Chapter 3
“Welcome back to the pit,” I say warmly.
Death, War, Famine, and Pestilence appear in front of me. Famine’s fat body is obviously wearing new scars that would have gutted a real man. He might have laughed it off, but it’s proof of failure. One task.
One task - to retrieve a basic little girl and they’ve failed. The horsemen that are meant to end the world can’t bring me one girl. Just one.
Their hung heads say plenty.
They know they’ve fucked up.
They failed.
Four on one and they failed.
Exhaling slowly, I pace in front of them. Rolling out my neck, I put my hand on Pestilence’s shoulder. He’s always faintly feverish, yet clammy, with black oil dripping from his nose and ears. Not just human sickness, but the pestilence they spread into the world as well.
“Tell me what happened. I’m sure I’m missing something. My loyal, powerful, apocalyptic horsemen couldn’t have been bested easily,” I say in a warm voice. “I know what the four of you are capable of, so … tell me the story.”
Famine and War talk over each other, mentioning an angel without wings, talking about how the girl fought, stabbed Death in the eye and the wound just wouldn’t heal.
They guess because traces of death clung to her scalpel and the saw she used on him.
Overlapping comments fill the spaces between agonized screams and moans, while Pestilence wheezes out agreements.
I hold my hand up and they fall silent. Death finally looks at me, his gaze paling until he looks more like a corpse than a demon. His voice is quiet, more of an intrinsic understanding woven into the screams, the crackling of hellfire, and the unnecessary breathing that fills Hell.
“The angel shouldn’t have been that strong. No grace. No wings. But he didn’t back down, shielded her with a warded body, then used runes to send us back here. It flayed us all the way through. But he also seemed mortal,” Death recounts slowly.
I look at them and pat Death’s shoulder, something that would make a normal person’s skin decay. “You tried your best. The four of you, up against an obviously old angel who plays by old rules, it was hardly fair.”
“Exactly, boss. These angels don’t-”
I pull my pitchfork from the smoking lava flowing around us and thrust it into War’s chest before he can say anything else.
He slumps forward, driving each spike further through him as my horns grow, curl, and caress the backs of my ears.
The second set of horns pulse longer from my forehead, my skin splitting as blood soaks me.
Sighing, I look at the four failures in front of me. They were a test and now I have the answer. I didn’t think it would be easy to get the girl I need. But these four … I admit, I had a little hope. They’re the best of the best, above even the kings of hell, yet here they are, failures.
“You tried. You worked hard for me. Have a drink,” I say in the fatherly voice I’ve perfected.
Three out of four flinch when I offer them Fireball.
War doesn’t. He doesn’t fight my barbed pitchfork, just guzzles the drink.
The other three exchange glances before looking back at me.
Granted, I’d be more pissed if they trusted me.
Nothing about me is meant to be trustworthy to demons.
They’re meant to serve and these four failed, even if it was more than likely that they would.
“You four failed me, so have a drink to prepare for the burn,” I instruct.
“Boss, please, we tried. We did everything we could. I had the girl in my arms, nearly had her out the door and to you!” Famine argues.
“She isn’t here. The best intentions pave a road to … well, me,” I answer. “I don’t reward almost victories, boys. That’s not how it works down here. Don’t worry, you’ll survive it. You don’t have a choice.”
Because they can’t die, not really. Not in a way that matters. They’re personifications of concepts and get stronger the more humans believe in them. I grab the handle of my pitchfork and use it like a leash, leading War and the other three along, since they are connected once summoned together.
Their torture will be public, a reminder that none are beyond my reach or wrath.
I sigh. “This will hurt me so much more than it will hurt you,” I say while purposely jostling my pitchfork, so War throws up black blood as more slicks his skin. His pained whine freezes an entire legion in shock.
I shake my head as I put Pestilence in stockades, helping him to stand and giving him a hint of dignity. I nail Famine’s hands above his head and spread his legs, so I have a good surface to torture, then look at Death. Ropes wrap around his wrist. He watches me, his face stoic, eyes terrified.
“Next time, you’ll remember this. At least it’s me punishing you and not God,” I soothe. “He’d drown everyone and say it’s your fault. He’d order you to kill your children, your legions, just to laugh and condemn you when you do. Aren’t pain and new scars preferable?”
They nod.
None would complain about sacrificing a legion for themselves.
“Think of it …” I raise a machete and work it across Famine’s large belly, spilling fat, demonic fire, and his organs to the ground before lopping off his useless cock and tossing it to the eager audience to devour. “As a lesson. After all, I know how strong you are …”
I cleave Pestilence’s legs above the knee – he hardly needs them anyway. Someone else can stitch replacements back on – ideally from an animal. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have entrusted an important mission to you.”
Looping a barbed wire noose around War’s head, I then jerk my pitchfork free, forcing him to fall while the barbed wire sinks deeper and deeper into his flesh, draining him of blood and breath before he can find his feet to save himself.
Then, I stand before Death, lifting a butterfly knife that I’ll use to skin him.
“You’re strong enough to end the world. You’ve transcended the Bible and into pop culture multiple times over.
They’ve turned you into jokes … most of you.
” I dig the blade with expert skill into Death’s arm, tracing a ring just below his elbow before sticking the blade in his throat. “Hold this for me.”
I grip his fingers and drag his flesh off his body as if it’s a glove.
I hold it up and pull it over my own hand, the skin splitting while trying to fit over my thick muscle.
I stroke Death with his own fingers. “I know you’re more than jokes.
Take your punishments, accept my kindness in fixing you up after, and remember what you’ve endured in your obedience …
to inflict upon that angel should he get in the way.
I certainly still believe in you. She’s your ticket out of hell. I’d recommend taking it.”
Then, I get started with the show.
The angel might seem mortal.
A fun fact to save for later.
But these four will remember that I’m unavoidable.