The Demon Read online

  Ariel sighed in defeat and let the mirror’s enchantment fade away. She was weary from the magical strain and needed rest.

  Alighier sat next to the fire at the encampment he and the two others had set up for the night and pondered the emissary’s words. Dante and Azrael slept nearby, hands clasping sword hilts as if ready to wake and strike the other down. Only one of these men was an angel. The other was likely the demon he was ordered to have killed. It was also likely that one man was simply an amnesia-ridden human with magical abilities. That possibility disturbed Alighier the most, knowing that humans were capable of feats of incredible evil. But if that were the case, which was the other man, demon or angel? The old man weighed his options and observations of the two. Dante was helpful and driven to rid the world of the demon. Azrael was driven by anger and a thirst for vengeance. That made Alighier feel as if the choice was obvious. Dante was the one to choose. But what if he made the wrong choice? And what would happen if the wrong one survived the inevitable fight? Alighier knew that if he wasn’t extremely careful, his life would be forfeit. Even if the demon - or an angry angel - didn’t kill him, he would still have to face the archangel’s wrath. During the short conversations with the emissary, Alighier could feel an impossibly strong amount of power caged behind the archangel’s control, ready to spring forth and unleash its fury on anything in its path. The archangel struck more fear into the old man than the wrath of any angry demon.

  He decided to wait and see what would come to pass. The two men obviously didn’t trust each other, and there was a palpable tension between them. All that was needed was one tiny spark to set off the inferno of their respective hatreds for each other. It seemed to transcend time itself, as if they were fated to fight each other. Alighier nodded, knowing he was right about one thing: tonight, he was sleeping between a demon and an angel with no idea which would wake first in the morning. He only hoped it was him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dante dreamed of burning cities and dying humans that night. He floated above it all in his dream-form and watched the angry flames consume everything in sight. Buildings collapsed in on themselves, crushing those who were stuck inside. Those were the lucky ones. Other humans ran screaming through the streets, skin ablaze and melting in the inferno. They flailed their arms, hoping to get rid of the flames. But the flames had a life of their own. Nothing was safe from the fires of Hell on Earth. Dante wished he could do something other than float there. Instead, he watched helplessly as the humans died by the dozens. He willed himself to float away but only managed to get close, so close he could feel the flames licking at his skin. He felt the blisters rise and bubble all over his body. Soon, even the blisters gave way to the flames. Dante was consumed by the fire and he let out a silent, agonized scream. He sank deeper and deeper into Hell’s blaze.

  Dante felt hard ground underneath him and he came to a sitting position. His skin was unmarked and healthy, devoid of the damage done by the fire. He looked around, trying to regain his bearings. Impenetrable darkness was all that greeted him. A faint whispering sound drifted to his ears from his left. He turned to see what made the sound, but was met with more darkness.

  Dante stood and walked toward the sound. It slowly grew louder and clearer. It was the sobbing of many children. The sound stirred a feeling deep in Dante’s gut, but he was unable to identify it. Was it fear or just morbid curiosity?

  He continued walking for what seemed like hours, then days, all the while the sobbing grew louder. Eventually, a dim ruby light shone in the distance, outlining a large tree. As Dante drew nearer, he recognized a great oak tree in the middle of a barren field. Sitting under the tree’s bough was a cloaked and hooded figure. The figure slowly looked up at Dante, its face shrouded in shadows. The sobbing was a cacophony in Dante’s ears. The din of it rang in his head, causing him to fall to his knees from the pain. The hooded figure stood slowly and loomed over the pained man. It held a scythe in its left hand hidden behind it as it turned its right side to Dante. The hooded figure raised a skeletal hand and pointed one bony finger at Dante. The sobbing became thunderous in Dante’s head and he pressed his hands to his ears to block it out. It didn’t work. The sobbing continued unabated while the hooded figure stood over him in judgment.

  That was when Dante looked past the figure and noticed the tree. Its bark was black and gnarled flesh that had been scorched by hellfire, shimmering with red moisture in the dim glow. Blood ran in rivulets down the trunk to the roots. The trunk rose up ten feet before splitting like a splintered bone into twisted, blackened branches. The leaves were dried bits of human flesh, shuddering in the harsh wind of the sobbing.

  Then Dante saw the source of the sobbing. Hanging from the gnarled branches like fruit were small, round objects. The objects looked like doll heads, all of them made from what looked like marble or porcelain. Dante’s guess was wrong. He peered closer and noticed the heads were those of infants, severed and dried to cracking. Tiny fractures oozed blood, and the eyes of every head were empty sockets, beckoning Dante into their fathomless depths. The mouths of the infants’ heads were sewn shut with what looked to Dante like intestines. Bits of flesh hung from where the necks should have been, dripping blood all over the parched ground.

  Dante tore his gaze away from the grotesque tree and back to the figure of Death. The figure was no longer pointing at Dante, but had its hand held out, as if offering its help to him. Dante raised a shaking hand and placed it in Death’s cold embrace. He was instantly taken away from the tree and left in a place Dante felt was all too familiar to him. He was on a battlefield soaked in blood, surrounded by the corpses of angels and demons. Dante wore familiar tattered clothes and stood over the bodies of two fallen soldiers, one a demon male, the other a human female. In the sky he could see a giant, inflamed eye watching him. The pupil was a slit, like a lizard, and the iris was blood red. The bloodshot eye gazed at him, never blinking, never wavering. Dante was paralyzed in fear and wished with all his might that he would wake up from this hellish dream.

  Dante woke from his nightmare with a start, drawing his sword in fright. He was lying near a smoldering heap of coals. Light snores drew his attention to Alighier, peacefully resting close to the coals. Dante looked from the old man to Azrael

  Azrael’s eyes were open and watching Dante intently, never blinking. Dante thought he saw a flash of his dream in the man’s eyes but rationalized it as a trick of the glowing embers.

  “Bad dreams?” Azrael asked quietly, never removing his gaze.

  Dante sheathed his sword and nodded, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He was embarrassed that Azrael had witnessed his fright and laid on his side, facing away from the coals and the other man.

  “They say even demons fear Hell,” Azrael taunted.

  “I’m not a demon,” Dante countered. How did he know what Dante had dreamed? And why did Dante dream of that? Was it a memory? Why would he ever have a reason to go to Hell? What could the dream have meant? Why did Death help him? “It was just a dream,” Dante whispered and drifted back to sleep.

  Azrael smiled, knowing his mental intrusion had done its work. He had Dante off balance and weakened. His guard was down. Azrael had no idea what exactly Dante had seen, but his plan worked. He had implanted a seed of fear into Dante, and it apparently flourished on his repressed and hidden memories. Judging by the level of fear Dante had shown, the only outcome had to be some kind of vision of Hell.

  Azrael smiled again, silently waiting for Dante to slip up and reveal another weakness.

  Dante awoke in the morning, stretching and easing the tension from his sore muscles. His nightmare still haunted him, but he kept it locked deep in the back of his mind. That was one set of questions he would rather not explore. He stood up and rolled Alighier over with his foot. He was not overly gentle in his actions so the old man woke up immediately.

  “Time to get up,” Dante ordered. Alighier grumpily rolled over to his hands and knees and struggled to get up.<
br />
  “I’m not used to sleeping on the hard ground,” he complained over the popping of several joints. He stretched out his stiff and sore limbs and brushed some dust off his clothes.

  Azrael stood too, yawning and loosening his sword in its scabbard. “What’s the plan for today, then?” he asked. Dante thought he saw a sly glance thrown his way, but ignored it.

  “I’d like to check a more recent attack site and start actually tracking the demon,” Dante said. “He may strike again at any time and we need to know when and where.”

  Alighier cleared his throat and spat a wad of phlegm onto the ground. “How?” he asked. “He never had a pattern. There was never any precursor to the attacks. He just showed up and burned the places down, killing everyone in the process…”

  Azrael nodded, but said, “Still, as I said last night, we may learn something useful if we take a look around.”

  Alighier sighed, knowing the two men were right. Still, he was conflicted about which one to place all of his trust in. He leaned more toward Dante, but only because the man didn’t scare him as much as Azrael did.

  “Take us to the city of Coitat,” Dante suggested. “That’s the most recent attack, so we’ll begin there.”

  The old man looked at both of the men, wondering why they seemed so eager to help each other. He nodded, and beckoned them closer. Concentrating, he formed the spell that would take them back to the country of Gaul. Within seconds, they stood inside the temple in Massalia. Soldiers and townsfolk alike gasped in surprise at the sudden appearance of their High Priest. Their smiles disappeared, however, when they looked upon Azrael.

  “Be calm, my people,” Alighier said, holding his hands out in a comforting manner. “These men mean you no harm. We will not be staying long.”

  The townsfolk and soldiers relaxed, trusting Alighier implicitly. Alighier nodded and offered a smile. Shortly afterward, the trio walked out through the front gates and made their way down the dirt road to Coitat.

  Artemis awoke to the feeling of Ariel telepathically calling to him.

  ‘Yes?’ he projected. He sat up and reached for his blindfold to cover his dark scars.

  ‘I need to speak with you,’ she replied. The urgency in her tone caused Artemis to wonder what she had stumbled upon.

  ‘What about?’ he demanded.

  ‘Victor’s armor, sir. It’s shining again.’

  Artemis knew he’d get a message about that soon, but not this quickly. He picked up a ring from his bedside table and slipped it on to the middle finger of his left hand. His armor disappeared from its stand, reappearing on his body. The dull grey, worn armor adjusted to fit comfortably while still offering protection and ease of movement. Artemis’ midnight wings turned white and grey. Even his sword looked less demonic.

  That finished, Artemis blinked. When he opened his empty eyes again, he was in Victor’s old room, standing behind Ariel.

  “Step aside, please,” he said. The sudden sound of his voice startled Ariel. She jumped and quickly shuffled out of the way.

  There, on a stand, was Victor’s armor from before his banishment. Just the day before it was a dull grey like Artemis’ armor - devoid of light - but now it shone like polished silver. It cast its own light in the small room, as if of its own accord.

  “It seems Victor is about to earn his grace back,” Artemis mused. “Soon he will have his memories back and he will face the demon. Once he lands the killing blow, he will become an angel once again. He already has his abilities, which makes him ready for the fight, and soon he will have his identity back.”

  Ariel smiled and said, “And we can finally welcome him back home.”

  Artemis nodded, allowing Ariel a small break from his normal stern demeanor. She had done exceedingly well in helping him over the recent decades. Every now and then she needed some reason to hope. He turned to her and put his hand gently on her shoulder. Ariel flinched ever so slightly at first, but then leaned into it, enjoying the contact.

  “What is the matter?” Artemis asked. He could see the usual love in her golden eyes but there was something else. He saw a faint twinge of fear. Her mirror had shown her something she did not like, he guessed. “What have you seen?”

  Ariel could not control herself. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she began to weep. “I couldn’t help it,” she whimpered. “I saw something horrible.” She looked up at Artemis and reached her hand to touch his face. Her fingers lightly traced his scars and she looked sad and afraid and pitiful.

  Artemis took her hand in his and gently asked, “What did you see? Show me.”

  Ariel calmed somewhat and concentrated, placing her free hand at his temple. Artemis saw the battle between demons and angels. He relived the moment he lost his eyes. He saw his entry into Heaven. When the vision had passed, Artemis looked into Ariel’s frightened eyes. He suppressed a smile and held her gaze. She was so afraid of who he was and he almost laughed. She had no idea of the truth of his identity.

  “You saw that in your mirror?”

  Ariel nodded.

  “Take me to it.”

  Ariel looked confused for a moment, but nodded. She concentrated for a moment, and transported them both to her chambers. Her mirror stood in one corner and she led Artemis to it.

  “Please, Ariel,” Artemis said, waving his hand in front of the mirror, calling forth an image from his past, “allow me to show you what actually transpired.”

  Two days later, Dante, Alighier and Azrael entered the ruins of Coitat. The smell of burning flesh had not yet dissipated and the stench of rotting corpses left in the sun had settled in. Corpses lay among the ruins charred, mangled and bloated. Even the usual carrion birds were avoiding this place.

  “We should split up and learn what we can,” Dante offered. “We’ll cover more ground that way.”

  “Agreed,” Azrael replied and strode west into the ruins without waiting for further instruction.

  When he was out of earshot, Alighier summoned his courage and turned to Dante. “I have a bad feeling about him,” he whispered.

  “I know,” Dante agreed. “I have the same feeling.” He walked toward the eastern edge of the small town, motioning for Alighier to follow. Minutes later, they looked out over the beach down a steep hill. Dante pointed toward an area where the sand had been upturned. The tide had not yet washed all of it away and Alighier could easily see tracks in the sand.

  “That’s where I woke up with my memories gone. I awoke scant hours after the destruction of this place. I was here when it happened. I fought someone down there. I don’t know who was victorious and I don’t remember exactly why I fought. All I can think of is the fact that the demon destroyed this place while an angel watched, and now we’re here. I’ve been trying to piece it all together without anything to really show for it. Now I’m back and all I want to do is find out who I was. It no longer matters, I suppose, but it could help me figure out where to go from here. I’m Dante, that much I know is certain. This is who I am, and even if I get my memories back, I doubt that will change. I just ask that you stay out of the way when it comes to a fight between Azrael and me.”

  Stunned to silence, Alighier nodded. He could not believe what he had heard. Dante was willing to leave his old identity behind to embrace his new life. Was he giving up his identity as an angel to remain a human?

  Dante wordlessly stepped away from the view of the beach and started looking around. Within seconds he found the charred corpse of a young man. The blackened skin crunched under Dante’s hand, revealing dried muscle underneath. He scanned the corpse, noting the slash marks left by a sword. He eyed each wound individually and ran his hand along the edges of charred skin. The cuts were deep, most proving fatal. Dante moved to the next victim and methodically checked for similar wounds. Almost every slash was placed in the same areas; throat, chest, stomach. These cuts were meant to kill nearly instantly, save the stomach wounds. Some of them were made after the victim had died. Dante realized he recogniz
ed these cuts. He stood up in shock and shook his head.

  “What is it?” Alighier asked.

  “I know these cuts. I’ve known the demon for much longer that I can remember. I know his movements. I know his methods. I know him.”

  Alighier shook his head, not understanding how the realization was just now coming to Dante. It was evident before now that Dante knew the demon before he had lost his memory. The younger man fell to his knees and clutched his head in his hands, his mind ablaze with returning memories. Flashes of fire and ash mixed with visions of destruction, but the world seemed different. Towering spires reached toward the sky, then came crumbling down. Angels and demons flew by, locked in heated battle. Dante was a child once more, but there was Victor, fighting alongside the other angels. The young man gasped as he looked upon the angel’s face.

  “I remember…” Dante breathed. “I remember so many things now…”

  “And what is it you remember?” Azrael asked, appearing over a mound of rubble.

  Dante looked up at the man, and swore that the man had sprouted shining wings. His eyes adjusted to the sunlight and saw that he was mistaken. It was just a trick of the light. But something else was different about him. Dante recognized him. A crooked smile spread across Dante’s face, drawing a confused frown from Azrael. With his memories intact, Dante remembered everything, including his reason for being in Greek occupied Europe in the fourth century B.C.

  “You’re not the demon, Azrael. Or should I say Victor,” Dante chuckled. “I am.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Victor stood as still as a statue atop the rubble. Upon hearing Dante utter his real name, his memories came flooding back. He was an angel, banished from heaven for fighting Dante on the beach outside Coitat. Anger rose up in his throat and he clenched his fists. He remembered everything this demon had done to the innocent humans in all those cities. He remembered every death that was caused by the demon’s bloodthirst. Clearest of all, Victor remembered the last time he had faced Dante. “You’re the demon. No, I killed you!” he gasped, realization spreading across his face. “I drove my blade through your heart.”