangout, the Golden Dragon.

“I can’t believe we’re sophomores already,” Divya said after taking a delicate bite of a bubble pancake, the Golden Dragon’s specialty, which deflated when she poked it with her fork.

“Yeah, crazy,” Mo said.  “So much has happened since last year.  I even built up my alcohol tolerance: I can do keg stands now without puking.”

“Heck no.  I’m not letting you drink anymore,” Divya said.  “You crashed into a tree. If you were intoxicated you would have driven straight off a cliff.”

Guilt flared in my gut.  I hadn’t told Divya, or even Rosanna, that Mo was the horsemen’s vessel.  I didn’t want Rosanna worrying that her boyfriend was a puppet of the apocalyptic squadron.

I stared at my chicken feet, which I had ordered on a whim.  I wasn’t really sure how to eat them.

Divya took pity on me.  “Put the chicken in your mouth, suck off the skin, chew the meat, then spit out the bones.  I promise you won’t turn into poultry.”

Mo snickered.  “Shannon’s real good at putting her foot in her mouth.”

Rosanna ribbed him.  “Play nice, Solomon.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell my brother to shut it.

Seth looked at my appetizers.  “Hey, I’ll eat those if you can’t handle them.  We can get you dumplings or some other white chick fare.”

“I’m not that pathetic.”  I put one of the chicken feet in my mouth then subsequently spat it out.  “Oh god.  I’m a stereotypical American, aren’t I?”

There was laughter.  I smiled weakly.

The first day of classes drew close, my practices in the shooting range with Beelzebub intensified, and Samael was still drunk as a wino.  I took to jogging in the College Woods to relax, the tried and true method of a runner’s high helping to settle my mind.

I kept worrying everything would blow up in my face like it had in New York.  That I would fail at mastering the Lapis Exillis, at saving Michael, and stopping Metatron.  That my brother, already technically dead, would have to be put down like a rabid dog.   Images of Mo’s comatose body were imprinted on the black of my eyelids, always there when I lay down to sleep.  No wonder Samael drank.  We, specifically me, had royally screwed things over.

The night before classes, I went on my longest run yet, exploring a forgotten path in the woods.  It was overgrown with roots and moss, with outcroppings of stone it was easy to stub a toe on.  I sprinted until sweat drowned me, trying to evaporate the miasma from my skin.  I imagined my sins pooled in my veins, screaming to be released through my pores.  Crazy talk, probably, or just PTSD.

I pounded the ground hard, desperately trying to forget everything but my movement.  I entered a primal state, becoming one with the dirt I crushed relentlessly underfoot.  I was running away from everything, seeking solace in a place beyond the reach of disaster.

Your brother’s a walking corpse, and when the time comes, you’ll have to kill him.  Only mortals can kill an immortal.

I took turns: a ragged right, a jolt to the left.  Like a hart pursued by a hound.  My petersword necklace burned.

Everything’s gone to hell because of your selfishness.  You should have let Mo die.

I tripped over an outcropping, falling head over heels down into a gully.

You can’t handle the Lapis Exillis.  You couldn’t save your twin.  What makes you think you can stop the end of the world?

I kept rolling, keeling over as sharp rocks tore at my skin.  I didn’t even bother to fight gravity.  My failings had voices, a chorus of those dead at my hands, taunting me with my every screw-up.

Come at me, I wanted to scream.  I’ll take my punishment as it comes.

Finally, my body came to a stop, bruised and bloody at the grassy bottom of the ravine.

I let out a mad laugh, fracturing.   This is where I belonged, low as dirt.

The petersword continued to feel like a spill of piping hot coffee.  I laid on my back, staring up at the emerald canopy.  The air smelled like flowers.  Crimson, pink, and white blooms fluttered in the breeze.

“A bed of roses for the ruined,” I muttered, as overdramatic as Samael.  Maybe he was rubbing off on me.  Now that was a scary thought.

“Or a bower for renewal,” came a child’s voice.

I was so far gone that I didn’t care if some kid saw me in my extremely pathetic state.  “That’s poetic.  Why don’t you let me wallow?”

Laughter.  An olive hand plucked blossoms just beyond my line of vision.  “You don’t get Purgatory, do you?  This is a place for beginnings,” the mystery boy said.  “Sure, you can lay in the mud all you want, but this land shifts so often that you might find yourself swimming in the sea.”

“So I’m in Limbo.  Perfect.  I could never bend backward enough for that stupid pole at Rosanna’s quinceañara.”

No wonder the petersword was acting up.  I had unlocked the unlockable through my desire to escape.  A place beyond the reach of angels and demons: the repository for souls, where the original apple-picking ditz had disappeared to for millenia, only to be reincarnated as me.

Mystery kid picked more roses, then deftly wove them into a garland.  He had wild curls of black hair and a tan my ginger complexion would kill for.

Dark eyes lit like sparklers.  With a hop, he joined me in the ravine, then placed the flower crown on my head.

I guessed he was an adolescent, twelve at most.  However old he was, the kid didn’t know when to shut up: “How pretty.  I’ve been waiting for you for a while.  A lot of people have forgotten me.  Sure, they remember my name, but they don’t remember me.  Like Dad, I’m a wanderer.  Maybe it’s my fault that my words have gotten twisted – I’ve been away for ages.  Enough time to turn water into wine.”

I groaned.  “You are not who I think you are.  I can’t deal with any more revelations.”

I sat up.  Kid offered me his hand.  He was one of those saplings that shot up on the cusp of puberty, too tall for his lanky body.

The kid grinned.  God, that smile: he could charm a lion away from its kill.  No wonder he was holy.

“You don’t have to call me Jesus.  Just Yeshua.  I know you have hang-ups over religion.  Remember, I hear people’s prayers.  You sure did pray for BLTs a lot during services.  As a fellow sandwich lover, I can respect that.  Anyways, fact is, Dad’s missing.  He’s the only one that can stop the Apocalypse.  And we’re the only ones that can find him.  You have the keys, and I have the map.  So what do you say, Shannon?  Want to find God?”

Against all common sense, I said yes – yes to a road-trip with tweenage Christ.

“Great,” Yeshua said.  “You’re driving.”



The land of Nod wasn’t so hard to find with Jesus behind the wheel.  Well, technically, tweenage Yeshua was sitting shotgun, doing Sudoku.  With my petersword wedged into the ignition of Christ’s favorite 1985 Yugo, which were apparently plentiful in Limbo – a repository for forgotten things like horrible cars – we were cruising down the celestial highway.  Yeshua periodically reassured me the Yugo’s engine wouldn’t explode:

“See, I tinkered with it for a couple decades, blessed the wheels, then got myself a solid vehicle,” he explained.  “When it comes to cars, there’s nothing more poetic than a Yugo.”

“Will I be back in time for classes?”

Yeshua kicked his feet up on the dashboard.  “Time is inconsequential when you’re riding the galactic freeway.  Don’t worry, Shana.  I can call you that, right?  Means beautiful.  You look just like my favorite disciple.  Bloodline of Solomon and all.”

“Um, I guess?”  I took a left at a neutron star, then, after the highway narrowed to two lanes, sped past a nebula.  “This is what I imagine an acid trip would be like: me cruising the galaxy with Christ.”

“Yeshua, please.”  He scribbled something onto the newspaper puzzle he was doing.

“Right.  So who are we looking for?”

“The bearer of the Mark.  The Mark will point us in the direction of Dad.  The Mark’s owner is a bit of an asshole.  He got all the bad genes from his father.”

Mark?  Like Mark Zuckerberg?  Were we using a social network to stalk Yahweh?

Wait – land of Nod?  Something sounded annoyingly familiar.

I screeched the Yugo to a halt.  “We are not finding Cain.  He’s the first murderer!”

Yeshua looked at me with honey eyes.  “Huh.  A pity.  I told him you were coming.  He’s already started making salad.  Even cleaned his bathroom, which is surprising, considering how disorganized he is.”  Yeshua rummaged through the globe box and pulled out sunglasses to fend off the glare of a supernova.

“Cain’s like the Biblical definition of asshole.”

“Nah, he’s only as bad as his father.  They both have a roguish charm.  Oh, park here!”

Despite the exploding star, I pulled over to the side of the road, by a run-down joint that boasted “Milky Way’s Best Burgers.”  I pulled my petersword out of the ignition and looped it around my neck, glad to have a sacred weapon in my possession when confronting the world’s worst brother.

The celestial highway was what I imagined the love child of the Great Plains and Hitchhiker’s Guide the Galaxy would look like.  Rolling hills of grass and wildflowers on the ground, astronomic monstrosities of black holes and dying stars above.  Everything was washed in psychedelic colors from galactic combustion.

Yeshua led me to a recently mowed path behind the burger joint.  Sunflowers tall as saplings bordered the freshly cut grass. “Cain dwells in the wilderness.  When you’re cursed to eternal exile, you kinda have to like liminal backwaters.”

“At least he can get his cheeseburger fix?”

“Cain hates meat.”

“Sure he does.”

I glanced at the resturant: the burger place was hosting what looked like the Wild Hunt motorcycle gang, complete with helmeted valkyries.  I was pretty sure I saw one-eyed Odin sweet-talking a waitress.  With its greasy windows and broken neon sign, it was a dive, but if the Norse pantheon, who were licked out of ice by a cow, dined there, it probably had good beef.

The breeze carried the scent of lavender and my own summer sweat.  The Border, as Yeshua called the supernatural highway, sure was pretty, in a kind of forgotten way.  Maybe Cain’s taste in a podunk nowhere wasn’t so bad.  All it needed was a trucker strip joint, maybe a casino, and it would have a definite vibe going on.

The farther we got from the highway, trees started creeping up from the plains, until after wandering for a while, we were in a picturesque forest, hung with vines.  The sunflowers gave way to shrubs, and everything looked lovingly tended, as if someone had clipped the pungent brier roses and trained the wisteria to artfully drape from the willows by the stream.  Round a bend, a wind chime made of bird skulls and river-smoothed glass clinked in the breeze.  I felt like I was meeting the village witch.

I turned a corner to find a certain ghostly menace bathing in a bend of the stream, where it eddied around jutting rocks.  Black hair spooled down his back, veiling his face from my view.

Man, he had a nice butt, despite it being paper-white.  His perfect, sorry ass was probably on a bender again.

“Samael?” I called.  “What are you doing here?”

Samael turned.

Only it wasn’t Samael: he had grass green eyes, with a constellation of freckles over his face, just like me.

Not-Samael covered his well-endowed nether regions and, to my surprise, blushed.  “Mother?  Um, you weren’t supposed to be here yet.”

“Did you call me mom?”  I stuttered.  “You’re older than me, freak!”

I looked to Yeshua for help with the confused nudist.

The Son of God had stripped down to his boxers and, with a definitive plop, cannonballed into the stream.  He surfaced and treaded water, a serene smile on his face.  “Cain, Eve doesn’t remember.  Recall how reincarnation works.”

Crap.  I was Eve.  I felt like barfing.

Cain’s face softened.  He pulled a green towel from a rock and wrapped it around his waist.  “Right.  Well, I suppose this is awkward.  You look just like her.  You are her.  I thought that, if you saw me, you would remember.  I just wanted to see you again.  After what father did to you, to us, I never thought I’d see you again.”

I squelched my shoe in some mud.  “Um, Henry and I, er, your father and I aren’t really a thing.  Like at all.  He’s kinda a jerky Harry Styles lookalike.”

Cain’s lips, who had the same dramatic Cupid’s bow as mine – urgh – parted..  “I wasn’t talking about Adam.”

“Uh… okay then.  Look, sorry I look like your mom or whatever, but you’re a stranger, and whoever your mysterious father is, if he’s not Adam, I’ve never met him.”

Cain laughed.  All dark and earthy.  God, he sounded just like Sam.   Why?

The world’s worst brother squeezed water from his long, luxurious hair.  How the hell did he bathe and not get a rat’s nest of tangles?  “I’m sure you two are very close.”

Dread gripped my stomach.  Yeshua was busy blowing bubbles.

I sat down on a boulder, dizzy.  “Wait, no.  That’s not what the Bible says!  Sam doesn’t have a fatherly bone in his deadbeat ossified body.”

Cain deftly changed into a black and green cloak that hung from a clothesline.  “Apparently you haven’t been reading between the Biblical lines, or the Kabbalah, for that matter.  That John fellow even calls me ‘son of the wicked one’ in the New Testament.  I never did like the apostles.”

Yeshua was sunbathing on a rock.  “John liked to exaggerate.”

“But Sam hasn’t mentioned you once!”

Cain gave a wild laugh.  “He inherited his parenting habits from his Father.  Both like to sacrifice their sons and ignore their cries for mercy.”

Yeshua rolled onto his stomach and sighed.  “Dad’s not all bad.  Just consumed by his Work.  I served my purpose.”

Cain rolled up the sleeves of his robe.  “At least your Father cares for you, Yeshua.  Mine?  He’s an idiot.”

The Idiot’s Guide to Hell, by Aym the Disgruntled, Upon Threat of Samael the Git

I think teenage me was high off sugar when I wrote this???

Angels and demons, though immortal, shave.  They are men, after all.

Michael uses a a straight razor.  He does not like mirrors.

Samael, always hungover, draws 666s in the shaving cream and sings like Tom Waits.  He likes to practice his smirk.

Gabriel, the hip one, uses an electric razor so his skin is cherub-soft.  Metatron has a beard.  Most archangels are clean shaven.  It goes along with the professional environment and hierarchy as old as dirt.

Demons are another matter.  Most follow their fancies, excluding Beelzebub.

Beelzebub never whistles.  His bathroom is spotless and silent.  Like Michael, he does not smile.  He stares into the dusky mirror and makes clean, precise cuts with his sword.  The foam blends with his off-white skin and iced hair, which is sensibly cropped.

He wears moth-eaten gray suits each day, with a pocketwatch and black handkerchief.  Butterflies and larva hitch rides on his tie.  When he descends from his tower, he carries his ledger and cane, a merciless device that sheathes his sword.  Its pommel is a silver spider, for he is Baal Zebub, the Lord of Flies and Souls.  Like gnats, the Departed fall into his web.  He sieves through the good, which are useless to him, and ensares the most wretched of souls.

Samael is the funnel.  Baal the spider in wait below.  When Samael is drunk, he addresses Baal as Lord of Butterflies.

To Beelzebub’s chagrin, the epithet stuck.

No one knows how Lucifer shaves.  Women dream, perhaps, but all who have seen are dead.

Once they shave, archangels require breakfast.  Gabriel is a pill without his juice.  It’s usually fig or pomegranate, but he will settle for cranberry.  At lunch, he drinks lemonade.

The archangels eat together on occasion.  Metatron takes Earl Gray and asks about the weather, which he is genuinely interested in.  Michael drinks Red Bull and watches the sun rise, listening to his brothers.  Before its invention, he chugged coca tea.

Raphael drinks Tabasco sauce.  Only the bravest of souls, and dragons, dare to enter his kitchen.  He and the Reaper trade recipes, as Raphael’s cooking is to die for.

Hell’s coffee machines are perpetually broken, and the bane of Duke Aym’s existence.  Their meeting room is notoriously understocked, and visitors from other pantheons gripe about official visits to Dis.  Gabriel, usually annoyingly upbeat, sours at the lack of juice boxes.

Once, when the Court of the Sanhedrin held council to judge the Damned, Gabriel and Aym staged a rebellion against the lack of caffeine.  Soon Penemue’s Department of Clerks went on strike, Beelzebub’s Accounting department followed suit, and the Damned ran away with the buffet food.  Soon, half of Dis was in the palace, and a party was soon underway.

Demons are not good at taking orders.  Samael’s calls for order were silenced by Gabriel’s horn, and the drunk Messenger blew the Reaper halfway to Abaddon.  It wasn’t until Lucifer entered the Sanhedrin, frowning even more than usual, that the Council and cohorts fell silent.  With a voice like ice, he declared the Court adjourned.  It was the only time in eternity the Judgment had been called off.

Disillusioned with the Empire he fell for, Lucifer retired to Pandemonium to grab drinks with Beelzebub.  The two were so depressed they forgot to don disguises, and were subsequently swarmed by mobs of fangirls.

Demons are scared of two things: boredom and estrogen.  Every action they take is to avoid these, especially emotional women.  It is slash fan-fiction, not binding spells, that is most effective against their advances.  Pink accessories and Disney songs are also very potent.

In the Idiot’s Guide to Hell (penned by Aym the Disgruntled upon blackmail of Samael the Git), restaurants are ranked with negative numbers and vie against each other to be outrageous.  Potential tourists are advised to steer clear of them and instead frequent establishments that serve mainstream fare.  A good way to avoid food poisoning and possible devouring is to avoid restaurants with human pillars of salt by the doors.  These morbid salt shakers are sure indications that only the most twisted of Fallen are welcome here.

The Idiot’s Guide is deliberately written to trick you.  Read its advice and do exactly the opposite.  Street lights in Hell are rigged to cause collisions: instead, cross in the middle of the road and drive on roofs, if possible.  Minor devils enjoy hitching rides on traveler’s backs in a Gogol-like fashion, and for the price of carrying them, you can get the local scoop on Dis.  Several entrepreneurs have started Rent-an-Imp companies that are supposedly doing stellar.

It is almost impossible to census Hell’s profits, as 99.8% of business is conducted on the Black Market.  Any legal dealings are taxed at 66.6% with co-pays of virgin blood.  Only dishonorable demons operate under the law.

Angels interested in day-trips should wear funny hats to disguise their halos and wallow in mud to hide their scent.  To most demons, angels smell like Lysol, and the scent has been known to cause mobs.  Elves are welcome as long as they bring Keebler cookies.  Gods must go through customs, and demi-gods require chaperones.

All of Hell is inappropriate for minors, but Belial and Asmodeus are more than willing to give them an unforgettable stay.  Tour groups to the Court of Lords are welcome, and many nobles will personally incinerate your Bible for you and autograph your hand with the ash.

What about mortals in Hell?  Are you shitting me, child?

There are no mortals in Hell.  Most demons do not believe in their existence.  Daemonic theologians have debated mankind’s existence for centuries, and the general consensus is that Man is an outdated idea created by demons afraid of the Light.

You are a girl?  A human?  You, my dear child, are mad.

Humans are monkey’s tails, and that is the end of that.

Highway to Hell, or Allie Writes Demon Erotica: Part 1

Trigger warning: Sex, Violence, Sometimes Both at Once, Mention of Boy Bands, and General Idiocy

Dedicated to Thomas Mattheos and Nirnif/Izzi/Gabriel’s Whipping Post.  

Some Pagans worship their pantheons.  I write crappy porn about them.  

Five archdemons sat round a dive bar’s table, its cushions peeling away.  Belial belched and downed another cheap beer.  Samael picked at his teeth with the point of his scythe.  Azazel, whose head was a goat’s, bleated in irritation.  Asmodeus unabashedly flipped through a pornographic magazine featuring voluptuous succubi.

I watched the four who had answered my request in the Intelligence Department for a covert operation.  I had yet to reveal the details of our musical undertaking.  All I had promised was sufficient pay in sins of the flesh.  Hell’s payroll operated on the selling of indulgences, or sins, and Belial, Samael, Azazel, and Asmodeus were all perfectly lustful fellows.  Clearing my throat, I set to elucidating our mission.

“Thank you for gathering this evening, gentlemen,” I said, drumming my talons on the table.  “I’m sure you’re all curious as to why you’re here.”

Asmodeus regretfully closed his magazine.  Steepling his elegant fingers under his chin, he met my eyes with disinterest.  “Cut the crap, Beelzebub, and pay up,” he said.  “You said there would be maidenheads snatched and virgin’s blood on our pricks tonight, but I’ve yet to see a single viable female in this shit hole.”

There was an echo of support among his fellows.

“The women come later, friends,” I explained, nervous about invoking Asmodeus’ wrath.  “After I explain the details of our undertaking-”

“Shit, Beelzebub, no one cares,” Belial interrupted.  He snatched my beer from me and drank it in one gulp.  Wiping his lips, he smirked.  “Talk fast or we leave.  Time’s a’wasting.”

“Ahem,” I cleared my throat.  “As I was saying…”

“Nice ass,” Samael noted.  He ceased picking his teeth and took the opportunity to slap the derriere of a passing waitress with the flat of his scythe.  She squealed and ran, but Azazel stuck his cloven foot out before her.  The waitress tripped and fell into Azazel’s lap.

Baaaaaah,” Azazel bleated, trapping her in his arms.  He proceeded to slobber over her face in an animalistic kiss.

“Azazel, let her go,” I said, exasperated.

Azazel glared at me, but released her.  “Bah,” Azazel said, vindictive.  The others laughed at his tomfoolery.

“I’ve gathered you four here because of your exceptional devotion to Hell’s main causes: corruption, destruction, and above all, temptation.”  I gestured to the window that showcased Dis City.  “Our capital is built upon these three pillars, but it is temptation I have gathered you here for tonight.  Our dearly wretched Lord Lucifer-”

Asmodeus snorted.  “You mean Lu, right?  Still stuck in the last century, eh, Beelzebub?”

I bristled at his comment, but corrected myself. “-Lu has charged me with a serious task: luring a tenth of humanity’s young women to Hell’s clutches.”

Samael perked up.  “Minors?” he said, voice like snake oil, “Now I’m interested, Beel.”  Samael’s shit-eating grin made even me, the Lord of Flies, feel dirty.

The other three echoed Samael’s sentiments.  Azazel bleated enthusiastically, clapping his hooves together.

Belial gave me the side eye.  “And how the hell are we going to do that, Beelzebub?” he grunted.

I looked at the four unappealing men.  One more goat than human, one a drunkard, one a sex fiend, and one who probably considered his scythe his girlfriend.  How I would make the into palatable celebrities fit for public consumption was almost- almost– beyond me.  But I had the seed of an idea.

“We used to be angels,” I explained.  “Played the harp, sang like castratis, flounced around Heaven in chorus lines for the Lord.  Musical performance is in our blood – it used to be one of our callings.  Samael, remember how you used to play the guitar and sing hallelujahs?”

Samael snorted.  “I could always shred the fretboard to pieces.”

I nodded.  “And Belial, your drum-playing was the marching beat for Heaven’s army.”

Belial shook his head in disbelief.  “I haven’t touched a drum set in ages…”

I turned to Azazel.  “And you, Azazel – you were always passionate about the bass.”

Azazel bleated, slit eyes rolling in his head.

Asmodeus waited expectantly.  “What?  I suppose you’re going to praise my melodious voice?” he scoffed, lighting a cigar and taking a drag.

“You were only second to Lucifer in singing praises to the Lord, Asmodeus,” I said.

“So what’s your point?” Samael asked, intrigued.  “What do our musical abilities have to do with this covert operation?”

I drew in a deep breath, then set to explaining.  “I did a lot of thinking, and had a stroke of inspiration.  We’ve all heard of musicians selling their souls at crossroads to the Devil for fame.  But what about fans?  The ones who throw themselves at boy bands, who fawn over celebrities?  Certainly they lose pieces of their souls to their obsessions.  You can’t tell me Beatles mania wasn’t a cult.  That girls wouldn’t have laid down their innocence for Elvis.”

Asmodeus’ acid green eyes flickered.  “You want us to form a band?” he asked.

Azazel baaed.  Belial laughed like a madman.  Samael gave me the stink eye.

I hesitated.  “Well… yes.”

“Well, shit,” Asmodeus said.  “Supposing this could work, how the hell do you expect us to appeal to teenagers?”

I tucked a strand of auburn hair behind my ears.  “Well, I would be the band manager, and first, you four would all need to undergo major image makeovers.  We’d need to brand you for public consumption, clean off your edges and give you alter egos.  I actually have the plans for you here…” I said, reaching into my briefcase and pulling out four folders.  I started with Azazel’s, opening it to show the others.  “Here, Azazel, are the mock ups for your disguise.  You’re going to be the youngest of the group, an 18 year old heartthrob bass player.  The typical bad boy that will have young women falling head over heels.”

Azazel grunted, taking his picture and examining it.  His disguise was a heavily pierced, black haired youth with tribal tattoos.

“Baa,” Azazel contemplated, taking the folder and putting it in his messenger bag.

“Good, good,” I said.  “And you, Samael.  You’re going to be a 23 year old German metalhead thrash roots that fronts as the lead guitarist.”

Samael glanced at his folder, taking in the long-haired blond man with slender musculature that was to be his disguise.  He grunted his approval.

“Belial, you’re going to be the drummer, of course-”

“What’s up with the band name?” Asmodeus interrupted.  He cracked his knuckles, threatening.

“The band’s called Fortuna.  I had our pop culture team come up with the band name.  It’s sure to be a hit.”

“Really?” Samael scoffed.  “Because it sounds like you pulled the name out of your ass.”

My face flushed in anger, but I held back several choice words.  “Trust me, Samael.  It’s bound to be a success.  Your musical talents coupled with my expert management will ensure Fortuna tempts hundreds – no, thousands – to Hell’s fiery furnaces.”

Azazel responded: “Blaaaaaa?

“That’s a good question,” I answered.  “How exactly are we going to condemn these girls to Hell?  Well, through subliminal messaging, we’ll encourage these young women to engage in rebellious, subversive behavior.  With hi-tech spells woven into our songs, we’ll arouse in them base impulses and destruction, debauchery and lust.  Upon listening to our music, their ids will be unleashed.  I’m sure we can all drink to that, friends.”

“Sounds like fun to me,” Belial said, shrugging.  “I’ve been aching to get back into drumming – it’s usually something I do when piss drunk or stoned.  It’d be nice to do it professionally, and on a mission for Lucifer at that.”

Asmodeus saw an opportunity.  “And we can do with the minors what we please?”

I nodded yes.  “Kill them, fuck them, torture them – I don’t care.  As long as their souls end up in the proverbial basement.”

Asmodeus grinned like a shark.  “We have a deal, Beelzebub,” he said, extending a hand for shaking.  I took it, returning the gesture.  “Cheers, then!”  Asmodeus called, raising his glass.  I raised my refill and we clanked our beers together, toasting our new venture.

“Now that that’s out of the way,” Samael murmured, “where are the virgins and lush whores?”

I smirked.  “If you’ll follow me, gentlemen…”

We tipped the waitress generously and bought free drinks for the bar, then made our way out to a limousine parked before the dive.  “Take us to Lilith’s Shedim Club,” I told the driver, referring to the Queen of Hell’s den of iniquity, where experienced courtesans and innocent virgins waited to pleasure Hell’s nobility.  A light blood-rain began to fall as we drove through the streets to the red-light district.  Samael sharpened his scythe with his whetstone in the backseat while Azazel munched on a napkin he had swiped from the bar, goat’s appetite apparent.  Belial, drunk, was hand-drumming on his legs as if practicing for our future performances, while Asmodeus stared out the window, steely-eyed.  I checked my Blackberry and waded through emails.  Finally, we arrived.

“Here you are,” said the driver, pulling up at the curb.  I nodded to him, and we climbed out.

Samael hissed in anticipation, snake-like tongue slipping out through his teeth.  “Yes,” he said.  “I can smell the sweet virgins from here.”

Belial scoffed.  “I don’t understand your obsession with virgins and purity, Samael.  I’d take an experienced courtesan over a yearling any day.”

“It’s the act of corrupting the innocent that’s so enticing,” Samael hissed.

Asmodeus laughed as we walked through the red-curtained doors.  “I don’t see what there is to argue about.  As long as they’re fresh and young, who cares how many men they’ve been with?”

Baaa,” Azazel voiced his opinion, drooling a bit.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” came a sultry voice.  Lilith, earthy-skinned with voluminous black curls, was draped over a velvet settee, a knowing smile on her lips.  She was dressed in a leather skirt and ruby-encrusted bustier, slingback heels posed like a question on the settee arm.  Her lips were a dark, tempting shade and she smelled like spring rain and sin.  Her head was in Lucifer’s lap, and he hand-fed her cherries, one by one.  She knotted the stems in her mouth and spat out the pits by his feet.  Lilith reached up in affection and mussed Lucifer’s blond hair.

I nodded to my boss and his consort.  “Hello, Lu, Lilith.”

“Beel!  My favorite blight,” Lucifer said, easing off the settee and rising to greet us.  “Samael, Belial, Asmodeus, Azazel.  I trust you’ve been briefed on your mission.”

“Oh, have we been bloody briefed,” Asmodeus grunted.  “Enough small talk.  We’re here for the whores, not sucking up to you, Lucifart.”

Lucifer laughed off-handedly.  “Telling it like it is since the universe’s conception, eh, Deus?  Well, please, by all means, don’t let me stand in your way.”  Lucifer bowed slightly, inclining his arm to the harem chambers.

Baaa,” Azazel agreed, following Asmodeus to the courtesans.

Belial and Samael, who had a tad more tact, made small talk with Lucifer about his latest torture techniques while I made payment arrangements with Lilith.  She stood behind the front desk, writing in a ledger.

“Just charge tonight’s indulgences to Hell’s Department of Temptation.”

She nibbled the cap of her pen, amber pools of eyes gazing at me.  “Will you be partaking tonight?” Lilith asked.  She ran her long tongue over her fangs.

I began to sweat.  Lilith, insatiable, was famed for taking lovers other than Lucifer, and had made it perfectly clear on previous occasions that she wanted to bed me.  I had resisted her advances in the past, unsure, but tonight I wanted to relieve the stress of the evening.

“I think so,” I said.

She smirked.  “Follow me, then, Beel,” she said, taking my wrist and guiding me to the harem courtyard.  I walked past the veil covering the door and my nose was greeted by the scents of frankincense and myrrh.  A phantasmagoria of beautiful women – some demons, some monsters, some human, all deadly in their glory – was spread out, luscious, before me.  Several women bathed, rubbing spikenard oil into their hair, while others pleasured clients.  A few belly-danced to the exotic music drifting through the room.  Others sat and gossiped in quiet voices with one another.

Samael and Belial were doubly penetrating a lamia, her tail wrapped around the both of them.  Asmodeus was pleasuring a human girl with his tongue, his lips shining with her juices, while Azazel mercilessly fucked a nymph.  I blushed at their depravity.  Lilith saw the red on my cheeks and laughed.  “For a general of Hell, you have always been shy when it comes to matters of the boudoir, Beelzebub.  Perhaps we should go somewhere private?” she asked.

I nodded yes.  “Does Lucifer mind?”

Lilith laughed.  “Lucifer and I take so many lovers on the side, I lost count of them long ago.  When you’re together with someone for centuries, it’s impossible not to have an open relationship.”  She led me down a hallway to a curtained room with a luxurious, silk-laden bed.  The mother of seduction drew the curtain and turned, smile coy.  She crooked her index finger, motioning for me to come to the bed.

Lust flared in my gut and shot static pulses through my limbs.  I advanced like a predator, all hunger.  But Lilith was no easy prey.  Like the owl, wild and elusive, she would evade capture even if I held her in my arms and drove myself deep inside her.  That was her power: she was untamable.  Even Lucifer could not lay claim to the mother of monsters.

Our lips met like a storm, and my hands on her skin felt like touching the mantle of night, deliciously cool and smooth.  Her dusky cheeks bloomed rose and her mouth thirsted, devouring my neck in kisses.  I lost my hands in the sea of her curls.

Yes…” Lilith murmured as I gently undid her bustier, circling my thumbs over her breasts’ peaks.  I swept her décolletage up in my hands and rolled my thumbs over her nipples, trailing kisses along her collarbone, down to the hollow below her throat.  I nipped her flesh with my fangs, and she laughed.  Lilith sank onto the bed, pulling me with her, and I circled my lips over her left breast, taking her pert nipple into my mouth and sucking, flicking my tongue over it.

She traced the muscles of my back.  She sighed, a sweet sound, as I caressed her inner thigh with one hand.  Lilith spread her legs open, expectant, and I felt her welcoming wetness and the softness of her folds.  Running my thumb up and down her nether lips, I caressed her clit and slipped a finger into her tight core.  Her muscles coiled around my index finger.  I inserted another finger, gently hand-fucking her as I pressed kisses to her skin.  Lilith arched her back, curling her legs behind me.

“Oh,” she moaned, orgasming.  She opened her eyes wide, gazing at the bed canopy.  She smirked.  “My turn to play with you.”  Lilith took my cock in her hands and toyed with me.  She eased me onto my back.  I did, relaxing as she took my cock into her mouth, bobbing her head up and down its length as she swirled her tongue over the sensitive head.  She worked me expertly, cupping my scrotum and driving me to the edge of ecstasy.  Unable to control myself, I buried my hands in her hair and pumped into her mouth, burying myself balls-deep in her throat.  Lilith, a fan of rough sex, enjoyed it, matching my moans as she devoured me.  She fingered herself as she pleasured me.  I saw the wetness shine on her hand and couldn’t contain my lust for her, my desire to taste her sweet dew.

I eased her mouth from my cock and guided Lilith onto her back.  Eager, I lapped at her wetness, zig-zagging my tongue over her lush folds and working my way up to her clit.  After teasing her clit, I fucked her with my demonically long, thick tongue.  Lilith shivered, clutching at the sheets.  She smelled like musk and jasmine, tasting like spring water.  I delighted in bringing her pleasure.

“Wait…” she murmured, eying the door.

“What?” I breathed, surfacing.  Leaning against the door frame, cocky as ever, was Lucifer, in a silk robe that hung off his shoulders, revealing his perfectly carved features.  He was truly God’s masterpiece, with skin that shone like opals, his hair like yellow beryls.  I cocked my eyebrows in question.

“Mind if I join?” Lucifer propositioned, grin crooked.  He didn’t wait for an answer, drawing the curtain behind him.  He untied his robe and let it fall to the floor, Adonis body like a lion.  Lucifer’s cock stood ready, thick-veined and wet with pre-cum.  Lilith shivered beneath me at the sight of it.

“I suppose we’re past the point of no?” I said.

Lucifer laughed, stalking towards me.  “I would think so.”  I paled at the sight of my king.  His depravity knew no bounds, and his sadism was legendary.  Sure enough, a riding crop materialized in his hands.  “Lilith, have you been misbehaving?” Lucifer tsked, playing with her.

Lilith laughed.  “Kiss my ass, Lu,” she said.

“Gladly,” Lucifer hissed.  He handed me the riding crop.  “Beel, Lily needs to be disciplined.  I’ll bring her pleasure.  You’ll bring her pain.”

“Lord, I…  Lilith, are you sure?”

Yes,” she urged me.  “Be merciless, Beel, like you are with the damned.”

Hot lust boiled in my solar plexus at the thought of bruising Lilith’s dusky ass.  Base and unruly, I know, but I was a demon.  Lucifer set to rimming her, kissing the pink rosebud of her anus.  Lilith, head buried in the pillows, moaned.   He continued to pleasure her until she was on the edge of cumming.  Suddenly, he drew back.

“Now, Beelzebub,” Lucifer ordered.

I struck Lilith with the riding crop.  She cried out as I brought it down on her, relentless.  I was so absorbed in my work, watching bruises form, that I didn’t notice Lucifer behind me until he started grinding his cock between the cheeks of my ass.  “Take her, Beel.  Just like I’ll take you,” Lucifer growled.

Lucifer’s desire was like an intoxicating drink.  It spilled over into me, and I wanted nothing more than to penetrate Lilith, queen of demons, and fill with my king’s hot seed.  Lucifer and I had fucked before during the heavenly war, mostly to relieve tension, but that was to be expected among generals on the battlefield.  We had never done so in an intimate setting.

I took Lilith’s ass, pounding into its tight vacuum.  She hand-fucked herself, moaning.  Lucifer rubbed his cock over my perineum, pre-cum slicking its head, then penetrated me.  I felt his hot member slide inside me, digging his hilt to my core.  He pumped with abandon, just as I did.  I finished before him, crying out, as my moans mingled with Lilith.

She, finished, lay splayed beneath me, but Lucifer still wasn’t done.  He pumped into me for minutes more, and I bore the brunt of his power, ass searing in a delightful way as I stretched to accommodate my king.

Finally, he spilled his seed into me, and it rushed from my ass down my legs in thick, hot spurts.  Sighing, Lucifer leaned against me, vulnerable for only a moment, then regained himself.  He chuckled, wiping himself clean with the sheets and spit, then rose from the bed.  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, voice playful, “I’ll leave you and Lilith to your dalliances, Beelzebub.”  And, like a wicked whirlwind that had plowed into the room, our king left, just like that.

Lilith’s amber eyes fixed on me, hazed with post-coital bliss.  “Well, that was enjoyable,” she purred.  “Shall we continue?”  Her ample breasts rose in time with her breaths.  I found myself already hard again, brimming with desire for the inventor of seduction.

“Yes,” I murmured, eager.  I sated my desires in a myriad ways that night, leaving cuts and bruises on the both of us.  The sheets were bloody come morning, thanks to our brutal fucking.

The soon-to-be band was drunk off sex and alcohol the next morning, strewn like war victims across the harem.  Only Asmodeus was up, as always sharp as a knife.  The human girl he had pleasured the night before hand fed him grapes.  He eyed me with disinterest.  “I see you were Lilith’s toy.  How quaint,” Asmodeus said, mussing the hair of his human girl.  “I’m keeping her,” he said, indicating the courtesan.

I narrowed my eyes.  “But Deus, we’ll encounter so many mortals on tour.  Surely you want to diversify your tastes?”

Asmodeus scoffed.  “And I will.  But, for the time being, this girl is mine.”

I shrugged.  “Whatever you desire, Deus.”

A rich breakfast was served by the harem girls as the others roused to the scents of fresh pastries, cheeses, and tea.  Samael and Belial rested against the curving tail of the lamia they had rutted with the night before while Azazel grazed on fresh grass, chewing his cud.

“Baaaa?” Azazel asked.

“Good question,” I acknowledged him.  “Band practice starts today.  Bright and early.  I’ve booked a tour for us in less than a week.  We need to get this show on the road.”

Evil Albinos, Spiders, or Beelzebob


Drawn crappily by mouse.  Is it lip injections or good genetics?

Beelzebub?  Beelzebob?  Beelzeboob?  Let’s just call him Beel.

Since I was in middle school, I have dreamt of an evil albino.

He stalks the halls of infernal palaces in my dreams, too tall, all edges, dressed in armor, black capes, and gauntlets that are so last-last-last century.  White hair, red eyes, skin so porcelain that he makes Samael look like he’s covered in motorcycle grease.

For years I only knew him as “that scary demon that drinks with Samael” or “that severe guy that hosts all those creepy parties” or “the only one who ever seems to do any work in Pandemonium.”  I would watch him lead military formations and he appeared to be Samael’s right hand man and most trusted, top general in both archdemon councils and in small private events after-hours in various shady underworld bars, probably all owned by Asmodeus.

Like Michael, the Albino was reserved.  He spoke little to me and seemed to regard me with disdain, or either disinterest.  I didn’t like him very much at all.  I eventually connected the dots and learned the leader of Hell’s military forces with ruby red fly eyes was called Beelzebub, which endeared him even less to me.  Aym was a barrel of monkeys worth of fun, Samael, though a maudlin drunk, at least didn’t look at me like I was a beer stain on very expensive upholstery, and the other demons were various shades of horrifying.  But Beelzebub?  He took terror and ate it for lunch.  There was an air of do-not-fuck-with-me-or-I-will-rip-your-intestines-out about him.  I can also probably count the number of times he’s smiled on one hand.

I was glad to stay far far away from him.

Enter my 23rd year, and I started dreaming about Beel more frequently.  We would hang out with Samael and commiserate over Sam’s sloppiness and antics.  We became friendly, and Beel, though still a hardass, revealed a softer side.  He still dressed like he was Sauron or whatever but at least the guy could hold a conversation.  A lot of fashion sins are committed in Hell.  He would save me from Lilith who for some reason is always trying to kill me or save me from Samael when he got crazy due to existing as an eternally thirteen year old edgelord’s wet dream.  In one very strange dream, Beelzebub took me bowling in one of Pandemonium’s malls (yeah, I don’t know either) with one of his humans (was he Damned? a devotee? god only knows) that turned out to be one of Beelzebub’s boyfriends.  That was weird: Beel was dressed in jeans for like the first time since dinosaurs peaced out and I concluded that Beel was gay.  That was cool, I was happy he had found love with a guy that looked like Channing Tatum mixed with a teddy bear.

Then things got weirder.  I started dreaming of one of my very early first OCs, a spider demon named Elric that looked… a lot like Beelzebub.  Elric came from a fantastical dream I had when younger and also had the same name of a certain Michael Moorcock prince that looked exactly like Beel.

I kinda reeled at the coincidence.  I’ve always viewed Beel as the spider that traps souls like flies, hence his title Lord of the Flies and his Order of the Fly that he heads.  I started dreaming of summoning Beelzebub and him having multiple eyes like a spider, or appearing in this fly-spider hybrid body and scaring away my enemies.  Y’know, typical creepy dream demon stuff.  It all came to a head when Beelzebub made it very clear that he was not asexual, not gay, but pansexual as fuck when we were shooting the shit at a bar and talking about relationships.  I started visiting his mansion, which was all white inside, save for little mayflies hopping about the furniture, and I wondered if despite the cleanliness Beel was really just as messy as Samael.  Even Samael doesn’t let bugs live in his bed, just inside his ribcage.

Beelzebub now pops up occasionally, most notably once when I dreamed he was my sensei in this Japanese-style schoolgirl dream.  I’m still not quite sure what that is about.  What I have gathered is that beneath the “I will not hesitate to murder you if you stand in my way” demeanor he is a big old softie with a taste for interior design.  Also bowling, apparently.  He has been gentle and kind throughout the process of me getting to know him, and while I could do without all the spiders that keep making themselves at home in my hair or flies that seem to pop out of nowhere via spontaneous generation, I’ve learned that maybe this certain Albino isn’t all evil.

My Polytheism

As you may or may not know, I am a lurker.  Especially on Beth and Jo’s blogs.  I have been since I started my WordPress and used to be more active in the Pagan community, and as I’m trying to blog more, I decided to write a bit about my spirituality and stop posting so many angsty poems.

As those who have followed my blog since the tender age of 18 (I’m now 23), you may remember my Pagan phase, which despite my protestations, I never quite left (Sorry for dragging you to full moon rituals on Imbolc, D and L).  In fact, I have been Pagan since I was 7 and read D’aulaire’s Book of Greek Myths.  I was smitten with Athena, and would pray to her for help on homework, then crushed on Hermes majorly.  I read the end of D’aulaire’s, the part where the gods are dead, and cried, like, a lot.  I then decided I would single-handedly revive the old faiths and thought I was the only Pagan in the world for a good five years until I discovered Pagans online.  I went through an Egyptian phase and dressed up as Sekhmet for a school event, devoured all the mythology books I could find at the library, and while the gods were great, there was another piece of the puzzle I was figuring out.

Enter angels and demons.

My first memory, at two, is of Samael, coming to my cradle in a night terror with red eyes, ringing me with mangled ghost children, singing me a lullabye in a voice like Tom Waits and saying “I LOVE YOU ALLIE.”  I woke up clutching my pacifier right before he hugged me.  Come four and I would dream my father was ripped to pieces by a hellhound, one I would see many times afterward, with red eyes, black fur, and a wolfish mien.  I later learned through experience, after many years, it was one of Samael’s forms, besides the stupid black serpent and dragon.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Throughout my childhood, from year zero to today, I have struggled with horrible nightmares, sleep paralysis, and vivid dreams of angels, gods, and demons.  I have always been drawn to the otherworldly and my imaginary friend was an angel of the Morning Star, destruction, death, lions and serpents.  I was about eight.  He was my first OC that I wrote about at 11, and I described him in that spectacularly crappy space opera as “a Grim Reaper with attitude.”    Metatron was also in there as a tea-drinking angel.  It was weird.

Before I even read Madeliene L’Engel, I gravitated to stories about angels.  I forced my parents to buy me a children’s Bible in kindergarten because it had angels on the cover. Demons scared the crap out of me, but angels felt like home.  I saw sparks of light flying around churches, priests, and children, in particular a cobalt blue spark that was always by my side who I later learned was Michael.  Raphael is green.  Samael is red.  When I look up to the sky, to this day, I see millions of sparks of light flying through the sky.

In first grade I built a tin foil hat because I thought aliens were contacting me through energy.  Later I learned I was feeling the presence of spirits, but when you’re young and feel like your chakras are being plugged into an electric socket, you worry.  I would sing to my morning star angel and pray and feel the energy, be moved by music, pray to the gods, there it was.  So from a young age, I felt and saw spirits, but didn’t understand what was going on.

Enter puberty.

My first vision came when I was 12, December 21, on a cold winter’s night.  I was lying in bed, my eyes shut closed, and I had an out-of-body experience.  I was thrust from my preteen child’s form into the sky above heaven, and below me, angels in armor with brilliant scintillating wings were battling demonic black shadows, guts spilling onto the ground, blood, blood everywhere.  I screamed for someone to save me and fell to the ground, but no one could see me.  A demon was about to plunge its talons through me to get to an angel when a force like the whole weight of the world pulled my spirit back, zooming through ranks of angels to their stronghold.  There in a clearing stood a tall, imposing angel in golden armor, with a flaming sword, saffron hair and eyes that could pull souls out of their bodies.  He saved me, frowned, then thrust my spirit back into my body, bellowing a name in Hebrew he continues to call me to this day.  His voice was like thunder as my body rocketed up in bed.  I was wracked with shivers and sobs, wondering who the general of Heaven’s forces was and what my experience could possibly mean.  Much later on, I learned his name was Michael.

A few weeks later in seventh grade, inspired by Twilight, I invented the name Samael as a punk version of Samuel and wrote a story about a middle school over a hellmouth.  A few weeks later, I googled Samael and learned that despite being the name of a crappy metal band, he was also the Jewish angel of death and Satan.  Cue screaming and not touching that story for a month.  My computer started acting weird, shutting down randomly and claiming I’d edited the Wikipedia page of Lucifer.  I cried.  I cried a lot at that time.  Three nights after my discovery of Samael actually being a Jewish angel/demon/annoying snake, I had my first dream of him.  He was very snarky and offered me an apple, then told me I read too much.  He still continues to be an asshole and terrible, terrible cook.

That first dream opened up the door for endless dreams of demons, tricksters, and archangels.  I developed an especial fondness for Raphael and wrote two stories about Freyr without realizing who he was.  Aym popped into my dreams, Beelzebub grumped around, and Michael continued to step in when Samael decided it was okay to let the minor drink.  Loki and Samael were the broiest of bros, Manannan, Coyote, Tezcatlipoca, and Odin all made appearances, and I continued to write stories based on my dreams.  Enter high school and I believed in the gods but was still pretty skeptical of the whole angel/demon thing, as I hated the patriarchy and thought it was sexist that priests and the Messiah couldn’t be women.  I was also terrified of Hell, even though Pandemonium is basically an endless party and the only one who really seems to work are Rofocale and Beelzebub.  Lilith terrified me and I still hate her.  She’s a bitch.

I’m agnostic as fuck, so being godbothered and having all these dreams of angels, demons, and deities was confusing.  I went to the top science and tech high school in the world for godsake then was a bio major in college.  12-19 was me barely keeping my head above water as I challenged myself in academics, burned the candle at both hands, and dealed with shamanic death-rebirth crap and Sam being a right arse.  I finally figured out that Freyr was the character I kept writing about after googling “blond god of the north and nature” and other such things.  Michael kept stepping in when Sam was too drunk to function.  I made rounds with the archangels and chilled with Asmodeus at his atrociously gaudy casino bar.  Then I had to wake up each morning and try to ignore the fact that Samael got drunk off holy water the night before.

There was so much shadow work.  Too much.  When Samael basically raises you your dreams are full of the Adversary, Hell, war, and purifying fires.  He always told me to “Grow a spine, worm.” and “Stop being a doormat.  Stand up for yourself.  Don’t kneel, don’t bow, stand strong.”  He also likes to go off on tangents about decomposition, the Apocalypse, alcohol, alchemy, and the dreaded metaphysics, all of which I ignore.

The shadowork didn’t scare me so much as when Samael cried.  Seeing the Grim Reaper cry kind of makes you doubt your existence.  We fight a lot, and he has no respect for boundaries, and sometimes I don’t know why the universe made me his babysitter.  I’m on much better terms with the Archangel Michael, who I consider my guardian angel, and Freyr, my patron god.  Beelzebub is actually, despite being anal and cold, a sweetheart, and Deus is just dumb.  All Aym does is do drugs and hang out with prostitutes.  There are a lot of succubi in Hell.

So I probably sound crazy, but I’ve met about 25 people with the same exact experiences and same UPG about Samael, down to his weird fascination with squirrels.  I’ve actually made several of my best friends because Samael brought us together.  So thanks, I guess, Bonebutt.

My polytheism is this weird mess of Paganism and Christianity.  My polytheism is constantly evolving.  I believe in God, which angels and demons are manifestations of, this abstract Source that sends out servants who all embody its characteristics, hence names like “Gall of God,” “Strength of God,” or “Image of God.”  I hold the kind of strange view that Michael is Jesus, or maybe I’m totally wrong, but when you see the tenderness with which Michael gardens souls and answers prayers, and how his love and suffering and sacrifice hold all Heaven together, it seems as Christlike as Christ can get.  I think Sophia/the Shekinah manifest in personal heroes like Eve and Mary Magdalene, and the Divine Feminine is manifest in Mother Mary.  I don’t believe in Hell as a place of suffering, but a place of purification where difficult souls go to recover and then move on.  I believe demons and angels aren’t at war, per se, more in a Cold War of sorts, and I believe demons are servants of the harsher parts of God, for what is God but everything?

As for the god gods, I view them as individual pieces of the Source, in charge of different things.  Freyr is my Green Man, Manannan and Njord are my sea, Loki is my fire, Coyote is my whimsy.  And Thunderbird, glorious Thunderbird, is the majestic storm.  All I know is that Thor gives great hugs and that Freyr is an aficionado of Mexican food.

My spirituality is organic, based on lore and experience.  I would never ascribe to a strict form of worship.  I go on what I have personally experienced in dreams and then do a shitton of research, finding out that Beelzebub is in fact the General of Hell as in that one dream or that book I read in Samael’s library that he threw in my head actually exists.  My spirituality is odd, based on community, and I could give a rat’s ass about who others worship.  I believe gods are adapting, communicating with us through means like pop culture or, in my case, memes.  I’m trash, I know.

So yeah, my polytheism is this strange mix of everything I have experienced as someone drawn to the mystic path, a clairsentient, raging environmentalist treehugger, and avid, avid poet and writer.  I write stories based on my experiences with the gods and spirits and continually draw on them for inspiration.

Sometimes I wonder if they just want their stories told.

Zophael: Chapter 1

I remember when we were born.  Most angels don’t, so maybe my screw’s a bit loose.  

It wasn’t much: Father dipped his hand into the cosmos and scooped out me and Zadkiel, two cherubim more cherubic for our chubby cheeks and pudgy putti bodies than the flaming wheels and four headed messengers humans are familiar with.

I like to think I was a cute baby, but I probably wasn’t.  Something was always off about me – a glint in the eye, tousled hair, bruised knees.  Zadkiel was the charmer: blonde wonderboy I liked to call him.  Secretly I fawned over him: we were twins, but he always seemed older, wiser, knowing the ways of women, wine, and song.  

Michael, our older brother and basically a glorified babysitter, let Zadkiel do what he wanted – make explicit shapes out of the clouds, piss halos in the snow when it came to the Heavenly Palace, boy stuff.  

Because I was the girl, Michael was a hardass.  Overprotective as the briers covering Sleeping Beauty’s palace and extra hard on my training because I didn’t have the same build as the male angels – where they were hard and sturdy, I was curved and wild, like some kind of cat you find dead at the end of the road, minus the dead part.  The only time Michael was soft was when we were in the prayer gardens and he was with his beloved roses.  Secrets of the heart, he told me, only blooming when humans cried out to Father with such earnestness all the choirs couldn’t sleep.  

We hear all your prayers, every one.  Makes napping a pain in the ass.

Because we were supposed to be his generals, Father let Michael choose our names.  Michael is abysmal at naming things.  Exhibit A: Zadkiel, the righteousness of god.  Sounds like a crappy Christian metal band.  All our names kind of suck.  At least he can be Zad for short.  

Mine’s the worst though.  I don’t know what Michael has for Z’s.  Zophael.  From tsaphah.  Spy, or watcher, of god.   That’s right, Michael wanted me to be Father’s spymaster.  Milton didn’t call me “of cherubim swiftest wing” for nothing.

What Michael didn’t understand is that, in naming us, the names had power, power that sometimes undermined our purpose.  Michael was still a kid that liked celestial explosions, after all.

Righteousness could make Zad a righteous asshole.  As for me, because my eyes see everything, and I mean everything, I am easily distracted by bright shiny objects like pearls and armor on attractive men and the latest jewelry at Tiffany’s.  I timehop sometimes and scour NYC for baubles.  I especially like bells, and I wear them on my dresses, mostly to annoy Mikey.  Zad thinks it’s all great fun.

So yeah, I remember my birth.  I remember being spoonfed manna and shitting ether and getting sick off the time Samael and Bael – now Beelzebub, the twat – dunked me in the Abyss.  Those idiots always did that.  Thank god Father kicked them out.  They’re good for a drink or whatever, but being the angels of rot, death, and insects really does ruin dinner in the Heavenly Throneroom.  Bael and Michael always fought when Michael sprayed his precious, precious prayer gardens with pesticide, anyways.  Thank god I’m not the angel of, of all things, flies.

Time moves differently when you’re an angel, circular, as your beloved physicists say.  We know the beginning, sort of know the end, and bullshit the in-between.  I’ve been bullshitting most of my life.  That’s what the whole spy business is.  I’m kind of Heaven’s double agent.  Herald of hell and all that.  I mean, I’m a guy’s girl, I got along with the heavenly fratboys like Asmodel – now Asmodeus, dumbest name change ever – and I even got close to Samael.  Close enough I convinced them I was on their side during the whole Heavenly War fiasco and gathered intel to report back to dear old Mikey.  

In the end, I got burned by both sides, broke promises I never intended to make in the first place, and lost one of my nine lives.  Dead cat by the side of the road, remember?  I am many things, none of which is cautious.  

Now back to when I was a baby.  The nitty-gritty details of growing pains, first loves, and of course, Michael’s awful, cruel and unusual punishment lessons.  Father.  Glorious, wily Father, adamant Father, Father I have not seen since the end of the War.  

Father I hope to never see again.

Father who left because I told him a terrible secret.