“And I strained to perceive what I now heard, that free-will was the cause of our doing ill.”

       St. Augustine , Confessions VII

The City Of Suffering

from Blood of the Saints

     Beyond the Valley of Nightmares it’s always twilight, never darkening to night or lightening to dawn. Spring never comes here, or summer; it’s a chilly country that lacks the golden red of autumn or the icy grandeur of winter. Still, it has a bleak beauty of its own, especially for a mind inclined to melancholy. A palace stands on a cliff, its walls carved from black marble and onyx, inlaid with fire opals alive with dark lights. A long colonnaded terrace juts out from the palace, its roof supported by intricate bronze pillars, its floors of polished black slate. The view takes in the lights glowing from less grand dwellings below, and the dull white sheen of the Sea of Ice beyond. On the terrace is an ebony throne, a more modest version of the massive jeweled seat in the Great Hall. On this throne the Prince of the realm sat dreaming, looking out over his domain.

     He remembered another palace, the inverted reflection of this one, all white marble and moonstones, golden pillars and silver mirrors, alive with the music of fountains set in an endless spring froth of blossoms. At every turn he could see his own legendary beauty, of which he was vain in spite of himself, reflected in water and liquid sheets of mercury. This present dark palace, even in its luxury, was meant to be a painful symbol of what he had lost. Here, his fountains froze in crystalline waterfalls, his mirrors reflected only shadows, and his gardens bloomed with poisons.

     Down below, he watched a single moving light separate from the others. Probably a hanging lantern stirred by the wind, or someone walking in the narrow lanes carrying a torch, but in his present frame of mind, which was none too peaceful, the Prince thought of Diogenes with his lantern, searching for an honest man.

     For as long as he could remember, the Prince had been looking for the same thing, hoping for that one glimmer, however tiny, of true selfless virtue. He never found it. One thing he learned is that everyone has a price, and it’s never money. He would say that it made him cynical, but he had been cynical from the beginning.

     It wasn’t a question of evil, although he would be the first one to admit that evil certainly exists, and that there was a time when most of it began with him. He once believed that the day would come when these enticements, entanglements and temptations of his wouldn’t be needed and would invariably fail, but now he couldn’t see an end to it.

     Footsteps tapping down the great hall leading to the terrace came closer, causing the Prince to stir on his throne. He sat upright, becoming aware of a slight chill, and folded his great golden wings over his amethyst velvet sleeves.

     He knew the footsteps, knew it was his Chancellor coming nearer. In the old days, he was the closest companion of the Prince, second only to him in power. That hadn’t changed.

     The footsteps stopped, the Prince turned his head. “Beelzebub,” he said.

     “Lucifer,” the Seraph answered. Beelzebub, dressed in gray silk, was still warmer than Lucifer. He didn’t feel the chill, had never felt it as keenly as Lucifer did, and his dove-gray wings were folded back out of his way. The strong planes of his face and his silver hair gave him the majesty of an ancient king, a gravity that Lucifer had always envied. Beelzebub was still the consummate statesman, always weighing probabilities and outcomes, advantages and disadvantages. He gathered facts and considered issues, whereas Lucifer always had reason to regret his own impulsiveness and quick temper.

     Beelzebub was pragmatic in his choices. He did what needed to be done, regardless of his own preferences.

     They referred to themselves as Seraphim, as they had every right to do. Elsewhere they were referred to as The Fallen or The Rebels or even -- in some quarters --  as demons or devils, but all of them were created as eternal angels, in the highest ranks of Seraphim, and nothing could ever change that. Lucifer had been first among the Seraphim, followed by Beelzebub and Leviathan then by Michael. Only Michael still lived in the marble palaces above, and the less said to Lucifer about that, the better.

     Lucifer went to the balcony, still looking at the moving light. His purple robes, heavy with silver embroidery, followed him as if they were part of his body, mobile and supple. He wore a great golden pectoral necklace set with an enormous diamond, his insignia as the Morning Star. Nothing would ever change that, either.

     He pointed out the light, now almost hidden behind walls. “What is that, I wonder?”

     Beelzebub glanced over the balcony. “Probably one of the Grigori. On his way to or from the libraries.”

     Lucifer lost interest in the light and sank back down on his throne with a sigh.

     “Did you ever consider,” he said to Beelzebub, “what would have happened if we’d won?”

     Beelzebub’s wings stirred with slight irritation as he spoke. “You’ve got to let go of this. You know perfectly well what your purpose is.”

      Lucifer shrugged. “I suppose I should be grateful for how enthusiastically the human race has thrown itself into iniquity.”

     “Michael was equally wrong, you know. He finally conceded your point about mankind’s needing to be educated by the angels. Isn’t that why you took in the Grigori when their mission failed?”

     The Grigori, Watcher angels, had originally been sent to supervise mankind’s activities on earth. The problem was that they had become too attached to human beings, so attached that they fell in love with the daughters of man. The attraction was mutual: humans have always been drawn to angels, to their unearthly fascination and their mystery.

     The results had been disastrous, resulting in a race of monsters. That ended the education of man by angels.

     Brokenhearted at the chaos they’d caused, and unable to regain the Celestial realms, the repentant and sorrowful Grigori had retreated from the earth, asking Lucifer to create a place for them. Since they were natural teachers, Lucifer put them in charge of the imperfect but redeemable souls in Purgatory, teaching them what they had failed to learn in life. As Lucifer put it, Purgatory was higher education on a grand scale.

     It was a useful task for the Grigori and they were good at it. Other places in Hell, presided over by very different entities and reserved for the truly damned, were not so pleasant.

     “Why was I so concerned with man being given free will in the first place?”

     Beelzebub shook his head. “You should never have brought up the word mistake.”

     Lucifer turned and made a wry face at Beelzebub. “To my eternal regret. And it seems that I do mean eternal. Perhaps I simply should have said it was prematurely optimistic.”

     Lucifer always amazed himself at his own propensity for learning the obvious much too late. “I had no idea of the long-term plan. Not until I understood that the war and the fall were necessary.”

     “I always wondered...how did you find out?”

     Lucifer shrugged. “He told me. Later.”

     “Well, He never confided in me like He did in you.”

     “So here I am, in a job I never wanted, but undoubtedly deserve. The diabolus, the obstacle on the path to grace. Collector of souls, ruler in Hell, tempter and punisher. And I took a third of Heaven with me.”

     Beelzebub had heard these self-indulgent rants before, but he was famous for his patience. “We agreed with you, as you’ll recall.”

     “Are you sure you wouldn’t be happier up above, dancing, playing the harp, radiating celestial light, singing Kumbayah...”

     Beelzebub sighed and gave Lucifer a sharp look. “Are you going to be in this mood all day?”

     “No, but I plan on luxuriating in my misery for another hour or so. Why?”

     “Balberith has some news. He’ll be here shortly with Azazel.”

     “Azazel?” Lucifer said. “This can’t be good.”

     Balberith and Azazel had sided with Lucifer in the Rebellion. Now both of them moved freely between the Underworld and the Earth, Balberith as Lucifer’s eyes and ears as he wandered among men unnoticed, and Azazel as the Angel of Death.

     Balberith’s scarlet robes with gold silk embroidery, and his black-feathered wings, dark eyes, and long black hair made him look more like the humans’ idea of Lucifer than Lucifer did. It amused them both that Lucifer frequently sent Balberith when humans tried to raise the Devil. Balberith usually grew horns and a tail just to satisfy the expectations. Sometimes he turned his skin blood-red and showed up nude. It was a crowd-pleaser.

     Balberith’s puckish sense of humor, unfazed by his fall, was the only bright light in the Underworld, a natural trickster. The humans who “summoned” him always wondered why their infernal bargains went so wrong. One human who asked for a million dollars got it the next day in gold-foiled chocolate coins. To another who wanted a quiet, submissive woman who would satisfy his every carnal desire Balberith sent a plastic blow-up doll with an invoice from “diabolicdates.com.” Even the most elaborate requests and contracts (which placed no obligation on the Fallen anyway, and were especially non-binding on Lucifer), full of supposed escape clauses, simply brought out Balberith’s most ingenious loopholes.

     Not that souls weren’t sometimes accepted in exchange for favors, but the humans had to have been destined for damnation in the first place. The bargain simply speeded up the process, since they usually carried a time limit. You repaid your debt on Hell’s timetable.

     When Balberith returned to the Underworld to recount his adventures, Lucifer usually burst out in amazed laughter at his audacity.

     Balberith’s favorites were humans who used elaborate Satanic rites. However, if they killed animals, his appearance was terrifying, his wrath swift. Balberith loved animals and was once a guardian angel for them. He felt that their innocence put them above mankind.

     Most “Satanic” rituals were no more than excuses for orgies. He always showed up for those, and in his most seductive incarnation.

     “I may be Fallen, but I’m not crazy,” he told Lucifer.

#

     One of his imp servants stepped quickly before Lucifer’s throne. “Prince Balberith comes, my lord.” This was unnecessary as the sound of approaching wings always announced Balberith more loudly than the imps did. Balberith was fond of drama, and preferred to fly into Hell after his reconnaissance missions. Lucifer waited for the sound, but this time, Balberith simply appeared.

     “I understand you have news?”

     “I’m afraid so, and it’s not good,” Balberith said, his face troubled. “A priest had his throat slashed right before the altar of his church while he was at prayer, and a saint’s relic was stolen. There’s evidence that, except for the victim, no human was involved.”

     Lucifer’s brow furrowed. Sacrilege was never to be committed without his direct involvement, and there had better be a good reason. It attracted too much scrutiny from the Celestial realms, and that was never a good thing.

     “Who did this?” Lucifer demanded. His tone made Balberith back off slightly.

     Before Balberith could answer, Azazel materialized beside him.

     Lucifer was struck, as he was many times, by Azazel’s appearance. He took corporeal form as a young man of no more than twenty, with wide, innocent eyes. When his light touch took the living, his gentle smile soothed the dying soul.

     No pleading, no bargaining, no mercy or inner compassion of his own moved him. Death does what is needed, not what is desired. The destination of the dead didn’t rest with him, nor was death at his own discretion. He made no judgments, but went unquestioningly where he was told.

     When it was required of him, his sweet appearance transmogrified into a nightmare. His livid face and sickly yellow eyes, his body clad in billowing rags clotted with blood, became terrible and inexorable as he stretched his huge claws to drag the damned -- paralyzed with fear and suddenly aware of their transgressions -- to the place of punishment.

     Because Azazel’s duties placed him at the call of either the Celestial realms or the Underworld, it had been agreed that he would be a messenger between them. Now his placid eyes fixed themselves on Lucifer as he handed him a scroll with the Celestial seal.

     Lucifer read the message with increasing discomfort, then incredulity, and finally with grim resignation. And I thought things couldn’t get any worse.

     After a moment he looked up at Azazel. “This doesn’t tell me who killed the priest. You had to have been there. Do you know?”

     Azazel gazed at Lucifer and said quietly, “I never see the instrument of death.”

     Lucifer had forgotten that. Azazel saw only the dying body and the soul in transition.

     “But you did, Balberith? I assume that’s why you’re here.”

     Balberith suddenly looked very uncomfortable. A bad sign if Balberith’s equilibrium had been disturbed.

     “Of course I couldn’t see the actual murder inside the church, but I saw someone going in, then coming out holding a reliquary.” Fallen angels were prohibited from making incursion into holy ground.

     “What part can’t you bring yourself to tell me?”

     Balberith leaned close to Lucifer and Beelzebub and whispered a name.

     Beelzebub was speechless, the first time Lucifer had ever seen him so.

     Lucifer rose violently from his seat. “Impossible.”  He paced behind his throne, drumming his fingers against it, trying to make sense of what he had just heard

     “With all respect to your considerable powers of observation, Balberith,” Lucifer said, “I think you may have been deceived. More likely this is an escaped Transforming Demon in a disguise so shocking that it hopes we’ll be thrown off.”

     “Possibly.” Balberith glanced worriedly at Beelzebub. It wasn’t all that possible. Beelzebub kept close tabs on two levels of demons under Lucifer’s command: Transforming Demons or shape-shifters, and Possessing Demons. Beelzebub knew where they were sent, what they did there, and why. Not that some of them didn’t escape his notice and sneak out on their own.

     Lucifer sat back down. “At least it’s not complicated to get an escaped demon back. Just go capture it, Balberith, so I can begin to repair the damage. I’m surprised you didn’t do that already.” He had the uneasy feeling that he was babbling.

     Balberith touched Lucifer’s shoulder. “It wasn’t a demon,” he said gently.

     Lucifer buried his head in his hands and his pale hair shimmered over his face. After a moment he regained his composure.

     “Azazel, please return to the Celestials. Tell them I understand, and I’ll do as they ask.”

     The angel nodded, then left.

     “Who are you sending to take care of the situation?” Beelzebub asked.

     “I’ll deal with this myself.”

     The glaze of hope in Lucifer’s eyes alarmed both angels. All of them were long since past hope, and no one understood that as completely as the Prince of Darkness.

     “Why put yourself through this? Send Abbadon, none of the Avenging angels are more powerful or more loyal to you.”

     “I don’t need an Avenger!” Lucifer shouted. “If things have gone this far, it’s my fault!” He closed his eyes for a moment and he could see a face as clearly as if it were before him now, eyes desperate, voice fading into the distance. The guilt of this vision dominated his life. Sometimes it receded and he’d thought he was free, but weeks or months later it blindsided him, fresh as the day it happened.

     Lucifer’s robes and wings disappeared, and in their place he wore an expensive suit and his favorite ruby cufflinks. Of his many disguises when he walked the Earth, this was the one he preferred. It undeniably made him look human, but even he often admitted it was probably because of his vanity.

     Right now it was simply expedient because he had to get to Earth fast. If the information was true, what he had to do there would break whatever heart he had left.