Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Sometimes, Rag had brief flickers of concern over Lucifer’s mental health.
Typically, Luce was very good at pretending to be sane, but when Rag stood in the Pit watching the Drogar demons dangle prisoners over pits of hot acetone, he couldn’t help but wonder what twisted tendencies their dark leader was covering up.
One of the creatures caught sight of him observing the punishment and made a keening sound, unfurling massive wings and launching itself from its perch to bound across the cavern to him. Rag smiled, bracing himself for impact as Catharsis launched into his arms.
“Hey boy,” he laughed, scratching the gargoyle beneath his scaly chin while the demon licked his face with a rough tongue.
Catharsis was one of the hybrid Drogar—a race descended from the gargoyles that had fallen with their angel masters, who had developed dragon-like adaptations to better suit their new environment.
In fact, Catharsis was a direct descendant of Rag’s own gargoyle, Custos. “Keep up the good work, okay?”
Catharsis yipped in response, giving him a headbutt under the chin before flying back to his post, and Rag lingered for a moment before he continued deeper into the Pit.
It had a proper name, once, but Rag had forgotten it years ago.
Now it was just called the Punishment Pit, and it was by far his least favorite place to be in Hell.
While the sprawling fields and gardens above were home to small communities and villages of spirits, happily living their afterlife atoning for minor sins, the Pit was for those spirits who Lucifer felt had earned eternal torment.
Souls that could not be saved. Murderers, rapists, sadists and abusers.
Those who died and were guilty of these crimes were relegated to various levels of the Pit, where they would spend their days experiencing agony like they had inflicted while alive.
The Fallen were obliged to patrol the Pit in shifts, to keep an eye on things and ensure that none of the prisoners there were getting out of line. Today wasn’t his shift, and Rag wasn’t here to oversee them. He was looking for Sachiel, at the request of the other man’s wife.
Rag made his way down the winding hall, carved from the natural dark stone of the earth and lit with witchlight sconces, until he reached the elevator.
Pressing his palm to the sensor pad, Rag waited patiently for the stone doors to slide apart, revealing a gleaming silver box within.
He stepped inside, pressing the button for the lowest floor and watching the numbers flicker down until he reached level thirteen.
“Sachiel?” he called, stepping out of the elevator.
His voice reverberated through the circular, tiled hallway.
This floor had a more modern feel, closed cell doors tucked neatly within white brick walls curving in a gentle arc in either direction.
It was a study in contrast to the rough-hewn cavern on the first floor, but it also limited his range of view.
“Sach, man, we’ve been looking for you.” The only sound was the reverb of his own voice, and Rag sighed. “Why do I always have to come chase you down?”
He started down the hall, steps echoing as he passed the barred doors closed over soundproof glass.
Inside each room a figure writhed, strapped to a chair.
Their mouths opened in screams he couldn’t hear as the small, winged demons hovering over them squeezed cut lemons into mouths that leaked blood from their severed tongues.
“Liar, liar,” Rag murmured, and tore his eyes away from the painful sight. He rubbed his own jaw at a phantom twinge.
“Sachi!” he called again, and this time there was an answering sound in the distance. A deep rumble, and a snort shortly after. Rag paused, and after a moment, the sound came again. A long rumble, a snort, a sort of snuffling sound.
He rounded a bend in the hall, and in the distance, he could make out a figure sprawled on the ground.
As he approached, it became clear that the figure was broad, blond, and completely unconscious, snoring blissfully away with his legs stretched out to the far wall and his head leaned back against the white brick.
Raguel sighed, coming up short beside his friend and resting his hands on his hips. “Sachi, what the hell, man.”
He kicked the other man lightly on the thigh, prodding him with his boot a few times.
When he didn’t respond except to snore harder, Rag clicked his tongue.
The redhead crouched, falling into a squat next to the blonde and gently brushing his hair out of his slack face. “Just remember, I tried to be nice.”
Still gently, still carefully, he dug his hand into Sachiel’s hair, getting a nice, firm grip on the soft blond waves. Then he pulled hard, using most of his strength to lift the other man from the ground by his scalp.
“Ow ow ow!” Sachiel woke up screaming, hands flying up to scrabble uselessly at Rag’s, while he kicked his legs to get his feet under him. “Stop! Ow!”
Rag laughed, letting go of the strands he was clutching and watching Sachiel scramble to his feet. “Sleeping on the job, you deserve worse than that.”
Sachiel scowled and rubbed at his newly acquired sore spot. “There hasn’t been an attempted jail break since the humans were living in caves.”
“And a good thing, with a security team like you to keep an eye out.”
“I was having such a good dream, too,” Sachiel spoke through a yawn, pouting as he continued to rub his scalp.
“You’ll be nothing but a fond memory yourself if you take any longer to get moving. Camiel is pissed.”
Sachi paled. “Oh no what time is it?”
“Mhm,” Rag nodded. “You’re already in trouble.”
“Shiiiit,” he groaned, dropping his face into his palms.
The ride back up the elevator consisted of Sachiel frantically pacing and chewing harshly on his thumb nail, while Rag leaned against the back wall and watched him with mild amusement.
The grin was quickly wiped off his face when the elevator doors slid open, revealing Remi and Camiel waiting with furious expressions.
Sachi whimpered. “Please tell me someone else pissed you off more than I did.”
“Actually, yes,” Cami hissed. “Those stupid feathered fucks wrote a letter asking Mags to come meet them in the mortal realm! As if she’s that stupid!”
“Judas went to deal with them,” Remi picked up where she left off, “but you know who has balls bigger than I thought?”
“Michael!” Cami threw her hands wide to emphasize her shout. “He has some nerve, writing to Luce now!”
Rag blinked. “I can’t tell if you’re upset they asked for Mags, or excited to have new gossip after a couple millennia.”
“Yes,” Remi dodged the question and grabbed her husband by the wrist, hauling him from the elevator and leading him towards the exit. “So now we have to go fill Luce in and figure out which level of ‘oh fuck’ our defenses need to be on if they’re onto our plan for the armor.”
Uriel felt a bone deep sense of dread as he waited on the rooftop.
It gnawed at him relentlessly, like an animal instinct warning of danger, but without any seeming cause for the sensation, he was left frustrated and anxious as he waited for his commander to return from his attempt to contact Mary Magdalene.
The soft tread of footsteps alerted him to Michael’s approach, so light that most wouldn’t have picked up on the sound but one that should have been easily detected by those with superior senses.
Uriel turned, cursing himself for his slowed reaction time.
It had been a long while since they had needed to scout and stalk, and apparently, he was more out of practice than he had thought.
He smiled ruefully as Michael knelt beside him. “Well, there’s no denying it now, old friend. We’re caught between a rock and a hard place.”
“Indeed.” The taller angel was clearly troubled by his task, and Uriel hated that he was about to press on the wound.
“Will you really turn her over to Him?”
“Jehovah demands her brought to him for trial.”
“That is not what I asked you,” Uriel countered sternly.
“I know.”
“So, you haven’t decided.” They both fell silent, and Uriel peeked back over the edge of the rooftop they crouched on. “I hate this.”
“As do I. But you know if we go against these orders, our punishment will be just as awful.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t be serving such a broken system,” Uriel muttered. It wasn’t the first time he and Michael had had a conversation like this, though they were always careful to do so far from Heaven’s gates. Even now, he felt a tremor of anxiety knowing that Jehovah had eyes and spies everywhere.
“That’s heresy,” Michael chastened him on instinct, but there was a look of resignation on his face.
“So it is.” Uriel laid back on the rooftop, marveling at the absence of his russet wings. It was always such an odd sensation to have his wings glamoured—essentially folded into his being rather than out on display.
Though he had to admit, it was nice to be able to wear mortal clothing without having to have it custom tailored.
The humans were constantly innovating with fashion and style, and the latest trend of comfortable, functional clothing was just fine with him.
It was a definite improvement over the tights and doublets of the renaissance.
A tap on his thigh had him sitting back upright as Michael murmured, “We need to move.”
“What is it?”
“I think we’ve been—”
He was cut off abruptly as a hand landed on his shoulder and yanked him to his feet. Uriel scrambled to bring himself upright, only for two hands to clamp down on his own arms from behind.
“Judas?” Uriel cried out in surprise when he recognized the man who held a blade to Michael’s throat.
“Hello Uriel. Sorry to meet again under these circumstances, but when I intercepted your message for Mags, well.” The Fallen Angel smiled tautly. “You understand why I couldn’t let her come and be dragged off to a cell.”