The Sinner

Four

A demon in the guise of a human bouncer lounges at the entrance of Idle Hands. The tavern, tucked in a dark alley, is full, judging by the dark laughter, cursing, and noxious odors seeping from behind the heavy oaken door.

The bouncer watches me approach with flat eyes. “ I fell to Earth and here I lie… ”

“ Who will help me up again? ” I finish.

He nods. “You may enter.”

I glance around the alley. It’s empty, but New York City breathes around us, electric and alive. Even in the deepest part of the night, it teems with life. Light.

Satisfied there are no watching eyes, I transform into my demonic form and nearly sigh with relief to feel it envelop me in strength and power, like putting on a suit of armor. I’m no longer weak from Crossing Over; the black clothes and greatsword I wear on the Other Side reform with me.

The bouncer falls back, averting his eyes. “My Lord Casziel, I had no idea. Please forgive me.”

Not long ago, I would’ve exulted in the terror my presence creates. Now it reminds me of all I’ve done to earn it.

“Step aside,” I snarl.

He does so with another bow, and I enter Idle Hands. The dark, windowless tavern reeks of a dozen foul odors—vile fumes emanate off the twenty or so demons that are congregated here. Each wears his or her demonic body. Idle Hands is a safe haven, invisible to human eyes.

Few take notice of my arrival, but behind the bar, Eistibus is staring. The dji

“Lord Casziel.” Eistibus clasps my arm. “How long’s it been?”

“Fifty years by human reckoning.”

“Too long and yet it seems like yesterday.” The dji

“I’m aware.”

Let him wait.

“If you think it’s best,” Eistibus says slowly. “What’s your poison?”

It’s not a figure of speech; skulls and crossbones mark more than one bottle on the shelves.

“Wine, please. Red.”

Eistibus sets a glass of wine the color of old blood in front of me. From the waist up, the dji

“How long are you on This Side?”

“Not long,” I answer and sip my wine. “A few days.”

And then there will be an end, one way or another.

“What of you?” I ask. “How’s business?”

“T’is crowded these days. Strange, that. Most times, it’s just me and that wormy bastard.”

He jerks his jowly chin at the demon at the end of the bar, his head resting on the polished mahogany, one scrawny arm curling around a ring of empty shot glasses.

Eistibus pounds a fist. “Oi! Ba-Maguje! Get yer bloody ugly mug off my bar.”

“Piss off,” Ba-Maguje slurs. “I’m working.”

Eistibus chuckles but it fades fast. His gold gaze flickers toward the back door and then to me. “Not to be pressing the point, but Lord Ashtaroth was adamant that you see him immediately.”

“Trying to get rid of me already?” I smile. “I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends,” Eistibus says. “Hence the warning. And you’d be a truer friend to go quick and not let’em cut off my balls for not passing on his message.”

“You don’t have any balls, Eistibus,” I say with a grin, then flap my hand. “I’m going, I’m going.”

I drain my wine and now dozens of eyes—or what serve as eyes—follow me as I cross the room. I step over tails and around puddles of vileness. At the door, I square my shoulders and knock once.

“Enter.”

The room is dark but for a single black candle burning on an ornate table. Lush furniture in fraying velvet and antiques give it the appearance of a parlor in an old mansion. By the meager light, I make out my liege lord, Ashtaroth, Head of the Eighth Order, Prince of Accusers. He lounges on a settee, his black, webbed wings folded tight to him, the hooked tips gleaming behind his head of damp, tangled hair. He looks—and smells—like a corpse dragged out of a bog. It’s all I can do not to recoil at his breath that has filled the room like a vapor.

He strokes the head of his immense white serpent that coils around the settee, watching me with black eyes. Lesser servitors scuttle and whimper at the edges of the light like rats.

“Kneel.”

I obey and drop to my knees in the middle of the room.

“My demon prince,” Ashtaroth drawls, danger suffusing every syllable. “You are so beautiful and perfect in your malevolence…except when it comes to her. ”

She is called Lucy this time…

I bury the tiny flicker of light that burns in my blackened heart. Even after centuries of ravaging the earth with my rage, that flame hasn’t yet guttered out. Lucy is just as bright and beautiful in this lifetime as she is in every other, but she’s alone. Always so alone. I dare wonder—hope—if somewhere in her soul she mourns me…

“She does not,” Ashtaroth snaps, crawling around in my thoughts. “No matter how many of her lifetimes you skulk about her like a mongrel, you are dead to her. Not even a memory. You know this is true.”

I know this is true. But I can’t leave her to that loneliness. I need to know she has found happiness at last.

Then I can say goodbye…

Ashtaroth sneers, his wings flaring wide, wafting his stench over me in fresh waves. “I see into your heart. I taste your pathetic hope. The lie you’ve laid at her feet about your redemption would amuse me if it weren’t so pitiful.”

“This time is mine,” I say, defiance in the tilt of my chin. “Eleven days. You swore to me…”

What is the word of a demon worth? Lucy asked. The answer, of course, is nothing.

Ashtaroth’s black lip curls. “What of your word? Your duty? While you waste time on This Side, your legions go without a commander on the Other.”

I say nothing. My course is clear, and I will not waver. A commander does not veer from his mission until victory is achieved.

Or until he’s dead.

Quickly, I banish the thought from my mind before he knows my intentions. I must’ve succeeded because Ashtaroth sighs with disappointment and unsheathes the huge sword strapped to his waist. It gleams dully in the flickering light of the candle.

“Come, then.”

I know what he expects—I alter myself into my frail human form, the body that had been scarred and broken so many years ago. Ashtaroth will scar me again to remind me of that frailty—remind me that while I wear the human skin, he can destroy me.

I’m counting on it…but not yet.

I approach, my head held high, unflinching. At either side of Ashtaroth, lesser servitors watch me, waiting for me to show weakness. Starved for a scrap of my fear. I show none. I could destroy the imps with a word or one swipe of my sword.

I bare my arm, offering it to Ashtaroth like a piece of sacrificial meat.

“You have spent one day. Ten remain. My gift to you.”

He draws his sword across the flesh above my wrist, and I hold my breath, wondering if he’ll hack my hand off. But he keeps the wound shallow. Red blood flows, black in the meager light. The pain is bright, but it’s nothing compared to the wounds I suffered in life centuries ago, when I was dragged to the bowels of the ziggurat and destroyed, body and soul…

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