Chapter 46
‘It’s what I wanted,’ Rosier thought emptily, the weight of Asmodeus’ severed arm in his sling making his entire body slouch.
‘It’s what I wanted,’ he told himself again.
But revenge is not justice, it’s surprise.
Revenge was breaking the cycle, gaining the upper hand, with an exhilarated thrill.
But it isn’t justice, not on its own. And then, it’s nothing but this emptiness.
In the wreckage of the world, the fallen angel of fruit could only stare at the closed crack in the ground where his old friend had disappeared to.
Sweet Lucifer, golden head in Rosier’s lap, fluttering his violet wings absentmindedly, asking if God dreams. Of course God dreams. What does He dream?
This, all of this. ‘Asmodeus would laugh whenever he caught me coddling you, Lucifer. He said we raised you well.’
Slow, the demon of fruit slipped down from the back of Danel, who turned back at him curiously; he’d remained latched onto Danel’s back, too numb to involve himself with Dina.
Michael remained doubled over with a bloodied face and pressed to a vehicle, not far from the one he’d been beaten against by Baal.
And the regent of Hell in question was standing firmer beside Michael, panting for breath, some blood still in his mouth.
Rosier’s eyes trailed down both of their bodies, found the chief prince’s sword, laying lonesome in the rubble.
Michael felt the ebbing tremble in his body — a new clarity blooming, solid, stabilizing.
When he looked to Baal again, he noted a wincing face: broken ribs or terror.
‘It’s not your fault he’s gone,’ he wanted to tell Baal.
‘It’s mine.’ But that was just more self-sacrifice, and Satan had snapped at Michael for it, and if Satan was just a memory now, Michael was compelled to pay respects, to listen, to obey him, for once.
“Baal,” Michael tried, low, grunting it.
“Baal.” Joana’s death lingered still, but what she’d pleaded the prince to do was have mercy, not forgive.
And to see that wretched souls are still souls, that there are no good people, no bad people.
Satan had tried to stop the world from ending; if he’d succeeded, Joana would be alive.
“If,” Baal began gravely, “you don’t want me to order my demons to slaughter you with the fires of the stars right now, then you should hand yourself over to me without a fight.
” He turned over with a limp, taking a step back, seemingly quite prepared to return to fighting.
“I meant what I said. I’ll have you take his place.
I don’t care what I have to do. I’ll make you suffer everything that Satan has tenfold. ”
Hesitating, the prince straightened, shifted away from the car he’d been leaning on.
He said, strongly: “There will be no war between the angels and demons anymore.” Immediately, Baal quirked a brow, and there was a rumble of noise from the angels and the demons alike.
“There will be no more war.” None at all. “But I won’t hand myself over to you.”
Baal jabbed: “What the fuck are you saying? Are you willingly going to save Satan with us?”
‘Save,’ Michael echoed in his head. ‘Like I promised I would once.’ “I’m going to kill God. You’re going to help me.”
Far from them, not far from a river running red — Dina landed across a wide road with a stumble.
His wings folded back into himself, and he shuddered, and he gripped his top as if he were a human suffering a heart attack.
All around him, discarded cars stood empty, and there was nothing but a few wandering animals and human bodies.
When he raised his face — he noticed a house cat with a collar, fur matted and dark, face pressed into the open, fly-infested gash of a human.
Stomach twisting, Dina took a step back, though he should be far, far used to this sight by now.
But it had been so easy, just some hours ago, to justify every face of death with the promise of salvation, of paradise, of the return to the past. He had told himself every scream and cry was a brick on the road to a Heaven he’d been born too late to know.
Without realizing, he’d begun to ask if this road could ever be worth it, could a new Heaven ever make up for this brutality.
And he’d realized, perhaps more crucially, that those who’d known the old Heaven, the place before sin, were not standing beside Dina, fighting for it.
‘Uriel wanted the apocalypse stopped more than anything.’ Had all things really been better before sin?
How had Satan invented sin? Had he pulled it out of his body like he had the Beast? Or had he seen it, somewhere, named it?
The cat continued to eat the corpse, and Dina listened to the hiss of hot breeze, and he listened to the heart-beatings of the stars above.
Apsinthos might speak to him again soon, but he thought of Tadeo, who’d fed the people like the cat now ate.
‘You wouldn’t end the world, Tadeo, even if you have every reason to.
’ Was he really in Hell now, burning for refusing God’s will of the end?
Slowly, Dina looked to the river. ‘I know where Hell is.’ It was a short trip if he flew.
‘I’ll know where to look for them.’ Dina didn’t doubt the demons would come looking for Satan soon, but he could still heal in a way they couldn’t.
Painfully, Dina shut his eyes, and he heard Azazel’s shouting in his head.
He remembered Uriel, in his library, touching his head.
Then, Dina heard neighing, turned, and he opened his eyes to see a winged horse, one of those angelic, armored ones that the demons had stolen.
It must’ve run off in the chaos, the same as Dina.
As it nibbled on some browned grass, he noticed it carried large saddlebags on its flanks, including an open one that hinted at onyx-black demon armor.
He approached slow, and he immediately deciphered the shape of a helmet, a chest piece. It would do, wouldn’t it?
In the center of town, Baal said. “Kill God? Kill God?”
Michael replied, “There’s nothing we can do but that.”
“Even Satan couldn’t kill God,” Baal snapped. “He knew that was impossible. And I don’t give a shit whether God lives another day or another billion years. The only thing I care about is saving Satan.”
“We can’t save him,” Michael insisted, “unless God is dead.”
Someone’s throat cleared, calling Michael’s attention, and the prince turned swiftly, but the one who’d made the noise was none other than a demon with broken horns.
Rosier — carefully holding Michael’s sword with both hands, offering it up at him.
His eyes seemed tired, and his hands trembled.
“If you’re to kill God, you’ll need this,” the stout demon whispered.
Instantly, Baal’s gaze softened. “Rosier... Where have you been?”
Rosier hesitated as Michael carefully took his sword’s handle.
“Baal,” he began, then didn’t answer the question.
“You should listen to Michael.” The regent scoffed.
“Please. The hellfire is what killed Asmodeus. Satan may be already dead and so is that boy. So many, so many are already dead…” Just as Rosier’s voice trembled, Armoni hurried to stand behind him, laying his hand on the fruit demon’s back comfortingly, and Azazel stepped forward as well, looking at his old friend Rosier pitifully.
He didn’t touch him, however, as he looked at Michael and drew in a slow breath.
Heart thumping too quick, Azazel glanced at Samyaza, whose face twitched and twitched, who was trying to reach for Azazel’s hand, who took his fingers and squeezed them.
They could run, still, to the stars, away from all of this.
‘But as the world flooded, we spoke of killing God, didn’t we?
’ And so the leader of the Watchers sighed, and Azazel said, “We will come with you too.”
Baal blinked twice. “What?”
Azazel stared; he wanted to say, ‘Because Lucifer is not God, and I’m not Lucifer. I don’t run away.’
And as if Baal had heard the thought, he laughed. He looked at Samyaza, then at Azazel, then at Michael. “What the fuck are we doing here? You still haven’t explained how we can kill God, Michael. Or are you asking for suicide?”
In Hell, Tadeo and Satan had long stopped speaking, burning in silence, wondering if the rest of time would be spent like this.
There was nothing recognizable in the flames except for each other, except for perhaps those dark silhouettes below in the shape of people — the worst of souls, realizing all the horrible things they’d done on Earth.
And though Tadeo was able to walk, Satan was nearly paralyzed, his many limbs feeling like they were bolted far from him to some distant walls.
‘Have you ever loved someone?’ the boy had asked.
And Satan had wanted to snarl, ‘I’ve loved.
I love more than anything that’s ever lived.
’ But that thought didn’t settle right. Nothing of how Satan had felt suddenly felt right.
‘I’ve loved.’ He tried to remember when he had.
He tried to remember what it felt like to love.