FLAMING DOVE

by

Daniel Arenson

Copyright © 2010 by Daniel Arenson

All rights reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.

I am Laila, of the night. I have walked through godlight and through darkness. I have fought demons and I have slain angels. I am Laila, of the shadows. I have hidden and run, and I have stood up and striven. I am Laila, of tears and blood, of sins and of piety. I am Laila, outcast from Hell, banished from Heaven. I am alone, in darkness. I am Laila, of light and of fire. I am fallen. I rise again.

Chapter One

Something is out there, his thoughts whispered. Something lurking in the night. Standing on the fort's dank walls, Nathaniel scanned the darkness. He saw only rain and waves, but still the thought lingered. There is evil beyond these walls.

It was past midnight, and clouds hid the stars, grumbling and spewing sheets of rain, crackling with lightning. The waves roared, raising showers of foam, pummeling the ancient Crusader fort as if trying to topple it. It was that kind of storm, Nathaniel thought as the winds lashed him. A storm that could tear down the world.

Nathaniel tightened his grip on his spear, the rain pelting his bronze helm. An unholy storm, he thought, and an unholy night.

A glint caught his good eye, coming from the flurrying sand of the beach below. Nathaniel raised his spear, gazing into the darkness, heart leaping. He shifted his shoulder blades as if he still had angel wings to unfurl. He had lost those wings years ago, along with his left eye, to demon claws. And you know what happens to wingless angels, he thought, scanning the beach. They get stuck with guard duty on stormy nights when even God wouldn't step outdoors.

Where was the glint? Nathaniel could see nothing, only crashing waves and endless darkness. He must have imagined it. He cursed himself for his quickened heartbeat, for the whiteness of his knuckles around his spear. He had killed more demons than he could count, had even faced an archdemon once and lived to boast of it; it was damn foolishness that a mere storm should faze him, even if it was the worst storm he had seen on this world. And yet... and yet there was something about this night, something of a malice beyond waves and wind, beyond Hell itself, perhaps.

Lightning flashed and there—a glint in the skies. Nathaniel thought he glimpsed great bat wings spread in flight before the light vanished, but... that was impossible. No demon could fly over this beach without triggering all their alarms.

Nathaniel cursed the shiver that ran through his bones, these bones broken too often in battle, now creaky and aching. The waves battered the fort's wall, spraying him with water and foam, and Nathaniel cursed again and spat. He'd had too much rye last night, that was all; he was seeing things.

Something creaked behind him.

Nathaniel spun around, spear lashing.

A cry pierced the night.

His spear banged against metal.

"Sir!" came a voice ahead.

"Who's there?" Nathaniel demanded, gripping his spear.

"Please, sir! It's me." Eyes glowed in the darkness.

"Name and rank," Nathaniel shouted.

"Yaram, sir! Corporal from platoon four, sir."

Nathaniel groped for the lamp at his feet. It lay on its side; he must have kicked it over. He raised the tin lamp, casting its flickering glow against the young, pink-faced angel who stood before him. A dent pushed into Yaram's breastplate where Nathaniel's spear had found it, and the angel's eyes were narrowed with pain and terror.

"God damn it." Nathaniel spat. "Corporal, never creep up on an officer like that; my spear could have hit your face just as easily."

"Sorry, sir, but... I pulled guard duty tonight. I was in the eastern tower, and sir, I saw something."

"And abandoned your post?" Nathaniel clenched his jaw. He should have the angel beaten for this.

"Micah, my partner, guards there now, sir," Yaram said, voice shaking. Thunder boomed. "I came to find you. We saw a shade in the night, like a demon, but...."

Nathaniel cursed under his breath. The rain pounded his helmet and ran down his face. "But it wasn't a demon, was it?" he muttered. So he had not imagined it; there was something out there, neither demon nor angel, a creature that had crept past their alarms, that now flew above them as if unfazed by the garrison of angels below.

There was only one creature of such power, of such brazenness, Nathaniel knew. The winds howled and more waves sprayed them, salty against his lips. The lamplight flickered, its shadows dancing.

"Sir?" Yaram said, pale. "You don't suppose it could have been her? That she has returned?"

Nathaniel raised his spear and pointed it at the younger angel. "Watch your tongue, corporal, or I'll cut it from your mouth. Don't speak of that half-breed here. She fled years ago, you know that."

Yaram swallowed and nodded, rubbing the dent in his armor. No doubt, an ugly bruise was spreading beneath that dent. "Yes, sir."

Lightning flashed again as waves crashed and roared, as the winds howled, and there again—great bat wings under the swirling clouds, and a shriek from above, a shriek that ached in Nathaniel's old bones.

Yaram and Nathaniel stared. They both had seen those wings, those red, burning eyes.

The watch bell clanged in the guard tower behind them, ringing clearly even in the howling storm. Micah sounding the alarm, Nathaniel knew.

Clattering footfalls came from the staircase leading up the wall. Nathaniel and Yaram spun, raising their spears. It was Bat El running up toward them, her gilded armor perfectly polished, her blond hair pulled into a prim, proper bun. Great, Nathaniel thought with a grunt. If anything could make this night worse, it was the presence of Bat El, the prissy daughter of Archangel Gabriel himself.

"The alarm—" Bat El began, blue eyes wide.

"A winged creature," Nathaniel grumbled. "Neither demon nor angel." He hated that his words made him shudder. I need a drink.

"There!" Yaram shouted over the crashing waves, pointing to the beach below. They looked and saw it—a darker shade of black, red eyes burning, a halo of flame wreathing its brow.

"Dear God, don't tell me it's her," Bat El whispered, blanching. She unfurled her swan wings and leapt off the wall, gliding toward the creature.

"Damn it!" Nathaniel said. "Yaram, we follow."

He would have to share Yaram's wings; sometimes wingless angels had to give up some pride. He grabbed Yaram and leapt from the wall, pulling the younger angel with him. Yaram spread his swan wings, caught the storming winds, and they hit the rocky beach below the fort. Through the crashing waves, Nathaniel glimpsed Bat El racing toward where they had seen the creature.

Stupid girl, Nathaniel thought. He pushed himself up and began running after her. If that creature was truly her, truly who they thought, none of them could face her. There were few from Hell or Heaven—not even Gabriel's daughter—who could challenge that thing and live.

Yaram screamed beside him. Nathaniel turned to stare with his good eye. Through the crashing foam, Yaram fell, helmet cracked, neck shred open. Nathaniel cursed and raised his spear.

Red eyes burned in the night, two lit coals. Fangs pushed through a chaotic smile. It was her, Nathaniel knew.

The demon's daughter. The half-angel.

Laila.

God help us, she's back.

"Bat El!" Nathaniel shouted, when great bat wings slammed against him, sending him flying. He crashed into the waters, salt filling his mouth and nostrils. The waves slammed him against the fort's mossy wall, ringing filled his ears, and he tumbled to the ground. With his last bits of consciousness, he glimpsed the creature gliding through the night, and then the waves slammed Nathaniel against the wall again, and all thought faded.

* * * * *

The sun rose slowly, casting dim light through a pall of clouds, glinting over sea and sand. That sand filled Michael's sandals as he walked, and he breathed in the scents of salt, water, and seaweed. As much as he hated Earth, he was growing fond of the beach smells, and his morning walks had become his favorite time here—or at least, the time of day he disliked the least. After several days of rain and storm, silence filled the land, broken only by the murmur of waves and the calls of distant gulls.

Michael was heading toward the Crusader castle which rose upon a steeple of stone, overlooking the sea, umber under the morning sky. The fort—it must have been a thousand years old—always reminded Michael of some last, decaying tooth in the gums of an old wolf.

Laila has a wolf, he reflected, folding his swan wings around him, shielding himself from the chilly sea breeze. Yet that wolf has far too many teeth—sharp ones, and cruel.

What was the wolf's name? Michael could not remember. He had a feeling that he'd be reminded soon enough, if the rumors were true. Michael gazed away from the sea, looking toward the eastern sandy hills, toward Jerusalem. Could Laila truly have returned to the city after so long in exile? If so, why? Why now?

She favored humans, Michael reminded himself. Perhaps she returned for a human friend—or lover. Humans were rare now, twenty-seven years after Armageddon. Michael doubted even a million remained around the globe; probably far fewer.

The icy breeze tasted like salt and sand, and Michael inhaled deeply, wishing he could walk forever across this beach, just pass by the fort and keep walking all day, breathing the sea, and to hell with this world. He kicked a rusty hubcap in the sand, sending a flock of gulls aflutter. One of these days, I'm just going to keep on walking, and let God come find me.

When he reached the crumbling Crusader castle, its walls chipped and mossy, Michael heaved a sigh. Several angels stood upon the walls, eyes dour, faces hidden behind bronze helms. This had been Michael's home for several years now—since they claimed this shore in a battle that left four hundred angels slain. Not quite as comfortable as Heaven, he reflected as he entered the gates, nodding at the two angels who stood guard. The angels, each armed with a sword and spear, saluted as he passed them.

Tapestries hung inside the fort's shadowy hall, depicting biblical scenes, but they brought little cheer to the place. Even the torches lining the walls emitted scarce warmth or light; the fort was dank, shadowy, and as far from heavenly as possible.

Earth, Michael thought with a sigh. I don't know how Laila can stand it. But of course, he did know. He remembered the one time the half-demon had visited Heaven, visited the home of her mother. The holy water had burned her throat, the godlight scorched her skin, and the song of harps made her ears bleed. Poor child. It's no wonder you spend your life running.

Several angels stood in the hall, discussing news of the war. Michael gazed past them to the painting which hung on the wall, framed in gold, ten feet tall. The painting depicted him—Michael, commander of God's hosts—clad in gilded Roman armor, swan wings unfurled, blond curls glowing, lance glinting as it pierced the wretched, twisted form of Satan. Michael gazed wearily at the painting. There he is, an archangel in all his glory. Michael sighed, knuckled his aching back, and rubbed his neck. To hell with gold and glory. Right then Michael would have given the world for a smoke and long, hot bath.

Volkfair, he remembered, rubbing the kinks in his shoulder. That was the name of that great black wolf of hers. Volkfair. Michael had often thought the beast was half-demon like its mistress.

"Michael!" came a voice, and a young angel flitted down the tower stairs, moving into the torch-lit hall. The angel's golden hair glistened, strewn with silver flowers, and her gait was still graceful, her blue eyes still bright. Bat El had been on Earth for only several months. It always takes at least a year before they lose the bounce in their step, Michael reflected.

"Hello, Bat El," he said.

The young angel saluted him. "Michael, I've returned from the city, I—"

"Hush, Bat El," he said softly. He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Come into my office. We'll talk."

The two angels left the main hall, stepped down a corridor, and entered a small chamber. Out the window, Michael saw several angels drilling with spears. He drew the curtains and closed the door behind him.

"Michael," Bat El gushed, eyes sparkling, "the stories are true. I saw her myself, downtown Jerusalem. At least, I'm fairly sure it was her. The bar was shadowy, and I dared not approach her." She paused for breath, chest rising and falling.

"Sit down, Bat El," Michael said, sitting himself in a wooden chair by a heavy oak desk. Bat El took the chair across from him. Michael reached for the decanter of brandy on the desk. He poured them drinks and sipped his slowly, savoring the flavor. Bat El did not touch hers.

"Not as good as heaven's wines," Michael said, leaning back in his seat, "but some Earth drinks do come close. Won't you try a sip?"

Bat El shook her head. "I haven't had a drink since leaving Heaven, sir. I'm here on duty, to serve God, not for pleasure."

Michael sipped his brandy, smiling softly. He had spoken similar words twenty-seven years ago when landing in the Holy Land for the battle of Armageddon. Then again, he had never expected to stay long. They should have won Armageddon, regardless of which prophet you asked. Twenty-seven years, he thought. God, I hate this place.

"Very well," he said. "Laila and I will do the drinking. She was drunk when you saw her, I assume."

Bat El nodded and smoothed her white dress as if the smell of dingy pub still clung to it. "There were a number of empty bottles at her table, yes. I didn't see her face. Shadowed in a hood, she kept it. But I saw her wolf." Bat El shuddered. "Its eyes gleamed golden in the shadows. It was like a shadow itself, great and black. And once, when Laila looked up, I saw her own eyes. They also gleamed—red, like a demon's eyes." Bat El shivered again and eyed her glass of untouched brandy, perhaps feeling that she needed a drink after all.

"Then it was her," Michael said and rose to his feet. He faced the eastern wall, where hung a parchment map of Jerusalem. He placed his hand against the map, leaned against the wall, and lowered his head. "How is your father?" he asked softly. "How is Gabriel?"

Bat El shifted uneasily in her seat. "He is... often quiet. Busy. I don't see much of him anymore. He would join you on Earth, but...."

"Yes," Michael said, passing his hand over the mapped roads, "someone still needs to govern Heaven. None better for it than your father. He's a great follower of God, Bat El. He's proud of you."

Bat El lowered her head. "Thank you, sir."

Michael shut his eyes. Twenty-seven years ago, both Heaven and Hell were sure they were headed to clear, quick victory, he remembered. His younger brother Beelzebub—once an angel, now an outcast demon—had been Hell's field commander, younger and brasher then, full of brimstone and flame.

And me, what of me, what of the great Michael? He had descended to Earth clad in light, surrounded by the song of angels, cherubic, his lance alight. Look at us now, Michael thought, shaking his head. Two brothers. Two old, tired warriors still slugging it out in the muck. We can't do this anymore. Not without her, without Laila.

"Bat El, I want you to find her again," he said, opening his eyes. "We need her if we're to win this world. She must finally join us."

Bat El rose to her feet, eyes alarmed. "Sir! We've spent years pursuing her, begging her to join us. Do you forget Azriel? She killed him when he tried to drag her back. And the corporal Yaram, just a few nights ago...."

Michael, still leaning against the wall, turned to look at the younger angel. She gazed back, eyes bright blue, pink lips open as she breathed heavily. Beautiful even among angels, Michael thought. She looks much like her mother, the mother Laila shares.

"This time your half-sister will join us," he spoke softly. "When she learns who her father was, Laila will join Heaven."

Finally Bat El drank her brandy, downing the glass with one gulp. Michael shut his eyes again. He hated hurting Bat El, but some truths could not remain unspoken, not forever.

"Yes," Bat El whispered, voice shaking. "Lucifer kidnapped my mother and raped her, placing Laila in her womb. I know the story. I was glad when Beelzebub killed Lucifer and took over Hell. As horrible as your brother is, I was glad. My mother would be too, if she were alive to know it."

She trembled. Michael took her hand and patted it. "But Laila does not know," he said gently. "We never told her who her father was. She knows her dad was a demon, of course, but not which demon. We've been careful to hide the truth while Lucifer lived for fear that she'd join him."

Bat El poured herself a second glass, hands still trembling. She spilled half the glass and drank the rest. "So why tell her now?" she said, voice weak.

Michael looked at the parchment, going over the roads and courtyards of Jerusalem, the holy city. He spoke softly. "Because when she learns that Beelzebub killed her father... that she is rightful heir to Hell... then your sister will fight against my brother. She'll help us conquer this world and kill Beelzebub; in return, we'll place her on the throne of Hell."

* * * * *

Weeds filled Jerusalem's ruins, pushing through cobblestones, covering crumbled walls, coating rooftops and shattered columns. The trees had all burned away in the war, as had most of the humans, yet the weeds lingered and grew. I haven't seen a flower since leaving Heaven, Bat El thought, yet not even Armageddon can kill weeds. Now what does that say about this world?

She walked down the ruined and silent street, gazing around warily, expecting demons to leap out any moment. She had taken The Wrecking Balls with her, a platoon from Heavenfire Division which garrisoned at the seaside fort. The burly angels surrounded her, armed with spears and clad in armor, but still Bat El worried. She reminded herself that Heaven had claimed this neighborhood a year ago, and demons did not enter it since. She gazed past the alley walls and saw, upon a hill under grumbling sky, a blackened church. That's where Beelzebub lives, she thought with a shudder. She could imagine the fallen angel, Michael's younger brother, watching her from the belfry. She shivered again and clutched her sword. Now where was that bar again?

Demon prints covered the cobbled street, she noticed—slimy, smoking, hoofed. Bat El paused and stared at them.

"Lieutenant," she said to Nathaniel, the tall, dour commander of The Wrecking Balls. "I thought this was Heaven's neighborhood. Why do I see demon tracks?"

Nathaniel was busy grumbling something about dirty jobs, and how wingless angels always got them. At the sound of her voice, he shut his mouth, adjusted his eyepatch, and stared at the prints with his good eye.

"All this city is disputed territory, Captain," he said, voice like gravel. He creaked his shoulder blades as if to shrug wings, those wings which had gone missing with his left eye, good manners, and sobriety. "Demons come, demons go. Most who enter these streets die."

Bat El clutched the hilt of her golden sword. This sword can fire godlight a mile away and cut steel, she reminded herself, yet still she shivered. Why would Laila ever return to this city, if she could hide in the hills with that wolf of hers?

"How old are those tracks?" she asked Nathaniel, struggling to keep her voice stern. She was Gabriel's daughter and a Captain in the ancient, fabled Heavenfire Division; she must never show fear.

"Fresh," the wingless angel grunted. He pointed behind a toppled wall. "The bodies are fresh too."

Bat El looked past the pile of rubble and covered her mouth, struggling not to gag. Two demon bodies lay there, rotting, seared with blasts of godlight. The demon's bloated tongues hung from their maws.

"God," she whispered.

Nathaniel spat. "As I said. Demons come, demons go. Demons don't last long." He hefted his spear.

Glancing around, expecting more demons to emerge any instant, Bat El led her squad through brick alleys, past a toppled fort, across a stone square with burned trees, and finally into an alley in the shade of two hills. She saw it there, nestled between abandoned buildings, ash staining its tan bricks—the Silver Candle bar.

"That's where I saw her," she said to Nathaniel.

The wingless angel stared at the bar with one grim eye. He hefted his spear again. "I'll go in first," he said with a grunt. "If that wolf causes trouble, I'll spear the dog."

And if you do, Bat El thought, Laila will kill you in a flash. There were few whom Satan's daughter could not kill, Bat El knew—not even a battle-hardened angel with no wings and more grit than a toppled church.

"No," Bat El said. "I go in—alone. I don't want to startle her. If she sees a group of burly, armed angels walk in, blood will spill in the Silver Candle."

Nathaniel gave her a shrug that seemed to say, Do whatever the hell you want, girl, but don't come crying to me later.

"Very well, Captain," the one-eyed lieutenant said and slammed the butt of his spear against the cobbled road. "We wait here." He pulled out a cigarette and began to puff. Earth habits, Bat El thought with distaste. They do say angels become like humans once they lose their wings.

Leaving The Wrecking Balls, Bat El stepped toward the dingy bar, trying to keep her sandals silent against the cobbles. The bar's iron sign hung crookedly, creaking as she approached. Bat El had little doubt that Laila would still be here, drinking, even in early afternoon. This was one of the few buildings in Jerusalem still standing; where else would a half-angel, half-demon spend her time? Bat El pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the shadows.

For a moment she stood, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. The glow from her hair and skin brought scarce light to this chamber of spirits and survivors. Bat El discerned several humans seated at the bar, hunched over their drinks—homemade spirits made by fermenting anything the humans could still find and grow. The barkeep raised rheumy eyes, blinked at her, and spat.

"I told you last time," he said. "We don't want no angels here."

"And I told you last time," she said, tossing him a golden coin, "angels are all that keep the demons off this street."

The barkeep pocketed the coin. He barked a laugh. "She is what keeps demons off this street," he said, gesturing with his head toward the darkest corner of the pub. "Angels would keep away too, if they were smart."

He retreated into the kitchen, grumbling. The gold would silence him for a while, Bat El knew. Gold was valueless these days, of course—she could as well have tossed him a pebble—but gold's gleam was still worth some memories, some hope.

She looked at the shadows at the back, where the barkeep had gestured, and swallowed. Her glow, the godlight of angels, did not pierce those shadows. If Laila preferred the darkness, Bat El knew, in darkness the half-demon would remain.

Bat El forced her hand off the hilt of her sword. She mustn't look threatening. But as she stepped into the shadows, she kept hand and hilt close.

A growl came from ahead, and the wolf's eyes and fangs glistened. Instinctively, Bat El took a step back, heart racing.

"Don't be afraid," came a soft voice from the shadows. "Volkfair won't hurt you. Whether I hurt you remains to be seen. Come forward, half-sister. Sit at my table."

Removing her hand from her sword—she had clutched and half-drawn it without noticing—Bat El stepped forward and saw a table and an empty seat. Laila sat across the table, hidden in a black cloak and hood, her wolf at her side. In the shadows, Bat El could only make out the red flame of Laila's eyes, burning like coals in her shadowy hood. Uneasily, Bat El sat at the table across from Laila.

Bat El stared at her younger sister, this girl conceived when Lucifer raped her mother. Pity filled Bat El. You've spent your life running, she thought, gazing at those flaming eyes. When we brought you to Heaven, the godlight burned your skin.

Memories of their childhood flowed into Bat El, fragments of a young angel, only just blossoming into womanhood among the meadows of Heaven, and a demonic baby sister, a twisted being of flame and shrieks. Yet despite her fear—after all, everyone feared Laila the half-demon—Bat El had always loved Laila. She hadn't seen her sister in years, but that love remained.

"Hello, Laila," she said softly. "Welcome back." She did not know what more to say. She had spent all morning rehearsing words, but they all fled her mind at the sight of her poor, wretched, outcast sister.

"The small talk first," Laila spoke in the shadows, voice smooth and dangerous as poison. "How is Heaven? How is Gabriel? How are you liking Earth?" With a dainty, clawed hand, Laila pulled a glass of spirits into the shadows of her hood. Strange that one of such power should have such small hands, Bat El reflected. A moment later, Laila placed the empty glass back on the table. "And now that we've got the small talk out of the way—why are you here?" She placed her clawed hand in the shaggy black fur of her wolf, patting it.

"You know why I came," Bat El said softly, wondering how long it would take Nathaniel and his angels to burst into the bar if she screamed, or if she'd even have a chance to scream should that wolf leap at her.

Laila pulled back her hood, and for the first time in years, Bat El looked upon her half-sister. Laila did not look like an angel, Bat El thought; her skin did not glow, her black hair did not shine, and no swan wings grew from her back. Nor did she look like a demon; she had no tail, no horns, no scales. In the darkness, she could almost be mistaken for a human, if not for her fangs, her bat wings, and the fire in her eyes.

"You're wasting your time here, Bat El," Laila said. "Or should I call you Captain now? I hear Michael enlisted you, gave you some nice, lofty rank as befits a child of Gabriel." Laila's voice mocked her, but her eyes remained fiery and humorless.

"Laila," Bat El said, "I'm your sister. I want to help you, I want you to—"

"You've asked me to join you before," Laila whispered with a hint of menace, running her claws through Volkfair's fur. "Your people have spent years asking me to join you. I thought I made my answer clear when I ripped out Azriel's throat." The flames in Laila's eyes crackled, glistening against her fangs.

Bat El winced. "My people?" she asked, pain filling her, pain she was surprised to still find in her. "Laila, you are one of us. You are Heaven's child. You always have been."

Laila removed her hand from Volkfair and tapped her claws against the tabletop. She had such fair hands, Bat El thought again; small, delicate. If not for those claws....

"I grow tired of you," Laila whispered. "The only reason I don't kill you now is because we share blood. Michael must feel clever to have sent you here."

"Michael did not send me," Bat El lied. "I came on my own."

Laila laughed mirthlessly and refilled her glass. "An angel lying? Beware, sister, it might make your wings fall off." Laila outstretched her own wings—black, leathery. Demon wings.

I have maybe another ten seconds here, Bat El knew. It was time to show her cards.

"Laila," she said, "I thought you might help us fight Beelzebub if you knew the truth about your father." She took a deep breath, watching Laila for any sign of emotion. Laila's face remained still.

"Laila," Bat El continued softly, "when Beelzebub killed Lucifer, you became rightful ruler of Hell." Tears filled Bat El's eyes. "I'm sorry we never told you. Your father, the demon who raped our mother, was Lucifer."

Laila sipped her drink calmly. "I know," she said.

Bat El shifted in her seat, taken aback. "You... know? But how? Only Gabriel and Michael knew until they told us this year. I thought...."

Laila pulled the hood back over her head, hiding herself. "Old news," she said. "Now leave."

Volkfair growled, fangs glistening. I will gain no more here, Bat El knew. Fingers trembling, she left.

Chapter Two

Beelzebub hammered at the marble statue, chiseling away a speck from the nose. He frowned, ran a finger along his own nose, and chiseled another piece. Candles filled the church belfry, dancing against the statue, burning low. He had been working for hours on his self-portrait; soon the light would be gone.

"Your nose is bigger," came a voice behind him. "You're not that pretty."

With a sigh, Beelzebub turned to see Zarel enter the belfry. The Demon Queen swayed as she walked, formed of endless curves, her red scales clinking. Her hair of flame crackled, and drool dripped down her fangs to steam against the floor.

"All angels are pretty," he said to her. "We are beings of light and beauty."

Zarel barked a laugh, smoke and flame rising from her nostrils. "You're a fallen angel, my dear husband, do you remember? It's been a long time since a halo glowed above your head."

Beelzebub turned back toward the statue and took a step back, admiring his work. The black marble rose seven feet tall, just slightly larger than life, great bat wings spread. It's good, Beelzebub thought, nodding slowly. He especially liked how he had carved the armor; the stone breastplate, greaves, and vambraces glittered like the real armor he wore, old Roman pieces he had been wearing for two thousand years. I will gild the marble armor too, he decided. His own armor was black and gilded, and he wanted the statue to look as authentic as possible.

"I'll mount this statue in the Armenian Quarter once we take it," he told Zarel. "Michael will like that."

Zarel bared her fangs, and her hair of flame raised sparks. Her eyes burned like lanterns in the shadows. "Forget the Armenian Quarter. We have larger concerns today. Whispers fill the city. They say that Laila has returned."

Beelzebub sank into a chair by his workbench. "Who says this, Zarel?" he asked wearily.

His wife ran her claws along his arm, raising steam against his skin. "Humans. Who else? You know your lover. She consorts with them, so I listen."

Beelzebub sighed again, a deep sigh that ran across his body. "She's no longer my lover, Zarel. That was years ago. You know that."

She smiled with a hiss, drool dripping down her maw, flames burning in her eyes. More flames ran across her scaly body, a raiment of fire. She unfurled her great bat wings, horns and claws glistening. "The girl must die."

Beelzebub rose to his feet, stepped toward the belfry window, and opened the shutters. He gazed out upon the ruins of Jerusalem, letting his gaze caress the toppled temples, fallen columns, cracked streets, the skeletons of demons and angels. Ash swirled across the sky, and he could see no life other than a vulture pecking at some bones. In the distance, beyond alleys and ruins, he could discern the glow of angels hunkered down in their trenches. Stubborn bastards, he thought. It's been twenty-seven years since Armageddon, and still they hold out. They don't give up on dreams easily, angels. Stubborn, stubborn.

He turned back toward Zarel, letting his gaze move over her body clad in flames, her toothy maw, her flaming hair. She was beautiful, of perfect form and malice. He stepped toward her and embraced her. She struggled, trying to shove him back, but he held her tight and kissed her cheek.

"My dearest Zarel," he said. "Don't be jealous, my queen. I have no more feelings for Laila, you know that. You're the only one I love."

She hissed and scratched her claws against his nape, trying to hurt him, but could not penetrate his skin. Her claws could rip through stone and steel, yet some were still too powerful for Zarel the archdemon. "Then why did the sound of her name bring pain to your eyes?" she said, her voice half a growl.

Beelzebub shoved her aside, and she fell back two steps, glaring at him, eyes aflame. She bared her fangs like a wolf.

Pain. Was there still pain? Beelzebub turned back toward his statue and stared at it. A fallen angel was he, a being of beauty and power, a being who could claim any woman. His wings were no longer those of a swan, but of a bat, and no halo glowed above his head. Those had been stripped from him and Lucifer during their rebellion, when God banished them from Heaven to become demons. But his divine beauty and strength remained. I could have any woman, and I have found the one of my dreams, he told himself. Zarel is of great lineage, powerful and famous in Hell; she is my perfect match. Laila means nothing to me now.

"There is no more pain," he said, still facing the statue, not turning to look at his wife. "Only old pain, long dissipated."

"Then let me kill her," came Zarel's voice behind him.

He shook his head. "We need her."

Zarel leapt, flew over his head, and landed before him, smoking and flaming, fangs bared. She hissed, flames rose from her nostrils, and her scales glinted. "You need her, my lord? Do you miss your Laila's kisses? She must not live. If she returned to this city to join Michael, she must die. I will kill her myself. Many fear Laila the half-demon, but I don't."

Beelzebub lifted his hammer and chisel. He chipped a speck from the statue's left wing, smoothing it to look like leather. "Laila would not join Michael," he said. "She hates Heaven more than she hates Hell. She is Lucifer's daughter. Heaven's holy water burns her, and its harps make her ears bleed."

Zarel grabbed his arm, pulling his hand away from the statue. She glowered. "She hates Hell too. Remember when she visited? The hellfire burned her skin; she fled back to Earth half dead. Why do you let her live? Lucifer would have killed her."

Beelzebub snarled, surprised at his sudden anger, and shoved Zarel against the wall. She hit the bricks, chipping off pieces of stone, and growled, drooling like a mad dog. "Lucifer is dead now," he said icily. "Hell is mine."

She laughed mirthlessly, drool like lava falling from her maw. "Lucifer? Forget not, my husband. You killed Lucifer because he refused to let you marry his daughter. You killed him because you loved Laila, and he did not approve. So do not speak to me, your wife, of Lucifer dying."

Gazing at his wife, Beelzebub felt his anger fade, felt guilt fill him. Of course this would be difficult for Zarel, and of course he loved his new demon wife. After Laila fled into exile, refusing to marry him, Beelzebub had chosen the greatest demon in Hell to be his bride instead. Zarel. She was unlike him in every way. He was a fallen angel, a cursed being of dark beauty, banished from Heaven, one of the original angels who rebelled against God. And she was an archdemon born in hellfire, forged in the deepest pits of Hell, an ancient evil of horns, scales, flame. Perhaps we will never fully understand each other, Beelzebub thought, but still he loved her; she was the most powerful being he knew of, aside from himself and perhaps Laila. No one better to be his bride... after Laila fled, that was.

Could Laila have truly returned now, after all these years? He remembered her last words to him. "I love you, Beelzebub," Laila had said, bloody tears on her cheeks, after he killed Lucifer. "But I'm half angel. I can never be yours."

The candles guttering in the belfry around him, Beelzebub lowered his head. "Zarel, I'm sorry. I promise you, you are the only woman I love. Laila means nothing to me now."

"Then let me kill her."

He turned back to the window and stared at that distant glow of angels, those troops of Heaven hunkered down, waiting, still fighting after so long. "Zarel, this war has been going on for twenty-seven years. We are old and tired now, Michael and I, and we might never beat each other down. But Laila... with her power, she could change the tide. If she joins us, we can—"

"She will never join us," Zarel said. "She is half angel, and Hell is poison to her. Isn't that why she left you in the first place? She will never fight with us, and I will not have her here, I will not have that woman in my court. Do you hear me, Beelzebub? If truly you have no feelings for Laila, then send me on the hunt. I will bring back her body, scorched and broken. I will feed upon her flesh."

Beelzebub stared at his wife, gazing into those burning eyes, eyes full of hatred and love for him. He stepped toward her and kissed her. She struggled at first, then kissed him back hungrily, her body pressed against his old Roman breastplate, her claws in his hair.

"I love you," he said.

She ignored him, turning her head aside, eyes shut. "You say she might change the tide. If she returned to join Michael, she might help him win this city. If you won't let me kill her for my own vengeance and hatred, let me kill her for that reason, to make sure she never joins Heaven."

Beelzebub shook his head. "Zarel, my love, my life. You are wise and strong, maybe wiser than I am. But you don't know Laila. She did not return to this city to join my brother. She did not return to pursue my love." Beelzebub, the fallen angel, the new Lord of Hell, smiled sadly. "Laila returned to Jerusalem because she is lonely."

* * * * *

Dust fluttered across cobblestones in the night, murmuring, the only sound to disturb the silence.

Nights were so silent these years. Black. Empty.

Like my own heart, Laila thought, walking through the darkness, her cloak wrapped around her. Black and empty, filled with naught but the whispers of dust.

Alley walls surrounded her like catacombs. Jerusalem was more graveyard than city these days. Her feet were silent upon the cobblestones, and Volkfair trailed behind her, a shadow. Laila held her Uzi like a child holding a doll, seeking comfort from the cold, oiled metal. She kept no bullet in the chamber, but knew she could load and fire fast. She had learned that many nights in these alleys. I've been away for long, but I still remember some things.

Volkfair growled softly, as if hearing her thoughts. So often, the wolf seemed to read her mind. Laila patted him.

"Yes, dear Volkfair, I know," she whispered. "I know you can lunge forward and kill any alley demon as quickly as I can get a shot off."

The wolf looked up at her, yellow eyes glinting. The beast weighed twice as much as she, and was longer than she was tall, but still she thought of him as her baby. She knew that Volkfair, in turn, thought of her as a mistress of infinite power and wisdom; there were none in Heaven or Hell with as much loyalty as Volkfair, Laila thought. She knelt and kissed his black fur like midnight, and he licked her cheek.

"Sweet Volkfair," she whispered into his ears, lowering her head, that old anguish creeping into her throat. She hated that anguish, hated the fear that forever coiled within her, hated the tears that fell in darkest, loneliest nights. So many of those tears had fallen into Volkfair's fur, and so many had he licked from her cheeks. "You are all I have, my friend," she whispered, embracing him. "You are all I need."

Volkfair nuzzled against her, making soft sounds of affection.

"Do you think it's true, Volkfair?" she whispered. "Was my angel sister speaking truth?"

He looked at her, eyes large, and Laila leaned her cheek against her wolf's shoulder. Angels, she knew, could be as deceitful and conniving as any demon, if it served their purpose. They would lie, swindle, or kill whoever got in their way when they wanted something—even the pure, beautiful Bat El. She, Laila, Lucifer's daughter? Laila ran her claws through Volkfair's fur.

"Beelzebub would have told me," she whispered to the wolf. "He was Lucifer's first lieutenant and knew all that Lucifer knew. He would have known if it were true. He would have told me."

And yet her words did little to convince herself. She knew Beelzebub. He had wanted her love, her kisses, her innocence, her dependence on him. He would have hidden this if he'd thought it could give her strength, give her a reason to leave his comforting embraces, his power.

"Dear Volkfair, could it be true?"

When she had pretended to know, sipping her drink nonchalantly, Bat El had seemed taken aback. It had taken all of Laila's strength to keep her face blank and emotionless, to keep sipping her spirits. Yes, Bat El had been shocked, genuinely so. True or false, Bat El believed it, believed that Lucifer himself had raped their mother.

Laila looked up to the sky, pure black, ash hiding the moon and stars. She had always known her father must have been of great power—how else could she, Laila, have been born with such malice, such might, with claws and fangs that could tear most demons and angels apart? Yes, Laila had always known great demon blood flowed through her, twisting and burning against her angel blood, filling her veins with fire.

Her demon blood, mixed with her angel blood, set her innards aflame, igniting terrible power within her, making her greater than most demons and angels would ever be. That this constant war within her blood tore at her soul and mind, few seemed to care. All they want is my power. Nobody knows the Laila who weeps at night, who runs, who wanders the world. They want Laila the spy. Laila the soldier. They want a Laila that I cannot, will not be.

Shoving down the anguish into her belly, Laila straightened. It would not do to sink into despair in this alley, not as angels and demons lived behind shuttered windows and in sewers, not as the hosts of Heaven and Hell still hunted her. Are you growing weak, Laila? she asked herself, tightening her grip on her Uzi. Five years ago, you would never let down your guard. That is how you survive, Laila. Never let down your guard.

"Let's go, Volkfair," she whispered. "We're almost there."

As she continued walking down the alley, she lowered her head. For ten years had she been fleeing the brothers—Michael of Heaven, Beelzebub of Hell, opposites but each horrible to her. She had returned to Jerusalem only to find more booze, more forgetting, to find numbness in the shade of pubs, surrounded by other souls who drank to forget. She had returned because in the deserts and forests, she had found only anguish, only coldness and pain. I returned only to escape. And now she was seeking the Lord of Hell himself, seeking Beelzebub, the one who had stolen her heart all those years ago.

But she had to know. She had to. And Beelzebub would have the answers.

For a long time she walked between crumbling walls, toppled buildings, and structures that still stood, their windows boarded shut, survivors huddling inside. Past abandoned market squares and smashed statues, she climbed a hill overlooking the Ancient City. A church loomed above, its soaring walls blackened with brimstone. Its belfry glowed red, scratching the ashy night sky. Cold wind rustled Laila's frayed, dusty cloak. She would find Beelzebub here. She trudged up the hill, moving through twisting streets, heading toward this church of Hell.

Demons scuttled in the shadows around her, hissing, eyes glinting. Laila could not see them, but she heard them sniff and scratch their claws against the cobblestones. Thousands filled the shadows, the windows, the rooftops, snorting and cackling. Laila bared her fangs and with a hiss, a halo of fire ignited around her brow, as ever when danger lurked.

"Angel blood," rose the demon hisses, over and over like a mantra, high pitched, a thousand demons whispering. "We smell angel blood, yes comrades, the stench of angel blood enters these streets."

Volkfair growled, bristled, and showed his fangs. Laila spun to see a shadow lunging her way.

Volkfair leapt, grabbed the demon, and shook his head, sending scales flying to all sides. From the rooftops, three more demons came swooping down, shards of black in the night.

Laila fired her Uzi. The demons swooped toward her on leathery wings. The shots rang out, lighting the night. Blood flew, and the demons crashed against the alley walls, riddled with bullets. Their shrieks shattered the buildings' cracked windows, scattering shards of glass. A thousand other demon eyes lit the darkness. Lightning rent the sky, lighting the scaly forms of countless demons upon the rooftops, hunched like gargoyles.

"Still your wings!" Laila cried. "Move and I'll have your blood, demons. I do not tire of killing your kind." Those demons she had shot lay on the ground, bleeding. Volkfair was moving between them, snapping their necks.

The demons' hissing rose like waves, covering the rooftops. Their fangs and claws glistened like a field of glass shards, and smoke rose from their nostrils.

"An angel speaks with demon tongue," rose the screeches. "A half-breed enters our realm, brothers and sisters, yes indeed. Laila has come! Laila the half-angel." Their tongues lolled and their eyes dripped lava. "All hail Laila, hail the half-breed!" Their cackling mocked her.

Laila stared around at the thousands of demons who covered the roofs. She wondered how many she could kill if they swooped toward her. She would kill many, but even she could not defeat an entire army of demons.

"Take me to Beelzebub," she demanded, Volkfair at her side, demon blood dripping from his maw. "I seek your lord."

A thundering voice came from a roof to her left, a voice like an echo, a voice which sent the lesser demons cowering.

"You found him."

Laila turned and stared, eyes narrowed. She could see only a dark shadow, like a great man, standing by a chimney above. Crouching, Laila aimed her Uzi at the burly, shadowy demon on the rooftops. This figure had no hooves, horns, or scales; shaped as a man he was, with great bat wings. A fallen angel, Laila knew.

"If you are Beelzebub," she called, "show yourself, and do not hide in the shadows."

As the fallen angel stared down toward her, Laila grabbed a grenade with her left hand, keeping her right hand on the Uzi. A machine gun could take out the lesser demons—the shades, those spawn of Hell coated with scales and horns. The fallen angels, banished from Heaven during Lucifer's rebellion, were tougher and smarter. These demon lords could take a lot of bullets, Laila knew, so she always kept a few grenades strapped to her belt. A grenade could confuse them, even hurt them enough to let her use her claws and fangs.

She had killed fallen angels twice before—one in Bethlehem six years ago, and one in the Valley of Hinnom last winter. To kill the first took seven magazines of bullets, five grenades, and a duel of claws that lasted all night. The second fallen angel had made the first battle seem easy. They are tough kills, Laila thought, hand on her grenade. But I can still take one on.

"As you wish, Laila, daughter of Hell," came the echoing voice from above. The great demon outstretched his wings, swooped down into the alley, and landed before her. He stood, clad in old Roman armor, black and gold, an ancient being of dark beauty.

"Beelzebub," she whispered.

The old trembles took her heart, and the memories pounded through her, old sweet memories of his kisses, his strong hands on her body, his vows of love. The grief and memories were suddenly so great, Laila struggled to curb her tears. She had been seventeen, scared, innocent; he was millennia old, endlessly wise and strong, whispering in her ears promises he could never keep. Yes, she had fallen for him then, thought that he could save her from the turmoil within her. But that was a decade ago, in a different time, before he took over Hell. We were both different then.

His face—handsome and ageless—split into a smile, revealing fangs. "I'm glad to see you again."

Laila straightened, letting her Uzi hang on its strap against her thigh, and held her hands to her sides, claws glinting. She showed her own fangs. "I want to talk," she said, struggling to hide the chill that ran through her. If what Bat El said was true, if she truly was Lucifer's daughter, then here stood more than an old lover. Here before her stood her father's killer.

I must know if it's true. I must. She stared into Beelzebub's dark eyes, refusing to turn her gaze away from his stare, a stare that could kill mortals.

Beelzebub nodded, smiling thinly. "Then let's talk. Come into my church, Laila. We both have many things to say."

Chapter Three

Echoes and hisses filled the church nave. Torches flickered upon the blackened walls, casting dancing shadows, bringing scarce light to this towering cavern. The pews had burned down years ago, leaving a scorched, barren floor strewn with demon tracks. Red eyes filled every nook and alcove on the walls, staring down at Laila as she stood in the center of the nave, cloaked in shadows, claws glinting.

In the shadowy chancel ahead, Beelzebub stood by the church's oak altar, candles burning around him. His wife, the demon Zarel, sat by him on the floor, hissing, flaming hair crackling. Zarel was no fallen angel and had none of Beelzebub's beauty; forged in the pits of Hell was she, a being of horns and scales and flame. The Demon Queen's eyes burned as she glared at Laila, and a heavy chain bound her neck to the floor. Her fangs glistened and oozed drool, like a rabid dog's.

"A precaution," Beelzebub explained to Laila, tugging the chain as Zarel growled. "She wants to kill you, you see. If I hadn't chained her, she'd have ripped out your throat by now."

Laila nodded, eying the chained she-devil, glad for the weight of the grenades on her belt. "Much appreciated." Zarel's claws were long and hard, digging ruts into the stone floor as she tugged on her chain. She wants to dig those claws into my throat, Laila thought and swallowed.

She turned her eyes back to Beelzebub. "Well, here I am, in your church," she said, standing with legs slightly apart, ready to flee if she had to. She focused her hearing behind her, sniffing for demon scent. She dared not turn to look, but it seemed like ten demons, maybe twenty, hissed behind her, blocking the exit. If I must, I can break past them, she thought. She flicked her eyes to the stained glass windows in the clerestory above. It was hard to tell how many demons lurked in those shadows by the ceiling. If I must, I can break through those windows too. Volkfair growled by her, showing just the tips of his fangs. He's thinking the same thing.

"I'm glad you came," Beelzebub said, stroking Zarel's flaming hair. The light of those flames flickered against his gilded breastplate, greaves, and vambraces. "Welcome back, Laila. Welcome back. We missed you."

"Spare me the pleasantries, Beelzebub," Laila said, incurring a growl from Zarel. "You said we'd talk here, so get talking. There are rumors about. Are they true?"

Beelzebub laughed softly and leaned against the altar. Demons cackled in the shadows behind him. "You never did like pussyfooting around the issues, did you, Laila? You always cut to the chase. I like that about you. So unlike angels. So much like your father."

"So he was my father," Laila whispered, her body tingling. Her eyes stung, a snarl left her throat, and her halo of fire burned. I still have angel blood within me, she told herself, clenching her teeth. Banished from God I might be, but the light of Heaven still burns within me, and Beelzebub will dare not hurt me. He fears me. Still she kept her hand close to her grenades, and still she kept close to Volkfair. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Beelzebub sighed and ran his claws through Zarel's hair of flame. The Demon Queen tugged on her chain, claws digging into the floor, snapping her teeth at Laila, eyes burning. "Laila, why do you come before me today to ask this?" Beelzebub said. "Suppose I tell you that it's true, that Lucifer was your dad, that yes, I killed him, that yes, you are rightful heir to Hell. What difference would it make?"

"It would mean I know the truth," Laila whispered, eyes stinging. The demon eyes taunted her in the shadows, and she struggled to keep her voice steady, struggled to keep tears from falling. "It would mean that I know who I am, where I came from."

"It would mean nothing," Beelzebub said, his voice almost a sigh. Demons scuttled behind him, wings creaking. "Have you ever even met Lucifer? Was he any sort of father to you? Did he ever let you roast a sinner, teach you skills with the blade, hand you your first drink of bloodwine? No. I don't think I ever heard him speak your name. He was ashamed of you, Laila, ashamed that his only child has angel blood in her veins. He was so ashamed, that when I told him I wanted to marry you, he tossed a wine horn at me. So yes, we kept it secret. It was best for everyone. Michael knew, so did Gabriel. They thought it best not to tell you. I did too."

Laila turned her head aside. She could no longer look at Beelzebub, could no longer look at anything but the shadows. Tears blurred her eyes. "You killed my father," she whispered, so softly she wasn't sure Beelzebub could hear. "Hell is mine now. Your throne is mine."

"Laila, spare me the drama," Beelzebub said. "Please. You are young and inexperienced, I am old and tired, and I know more about the ways of Hell, Heaven, and Earth. I killed Lucifer for you, Laila. I killed him because he would not let us marry, because he hated you and I loved you, because I wanted to protect you from him. He was my best friend, and I killed him for your sake, yet still you ran off into exile. Hell is yours? You can't even step into Hell, Laila. The hellfire would boil away your angel blood. Do you remember what happened the one time you visited?"

Laila remembered. The flames had burned her skin, torched her hair, filled her with pain, searing her angel blood, torturing her heavenly half. She had emerged half-dead, shivering and scarred. She raised her gaze again, tears stinging at the corners of her eyes, and looked upon Beelzebub, looked upon her old lover, the killer of her father.

"Why do you let me live now, then?" she said. No ruler of Hell would let an enemy live... and she was an enemy now, the daughter of Lucifer, an heir to Hell's throne. No demon would allow the child of one he killed to survive, to seek vengeance. "Why did you even let me into your hall?"

Beelzebub walked toward her. Towering over her—he was so tall—he placed his hands on her shoulders, smiling sadly down upon her. "You know why, Laila. For the same reason that Michael does not kill you."

"He can't kill me," she whispered, turning her head away from that smile. "Few can."

"I know, Laila, sweetness, our lost, outcast daughter. I know. Heaven fears you. They fear your power. You are young, yes, and inexperienced. You were born just as Armageddon began; there are few in Hell or Heaven so young." His claws ran along her shoulders, her arms, raising goose bumps across her skin, raising memories of his caresses. "And already you have the power of a great archdemon or archangel. Already you've killed more demons and angels than I can count, even two fallen angels." He leaned down, pulled her face toward his, and stared into her eyes. Fires burned in his demon eyes. "Laila, please. Come to us, to our family. Fight with us against Heaven. We can give you a home, Laila; not in Hell, but on Earth once we conquer it. You think I would stay in this world longer than I needed to? I miss the hellfire and pits of underground. Help us take Earth, and it will be yours to rule in my name."

Laila took two steps back, leaving Beelzebub's arms to fall to his sides. The horror, the old anguish, swirled through her, and she could feel her demon blood sizzle against her angel blood, setting her veins on fire, spinning her head. The pain nearly blinded her. All she could see were the demon eyes laughing in the shadows, swirling around her.

"No," she said, taking another step back, Volkfair growling by her side. "You would fill Earth with your hellfire, until it is like Hell itself, and you would destroy the only place where I can live. I will not join you, Beelzebub." Tears streamed down her cheeks, tears of blood and flame. Her voice was barely a whisper. "Goodbye."

I will gain no more knowledge here. I will run into the city, run to my bottles, and drink myself unconscious tonight, and I hope that I never wake up.

Beelzebub looked at her, sadness in his eyes. He stepped back to the altar. "I'm sorry, Laila. I'm so sorry. In that case, Laila... in that case you must die."

With a snap of his claws, he released Zarel's chains.

Snarling, the Demon Queen leapt forth, wreathed in flame, fangs drawn.

* * * * *

Bat El knelt in her chamber, high in the fort's western tower, overlooking the sea. Outside the window, the night sky was clear, one of those few nights when ash did not hide the stars. Thank you, our lord, for granting us a clear night, for reminding us of the beauty of the sky.

Bat El's knees were pressed against the stone floor, and she rested her elbows on her wooden cot, hands pressed together in prayer. From outside came the sound of waves against sand and boulders. Michael had offered her a woolen rug, a plush mattress, silky curtains, but Bat El had refused. She had come here for duty, to fight for God, not for pleasure. Plenty of pleasures waited back in Heaven.

Please, God, if you hear me, bring some pleasure, bring some joy, into the life of my sister. Bring some peace to Laila.

Bat El lowered her head and closed her eyes. She wondered if God would be mad that she prayed for a half-demon. She knew that God's grace was forever forbidden for Laila. She knew that Heaven would forever be locked for a half-demon. Yet still, Bat El prayed for her half-sister, prayed for this poor child born from her mother's rape. Please, God, look after Laila. Do not let her soul fall into darkness.

Suddenly Bat El winced and goose bumps rose across her. She rubbed her temples. Laila was in trouble, she knew. Whenever fear or pain filled the half-breed, Bat El could sense it, a shiver down her spine and an ache in her head.

There was evil in Laila, Bat El knew; there was malice and might on a scale which Bat El would never fully understand. But there is goodness to her too, God. I can see it. I felt it when I spoke to her. I've forever seen the piety in her. Please watch over her.

If God heard her prayers, he was silent, and Bat El opened her eyes and stood up. She gazed toward the harp which hung on the wall. She had refused all comforts aside from her harp. She could not have parted Heaven without it. Worry for Laila gnawing on her, Bat El took her harp, sat on her bed, and played. As outside waves crashed and demons and angels died, Bat El played her music, a tear running down her cheek.

* * * * *

Zarel shot forward like a fireball, claws outstretched.

Laila leapt aside.

The Demon Queen hit the floor where Laila had stood, claws digging into the stone. Snarling and crackling with flame, Zarel spun and leapt again, drool spraying from her maw.

Gritting her teeth, heart racing, Laila fired her Uzi. Shots rang out, lighting the church, slamming into Zarel. The Demon Queen seemed barely to notice. She slammed into Laila, shoving her onto the floor, claws reaching toward Laila's throat.

Volkfair slammed into Zarel, knocking the demon off, and Laila leapt to her feet. Claw marks ran down her shoulder, bleeding.

"Back, Volkfair!" she shouted and tossed a grenade at Zarel.

She and Volkfair leaped and rolled, tumbling into the shadows. Laila leapt over her wolf, shielding him with her body. The grenade burst behind them, and through the falling dust, Laila heard Zarel scream. Shrapnel hit Laila's cloak, burned through the cloth, and sizzled against her skin. She gritted her teeth against the pain, but knew she'd be all right. I am Lucifer's daughter. It would take more than shrapnel to break through this skin.

A growl behind confirmed that Zarel still lived. The demon's footfalls scratched against the floor, and Laila spun around, firing. The bullets ricocheted off Zarel's scales. One bullet whizzed and hit Volkfair, and the wolf yelped.

"Volkfair!" Laila cried. Before she could rush to the wolf, Zarel crashed against her.

Laila screamed and grabbed the Demon Queen's wrists, pushing those claws away. The claws scratched the air, trying to reach Laila's eyes, and Zarel's drool dripped from her fangs, sizzling against Laila's face. Laila grimaced and struggled, kicking, the flames from Zarel's hair searing her clothes. Her foot finally caught Zarel's scaled belly, pitching the Demon Queen ten yards into the air. Zarel hit the floor, chipping bits of stone.

Laila leapt to her feet and lobbed another grenade. The grenade hit Zarel in the chest and exploded, and more shrapnel flew, filling the church, burning against demons who watched in the shadows. Three demon bodies fell from the ceiling to thud against the ground.

"Volkfair!" Laila cried. Where was the wolf? Had the grenade hurt him? There. She saw him. The wolf had fled behind a stone column and lay, blinking, licking his bullet wound. He struggled to his paws, wincing and yelping, and came limping toward her. Anguish filled Laila. Volkfair... my dear pet.

On the broken floor, Zarel stood up slowly, knuckled her back, and shook off shrapnel. She looked at Laila, grinned, and licked a droplet of blood off her lip. Amusement in her flaming eyes, the Demon Queen charged again.

Damn. I emptied two magazines into that beast, and hit her square in the chest with two grenades, and all she has is a bleeding lip. The chilling realization filled Laila—she could not win this battle. Not with a thousand demons watching from the shadows, ready to leap forward if necessary. Not with Volkfair wounded. Not with Beelzebub in the shadowy chancel, waiting to see who won, waiting to kill her if need be.

Zarel leapt toward her, flaming. Laila knelt and slid forward, passing under the Demon Queen. Zarel hit a stone column, shattering it. Chunks of stone fell from the ceiling. Laila ran toward Volkfair, lifted the shaggy beast, and slung him over her shoulder. She spread her wings and took flight.

Zarel leapt up, and Laila reloaded and fired her Uzi, pushing Zarel back to the floor. She tossed a grenade at the ceiling, and chunks of stone fell upon Zarel, knocking her down, burying her under bricks and ash. Under the heap of stone, Zarel's flames burned, and the Demon Queen shouted and began to free herself, tossing the bricks aside.

Laila shot in all directions, knocking aside demons who swooped toward her. Wings flapping, she crashed through a stained glass window, flying into the night. She dropped her last grenade through the window, heard demons screech, and flapped her wings.

"Volkfair," she whispered, holding the wolf slung over her shoulder. The great beast was breathing heavily, blood seeping. "Hang in there, boy. You're going to be all right."

Demons came flying out of the church, and Laila descended. She landed in an alley, hidden in the darkness, and ran, Volkfair in her arms. She ran through the labyrinth of Jerusalem's ruins, until she left the demon neighborhood, for a moment hidden in no-man's land, shaded by toppled buildings. The demon shrieks still came from the distance, and she saw their wings against the sky, but Laila knew they could not find her now.

"We're safe here, Volkfair," she whispered, laying down the wolf. He looked up at her and licked her palm. Bloody tears on her cheeks, Laila ran her hands over Volkfair, examining his wounds. The bullet had hit his stomach, and shrapnel filled his back. He was dying.

Laila raised her head to the night sky, cursing Heaven, cursing her banishment. "I am half angel!" she whispered through gritted teeth. "I am of Heaven's brood. Why can't I use healing light? Why can't I heal my dearest friend?"

She hung her head. Yes, her mother was an angel, but she, Laila, was forever cursed. Forever would demon blood flow through her, forever would Heaven be banned to her, forever would God's grace pass over Laila the half-demon.

She lifted Volkfair again, blood filling his fur. "Come, Volkfair. We're going to find Bat El. She can heal you."

Holding her wolf, Laila spread her wings and flew into the night, heading west, heading to the fort on the beach, heading into the realm of Heaven.

Chapter Four

Michael stood upon a fallen marble column, the wind from the sea ruffling the feathers in his swan wings, blowing back his curls. Eyes narrowed, lance in hand, he stared down the hill toward the ruins of Caesarea. The city was silent now, its ancient walls and cobbled streets glinting in the sunlight. The only movement was the waves beyond the city walls, the only sounds the breeze and sea.

But they are out there, waiting, Michael knew. He loosened and tightened his grip on his lance, comforted by the familiar, smooth touch of its shaft. He had been holding this lance for so long, the grip was so polished, he could almost see his reflection in it.

"Won't see much down there now," came a voice behind, and Michael turned to see Raphael—his youngest brother—trudging up the hill. The archangel wore no armor and carried no weapon. Clad in white robes was Raphael, simple homespun, and he held a knotty wooden staff. The wind ruffled his long dark hair and swan wings.

Michael nodded. "It's a clear day. Sunlight hurts them."

Raphael stepped onto the fallen column where Michael stood, and for a moment the brothers gazed down upon the ruins, silent.

"How are you, Michael?" Raphael asked quietly.

Michael did not answer and kept scanning the ruins below. Doves picked at seeds between the cobblestones, and sparrows bathed in rainwater that had gathered in aqueducts, but Michael saw no other life.

"This city was built during the days of Christ," he finally said, speaking to himself more than to Raphael. "It's a baby next to Jerusalem, but still old enough so that each stone moans with antiquity. I can hear the cobbles whisper, Raphael."

Raphael, the great healer, placed a hand on Michael's shoulder. "Answer me, Michael. How are you?"

Michael turned to face Raphael, youngest of the three brothers. Those brown eyes of his always look so sad, Michael thought. "I'm fine. You worry too much."

"You are tired."

"I'm a soldier. Soldiers get tired. We keep fighting, even so." Michael shook his head. Raphael was a healer, a divine being of piety and peace. He, Michael, was lord of God's hosts, the ultimate warrior. We will never understand each other, he knew.

Even as children, thousands of years ago, the brothers never got along. Michael, the oldest, the responsible one. Beelzebub, the middle child, reckless, the prankster, the trouble child. Raphael, the youngest, studious and reflective. Sometimes Michael couldn't believe the three shared blood. In their youth, Beelzebub was always sneaking down to Earth and getting into trouble, Raphael would lose himself in meditation and prayer, and he—Michael—was always the one to take care of things, to look after his younger siblings. Looking down over the ruins, Michael lowered his head. Yet I was never able to look after Beelzebub. I was never able to help that one.

"We have wine back in the camp," Raphael said, holding his staff, gazing down upon the ancient walls and houses, these structures that had stood for two thousand years. "There is honey bread too, and figs. Join us, Michael. Your troops will be glad to see you. There will be no more fighting until dark."

Michael sighed. "I'm thinking. I can think here during the day. It's quiet."

"Wisdom flows from our hearts," Raphael said softly, "from our faith, from the godlight within us, from God's grace. Leave thinking to the devil."

Michael couldn't help but smile despite himself. "The devil is in this land. God is up in Heaven. So let me do my thinking."

Raphael pulled a flask from his robes. He handed it to Michael. "A shot of spirits, at least?"

Michael sighed. "You do know me." He took a swig—perfect smooth rye—then handed the flask back to Raphael, who took a nip of his own.

The spirits warm in his stomach, Michael looked back down toward the ruins. Every house there hid a demon, he knew, and underground... under those cobblestones and fountains...

"He's down there, Raphael," he said, his voice almost a whisper, never removing his eyes from the city. "Underground, he carved himself a network of tunnels and chambers. He waits."

Raphael took another swig from his flask and handed it back to Michael. Michael drank again, the spirits burning down his throat. I needed that drink. For a moment the two archangels gazed below, the only sound the distant waves.

"Can you defeat him?" Raphael finally asked.

"I don't know," Michael said. "He's a big one, and old."

Staring down to the city, he could imagine the archdemon hidden, sleeping underground, burning in the tunnels. It had carved those tunnels twenty years ago, made a home under Caesarea, and stayed there, waiting, claiming the city. For twenty years, he kept us out, Michael thought. They needed the city. They needed this town between north and south, a town linking sea and dunes, a town where demons festered, growing stronger every night.

"I know what you're thinking, Michael, but it won't work." Raphael lowered and shook his head, long dark hair waving in the breeze. He held his staff tight, his robes flapping.

"She'll do it," Michael said.

Raphael shook his head again, more firmly this time. "Laila will not go underground for you. Not for all that's in Heaven or Hell would she do this, would she face what lurks there."

Michael gazed upon his armor, his lance, these things of war. "That's what you don't understand, Raphael. She doesn't care for anything in Heaven or Hell. She cares for Earth."

Raphael sighed and shrugged his wings. "An Earth still unclaimed by Hell or Heaven, maybe. An Earth where one side wins would become inhospitable to her. It's either hellfire or godlight then. Either one would burn her."

The sun had begun to set as they talked, golden upon the waves beyond the ruins. Its light kindled the cobbled streets, weedy walls, the aqueducts, the crumbling amphitheatre. Soon darkness would fall. Soon their time would come. Michael shielded his eyes with his palm, staring down at the ancient city, seeking some movement, some sign of them.

"It can spew lesser demons at will," he whispered. "It sends them up through cracks in the street. Have you ever seen it, Raphael? It's like a great reptile, of wings and smoke, flames in its eyes and nostrils." Only twice had this archdemon risen to strike at them, both times destroying their forces. Most days just its presence, its evil and its servants, kept them at bay. Its name was Angor, and it was among the oldest horrors of Hell.

"No, I've never seen it, nor do I wish to," Raphael said. "I've seen the bodies of angels it killed, bodies even I could not resurrect. I know what it can do. If you send Laila to it, it will kill her too. This is a being beyond even her power."

Michael nodded and folded his wings around him, suddenly cold. "Perhaps." Sometimes—most times, these days—Michael thought he should bite the bullet, go underground, and face the being himself. But he knew that he could not risk his life; not he, commander of God's hosts. If he should perish, who would lead Heaven's armies? If he died underground, it would be too great a triumph to Beelzebub.

Michael sighed. Yes, that was it... just prudence. He needed another drink. One of these days, I might have to just go underground and do it, and risk be damned.

Unless... unless, of course, he could still get Laila to do the dirty work for him.

"There are only two beings on this planet who could face Angor and possibly, just possibly, survive," Raphael said, those eyes endlessly sad, as always. "One is you, Michael. The other, yes, is Laila. But before you send the child to her death, Michael, look long and hard into your heart."

With that, the great healer, Raphael the archangel, stepped off the column and walked down the hill, moving back to the barracks. Left alone to gaze upon the ruins, Michael nodded, the wind in his curls.

We're going to need to get Laila over here.

* * * * *

Bat El lay in bed, just about to drift into sleep, the first feathers of dreams tickling her, when the commotion began. Outside, she heard angels shouting and armor clinking, and soon the alarm bell rang in the tower, clear ringing that filled the fort, pounding against Bat El's temples.

"Back, devil!" an angel shouted outside. It sounded to Bat El like the voice of a young angel, new on Earth, frightened.

And what am I, if not a young angel new on Earth, frightened? Bat El wondered as she raced downstairs. I am Gabriel's daughter. Yes, forever must I blaze bright to be seen in that shadow.

Shouting and running footfalls came from the fort's main hall, and Bat El burst into the room. At the sight, she felt the blood leave her face. A score of angels from The Wrecking Balls platoon stood in one corner, pointing spears and swords toward the ceiling in the opposite corner. Their glow bathed the room in light, but could not penetrate a blob of shadows which filled that high corner. There, darkness clinging to her, Laila hovered, bat wings spread. In those shadows, the shadows that never left the half-demon, Laila's eyes burned red and her fangs glistened. She seemed to hold something large in her arms, but it was hard to see in the darkness.

"Leave this place, daughter of demons," Nathaniel demanded below, clutching his spear.

Laila fixed her eyes of flame on Bat El. "Sister dearest," the half-demon said, "call off your troops, will you? I've killed several times tonight already, and I don't feel like killing again."

"Lieutenant!" Bat El barked, turning her gaze to Nathaniel. "Lower your spear. Angels! Disarm yourselves. Laila has not come here to harm us. If she had, you'd be dead by now."

Cursing under his breath, Nathaniel obeyed, lowering his spear. The wingless angel prepared to spit, seemed to remember that he stood indoors in the presence of Gabriel's daughter, and swallowed. He bowed his head curtly, his one eye staring at Bat El with a look that said, This time I obey, but never order me around again, and I don't care who your dad is.

"You heard the Captain," he grumbled, turning to his soldiers. "Lower your weapons, angels. The half-demon is welcome here tonight, it seems."

The angels complied, lowering their spears, but kept a close watch on Laila. Bat El stepped toward her half-sister, arms outstretched.

"Laila," she said. "Welcome."

Laila hovered down from the ceiling, the shadows still wreathing her, and laid her burden upon the floor. Bat El finally saw what it was, and she gasped. Her sister's wolf lay at Laila's feet, his breath shallow, blood coating his black fur. Bat El covered her mouth with her hand, looked up at Laila, and saw that bloody tears covered Laila's cheeks. Fear filled the half-demon's fiery eyes, and claw marks ran across her shoulder, bleeding.

"Dear God," Bat El whispered. Laila got herself into a fight again. It was a bad one this time.

"Can you do something for him?" Laila said, voice low, careful. She still didn't trust this room full of angels.

Bat El knelt before Volkfair. The wolf gazed up at her with glassy eyes, and Bat El placed her hands in his fur. She shut her eyes, breathed deeply, and concentrated, letting her energy flow between the wolf and her hands.

She opened her eyes. "His life force and will are strong," she said. Laila had retreated into the corner and covered her head with her hood. The glow of angels hurts her.

"I know," Laila whispered, and Bat El could almost cry, for she heard godly love in the voice of her sister. Such love could only come from her angelic side. "He is a strong one, my dearest Volkfair."

"I will do my best," Bat El whispered with a tremulous smile, her own love filling her, love for her sad, outcast sister. She took a deep breath and focused, praying to God to heal this beast, to send godlight and grace into the creature. As she prayed, sending love and life into Volkfair, her skin and hair glowed, a soft glow of Heaven. Light pooled between her fingers.

Laila hissed at the light and pushed herself further into the shadows, turning her head away, so as not to look upon the glow. Her fists clenched at her sides. The godlight burns her demon blood, Bat El thought, but no demonic blood filled Volkfair. All wolves were God's creation, Bat El knew, smiling as she passed her hands through the black fur, as the wounds closed, as light and life filled Volkfair's eyes.

The wolf rose to his feet, shook his fur, and licked Bat El's palm. His yellow eyes gazed at her, and Bat El wondered how she had once so feared the creature. A look passed between them that told Bat El that now, and forever, the wolf would be her friend.

Laila stepped forward, still shielded in her cloak and hood, and Volkfair moved to stand by her. Two warrior comrades together again, Bat El thought, and gazing into the shade of Laila's hood, where red eyes burned, Bat El knew: There is more that she came here for.

"What is it?" Bat El whispered, for she saw somberness and horror she had never before witnessed in her half-sister.

Laila took a step forward and pulled the hood back from her head, her face pale and bloody, her eyes burning. "Take me to Michael," she said.

* * * * *

Zarel swooped down from the church clerestory, caught a demon that fluttered by, and pulled it to the floor. She tore out its throat with her fangs, then shook her head, splattering blood in all direction. She ripped into the dead body with her claws, tossed back her head, and howled into the darkness.

Standing in the pulpit, perusing a dusty old volume, Beelzebub flicked up his eyes. "Zarel, calm yourself," the fallen angel said wearily. "Please."

Zarel shot him a venomous glance and growled, drool and blood dripping from her maw. The blood was hot, fresh, igniting flames within her. The bloodlust burned through her, making her vision red, blurry. She hissed, smoke rising from her nostrils to veil her eyes.

Beelzebub shook his head with a sigh and brushed sparks off his breastplate. "We won't have any demons left if you keep killing them."

Three more demon bodies lay strewn across the church, shredded with fang and claw. "A thousand more demons fill this church," Zarel said and licked her lips, savoring the taste of demon blood. Beelzebub could not understand, she knew; no fallen angel born of Heaven could truly understand a demon forged in hellfire. He could not understand how the flames forever burned in her. "I'll kill as many as I like."

"The only one you were to kill is Laila, and you failed," Beelzebub said.

His words hit her like a slap. She screamed, her hair crackling and raising sparks, and leapt into the air. She smashed an old statue of a saint, shattering it, scattering stones across the floor. She leapt again, flipped through the air, and landed before Beelzebub, hissing, claws drawn. "The girl fled. I was close to killing her."

"And yet she got away," Beelzebub said, staring at her levelly. He was the only one who'd dare stare at her levelly. "Now step back, Zarel, or you'll burn my book."

Zarel lowered her head, feeling tears gather in her eyes to seep over her scales, bloody. "Why do you hurt me, my lord?"

Beelzebub sighed again and slammed the tome shut. Dust flew. He stepped down from the pulpit, approached Zarel, and embraced her. His old Roman breastplate, blackened from fire, felt cold against her. She tried to push him away, hissing, but he held her firmly. Finally she relaxed and leaned her head against his shoulder, wrapping her arms around him. He smoothed her flaming hair with his clawed fingers.

"I love you, my husband, my eternal king," she said.

"And I love you, Zarel, forever." His wings wrapped around them like a cocoon.

"I failed you, Beelzebub. I let you down. I know." Her eyes lit up; she could see their flames reflected in Beelzebub's breastplate. "But I will not fail again. Send me on the hunt, and I will bring her back. When I'm done with her, she will be begging for death."

Beelzebub shook his head, released his embrace, and stepped toward the altar. He placed his hands between the burning candles and leaned forward, as if lost in reflection.

"She will seek refuge with Michael," he said, voice low. "It's likely she's in his camp already. If you fly into that fort, Zarel, you will not leave it alive."

Zarel growled. Does Beelzebub doubt my strength? She felt rage fill her. She was among the greatest archdemons in Hell. I am Zarel, Queen of Hell. I fear no one. "I fought the legendary Laila," she hissed, "and she fled from me. There are none among the angels with power enough to harm me."

Beelzebub shook his head, the candlelight dancing on his armor. "You could beat Laila in a duel, here in my court. If you fly to her now, Michael will be with her, and Raphael. That's Laila and two archangels, and thousands of troops surrounding them. Even you cannot take them on, Zarel."

Zarel leapt onto the altar and slammed her fist down, raising a shower of wooden splinters, sending candles flying. "So you'll just let her join Michael?"

"We don't know for certain that she'll join him."

"She will, now that we tried to kill her. She knows you killed her dad, and she wants revenge. She wants your throne. If she joins Heaven, she could shift the tide."

Beelzebub grabbed Zarel's wrist, and she snarled and struggled to release herself, but could not. There were none whose strength eclipsed her own, except for Beelzebub, she knew. That is why I married you. That is why I love you. Still she struggled against his grasp, screeching, flames rising from her nostrils.

"First of all, Zarel, calm your temper. This church is our home now, and I'll not have you destroy it. If you do not calm yourself, I'll chain you to the floor again."

She growled and hissed, snapping her teeth, trying to bite him, but he held her back. She knew her words had touched a nerve. She could see it in Beelzebub's eyes. He knows I'm right. Since Armageddon, Heaven and Hell had beaten each other into a bloody, uneasy standstill. With Laila returned, that would change. With Laila fighting for Heaven, Michael would gain the advantage. We cannot allow that.

"She is not untouchable," Zarel said, smiling caustically, the demon blood still smearing her face. She could feel the cut Laila had given her lip, where her own blood had beaded. She made me bleed. Very few can do that, girl. She felt the exhilaration, the bloodlust, the power burn inside her. Finally she had an enemy worthy of her, someone to kill beyond these shades, these weak demons who filled their church. Zarel flapped her wings, rising into the air, tongues of flame dancing around her. "She can be killed, even now, even if she fled to the angels. And I will kill her, Beelzebub. Very soon, I will kill Laila."

* * * * *

Laila and Michael walked among the ruins of a human city, black and red ash hiding the stars. The night was silent, the only sounds their footfalls over rubble. Scattered fires burned among the ruins, vestiges of war, or maybe cooking fires of human survivors. It was hard to imagine any survivors in this town, Laila thought, gazing around. The place was a pile of bricks, twisted metal, and fluttering shreds of burnt cloth. As she stepped over a broken tricycle, her boots scattered the bones of a human child.

"A lovely place you brought us to," she said, wrapping her cloak around her. Volkfair padded beside her, sniffing at the ruins, maybe smelling skeletons buried beneath the rubble. Dust flew around them.

"A private place," Michael said. "We can talk here." He stepped around the rusty frame of a burned bus. "It's been a while, Laila," he said, the godlight of his halo gilding his wings. "I'm glad to see you again. I'm sorry about what happened last time. I wanted to tell you that."

Wincing in his glow, Laila swallowed and tightened her jaw. "I don't need your apologies," she said. She spotted a skull in the rubble and kicked it, sending it to clank over the ruins. Does he think that could make up for it? He dragged me into Heaven, claiming it could "heal" my demon side, saying I needed to visit my family, the home of my mother. The godlight had burned her then, and the song of harps drew blood from her ears. She had fled, hurt and frightened, until she fell from the clouds to crash into the sea, shivering. Laila clenched her fists. "Your words mean nothing to me now, Michael."

"And yet... and yet you asked to speak with me. So there must be some words of mine you want to hear."

Laila lowered her head, staring at the dust blowing around her boots. These old boots had taken her on long journeys throughout her exile, but it seemed her road still wound for many miles. She closed her eyes. For years I sought a home, a place where I can belong, a place that is mine. I am Lucifer's daughter, his only child. Rightful heir to Hell. Who'd have thought the underworld is the place I'm meant to be? A bloody tear ran down her cheek. She hated the thought of entering Hell, hated the thought of being Satan's spawn, and yet... and yet sooner or later, she knew, this world was dead to her. Whether Michael or Beelzebub won did not matter; either hellfire or godlight would fill the world, both which could kill her. If Hell is my domain, if I can sit upon its throne, I can extinguish its fires. I will go there, to a place that will be mine, where I can finally find some peace, even if that peace lies beyond hellfire and pain.

She stared at Michael, feeling the halo of flame ignite around her brow, the halo that burned whenever anger or fear filled her. "I don't care for your words, Michael, only for your spears. I need a hundred thousand of those spears. Give me them, and the angels who bear them, and I'll give you this world."

Michael walked in silence for a moment, his godlight glinting on his gilded armor, on his blond curls. Even in these ruins of death and desolation, he managed to look divine. For a moment he looked so much like a classic archangel, all cherubic and beautiful, that Laila wanted to retch. God, I hate Heaven. I think I hate it even more than Hell.

"So Bat El told you," Michael said softly. "You know about your father."

Half a wheelchair rose from the ruins to poke at her cloak, and she kicked it aside. "That my father was Lucifer? That Beelzebub killed him? That I am rightful heir of Hell? I don't need Bat El to bring me such news. I always knew."

"And you've always been a poor liar," Michael said, shaking his head, a small smile on his lips. "You ran and hid all your life, Laila, living with humans, with wolves, in the forests and deserts. You never wanted a part of our war, and suddenly you speak to Bat El, then come to me asking for spears." He looked at her shoulder, where Zarel's claw marks ripped through her cloak and flesh.

Laila shook her head, exasperated. Of course Michael sent Bat El to her. Of course he knew she'd confront Beelzebub, seeking the truth. Of course he knew Zarel would attack her, that she'd come to him, that she'd ask to fight. Laila's fiery halo crackled, and Volkfair growled, sensing her anger. "You're a sneaky one, Michael. Always have been. You're a lot like your brother, do you know?"

His smile widened. He said nothing. For a moment they walked among the ruins in silence, and Laila watched several bats who flew through the night, or maybe they were owls. Fire rose from a dented garbage can beside her, illuminating dusty items that peeked from the rubble: a burned doll's head, a baby's shoe, a tin can, a few bones. She tried to remember the name of this town, only a few miles from Michael's fort, but could not. She had been born into this war; she never knew a time when human cities had names, teemed with life.

"Look," she finally said, "sooner or later, one of you guys is going to win this war, whether I choose sides or not. And when that happens, I'm screwed. If Hell wins Earth, hellfire will fill this planet, burning away my angel blood. If Heaven wins, the godlight will sear my demon half, leaving me just as dead. But now I have a way out. I am heir to Hell, and once I sit upon its throne, I can douse its fires. I'll build myself a home there, a home with no hellfire that would burn me, where my mixed blood can survive. Once I do that, you take Earth; I'll no longer need it. Help me kill Beelzebub, help me take over Hell. I'll give you Earth in return."

The sun began to rise, sending pink feathers over the eastern horizon, gilding the ruins. Laila pulled her hood over her face as Michael looked at the dawn, admiring it. "I know sunrise burns you, but can you appreciate its beauty? Do you ever just stop and admire it?" When Laila said nothing, he sighed. "Laila, I will not give you a hundred thousand spears, and I will not fight your wars for you. If you want to kill Beelzebub, you will do so as a soldier of Heaven, under my command. You will work for me; Heaven will not work for you."

She glared at him, baring her fangs. "I work for no one. I do not serve Heaven and I never will. Heaven is your domain, Michael. I'll even give you Earth once I take over Hell. Hell is mine, and I serve no one. I will not serve as a soldier for you. I will make an alliance with you, but I remain loyal to none but myself. Join me and together we will kill your brother. And if I need spears, you will give them to me. Those are my terms. Take them or leave them. Do we have a deal?"

Michael stopped walking and stood among the rubble, wisps of dust flying around his boots. He looked at her, and Laila was almost taken aback, for she saw pain and remorse in his eyes. She saw pity there, and it both shocked and enraged her.

"Laila," he said, sadness in his voice, "come with me to Caesarea. Our partnership begins there."

She laughed mirthlessly. "Caesarea? That's Angor's city. Forget it. You'll never take it."

"We need Caesarea. It cuts the beach between north and south. It houses a horde of demons just a few miles from our fort. We will take it. And you will help us."

Volkfair growled and Laila patted him. "I don't care about Angor. I don't care about Caesarea. It's Beelzebub I want to kill, and maybe his wife. I care only for Jerusalem."

"Beelzebub's church is guarded by more force than in ten Caesareas, for miles around. We will get there, Laila, when the time is right. Baby steps. We take Caesarea first. And you, Laila, will go underground until either you, or Angor, is dead."

Her halo crackled. "And if I refuse?"

Michael looked at her shoulder, where claw marks still dug deep. "Did Zarel give you that wound, Laila?" he asked softly.

She stared at him for a moment, then nodded.

"Do you want to get back at her?" Michael said, only the hint of a smile in his eyes. "Angor, the archdemon that lurks below Caesarea, is her father."

Laila barked a laugh, though it sounded to her more like a sob. She could still feel the pain of Zarel's claws on her shoulder. "If I couldn't kill Zarel, what makes you think I can face her dad?"

Michael put a hand on her shoulder. "Angor is old now, and tired, and his strength is not what it was. He is still powerful and mean—a real bastard—but if you faced Zarel and lived, you can kill Angor. And that, Laila, will be a greater blow to Zarel than any other you can give her."

Laila lowered her head, remembering the fire of Zarel's drool burning against her. Ash swirled around her, staining her frayed cloak. She tightened her lips and nodded. "I'll do it."

* * * * *

Laila knelt in the shadowy chamber, moonlight falling upon her through the arrow-slits. She could hear angels clanking in the hallways in their armor. This entire fort stank of them; a smell like roses, fresh air, goodness, a stench that made her demon blood cringe. At least here, in this small chamber where archers had once stood, she could find relief from their godlight, she could lurk in shadows with only moonlight to fill her eyes. Volkfair sat by her, and Laila lay her head upon his fur. Her tears filled that fur now, as blood had just a day before.

"Volkfair," she whispered, "I can't do this anymore."

He licked her cheeks, and Laila hugged him.

"All I ever wanted was some peace," she said. "A home. Friends. People to love me, people who I might love. Is that really too much to ask for?"

Volkfair stared at her silently, and Laila knew he could understand her. She could see it in his yellow eyes.

"I'm sick of being so scared all the time," she said. Volkfair licked her tears and nuzzled against her. "I'm sick of always being so lonely, of being so hurt, of running, of hiding. I can't do this, Volkfair, I just can't. I can't live this life."

There were ways to die, she knew, even for her, even for a being of her power. She could march back to Beelzebub and let him kill her. She could dive under the sea until the salt water drowned her pain. Yet where would she go in death, a half-angel, half-demon? She was outcast from both Heaven and Hell; if she died, where would her soul go? She could not become godlight like dead angels, ascend to Heaven and glow among its meadows, a being of peace and beauty; Heaven would be barred to her soul, even in death. Nor could her spirit travel to Hell, become hellfire like the souls of dead demons, burning forever in tar and lava. Hell's gates, too, would be locked to her spirit, the spirit of a half-angel. Her soul would eternally wander, a haunted shell of fading memories, lost and seeking a home that could never be.

I am Lucifer's daughter. The news still made her tremble, filled her stomach with ice, sent shivers along her arms. I am Satan spawn. Laila shut her eyes, bloody tears on her cheeks. Could she truly usurp Beelzebub, take Hell from him, mold it into that home she had always sought?

Laila hugged Volkfair. Tomorrow she would go with Michael to Caesarea. She would go underground.

"And if Angor kills me, so be it," she whispered, the moonlight upon her, tears in her eyes.

Chapter Five

Laila rode her motorcycle along the highway, the wind blasting her face, thudding against her wings, and streaming her hair. The bike bumped over every pothole and crack, threatening to toss Laila onto the pavement, but she did not care. At a hundred miles an hour she rode, the beach to her left, the hills to her right, dead burned lands and lurking horror ahead and behind. The bike growled and trembled beneath her, this bike she had found a year ago and repaired and maintained. Over the ruined plains of the Holy Land she rode, dawn rising around her.

It was only on these mornings, when she rode upon cracked highways at full speed, that she could find some relief. There weren't many roads left in this land—most were now cracked and weedy beyond use—but Laila made do with what she had. Driving like this, she felt free, more than when she flew, or drank, or fought. She needed to ride on this humming hunk of metal, over this broken road, and when cracks in the pavement tossed her aside, she did not mind. It would take more to kill her, and bruises and cuts only helped dull the pain within her soul.

When the sun had risen, she turned the bike around, heading back to the Crusader fort that stood fifty miles south. Riding like this, roaring over asphalt, ripping across the land, she didn't even mind the sunlight, and she wished she could ride forever. Yet still she returned, roaring up toward the fort, smoke rising behind her.

Today her journey began. Today she took her first strike against Beelzebub.

She screeched her bike to a halt outside the fort, a cloud of dust rising around her. Michael and a host of angels stood outside the fort gates, clad in filigreed armor, spears in their hands. Laila took some satisfaction seeing the dust cover their polished breastplates. She stepped off the bike, bared her fangs, and spread her bat wings wide. Her halo burst into flame, crackling. She smiled seeing them tighten their lips, tighten their grips on their spears. Let these angels see my demon side; let them never, not for an instant, think that because I fight with them, that I am one of them.

Volkfair ran up to her, and she placed her hand in his fur.

"We go to Caesarea," she said, "and let's take on some demons."

"You're late," Michael said to her, swan wings spread wide, the sunlight upon them. "I told you we'd leave before dawn."

"I keep my own schedule," she said, hissing, fangs bared. "I leave and come as I please, so get used to it, angel." With that, she spread her wings and shot into the sky. Volkfair burst into a run below, following upon the plains. The angels too took flight, flapping their swan wings behind her. Laila grinned, flying fast enough to always keep Michael behind her. Let them see who leads this group. Let them see that it is I, Laila, who flies ahead, not the great archangel Michael.

The angels covered the sky behind her. From three divisions garrisoned at the fort, they brought two with them—Heaven's Fifth Division, known as Heavenfire, and the Sixth Division, known as Talon. Twenty thousand angels they were, soon to join Arrowhead, Heaven's Seventh Division which was already besieging Caesarea. I bring the might of Heaven with me, Laila thought, gazing at their armor and spears. Yet when she thought of the might of Hell that awaited, even the sight of two angelic divisions did not comfort Laila.

Soon the fort was a jutting stone in the distance, and ahead, Laila saw the ruins of Caesarea by the sea. The sun glinted on the aqueduct, the amphitheatre, the old walls and houses. She could see no demons there now; there would be none during a clear day. Angel tents surrounded the city, a siege of godlight.

She descended in the amphitheatre, upon the old stone stage where two thousand years ago, gladiators fought. Volkfair came running from the fields to stand by her, and Michael and his angels descended around her, wings flapping. Laila pulled her hood over her head, to shield herself from the sunlight, and slammed a magazine into her Uzi. With a small smile, she yanked back on the cocking handle, loading a bullet into the chamber.

She saw the angels glance at one another, and Michael even rolled his eyes, which made Laila's smile widen. They thought guns were human weapons, clumsy and barbaric. No angel would use a firearm; it was only spears and gilded swords for them, weapons forged in Heaven. Laila would take an Uzi and grenade to battle any day over a blade. Today, she also carried a jerrycan full of gasoline over her back. I'm going to need this underground.

"Show me the way," she said, baring her fangs, and Volkfair too growled and bared his own fangs. I will show no fear, she thought. I will go into the tunnels, not for Michael, not for God. I will go underground and defeat Angor so that Beelzebub knows that I did. So that Beelzebub knows that I faced his pet, and fears me for it. Because you are coming next, Beelzebub. Your time will come soon.

She tightened her grip on her gun, shoving down the fear, shoving down the anguish. If she died today, her soul would wander eternally, banned from both Heaven and Hell. Laila gritted her teeth, banishing the thought. I must claim Hell. I must make it my home. Think only of that, Laila.

Lance in hand, swan wings folded against his back, Michael began to walk. Laila walked beside him, and the angels followed, clutching their spears. They left the amphitheatre and entered the ancient, cobbled streets of Caesarea, moving between weedy walls, the sea whispering ahead. Sparrows and doves fled from them, and ants scurried between their feet. Laila kept her Uzi in automatic mode, and her finger on the trigger, but knew that they would find no demons today. Not as sunlight bathed the world, not until darkness or ash covered the skies.

As she walked upon the ancient cobblestones, she could feel the rush and hum of demons below. She knew the angels could not feel it; it took one of demon blood to sense them. The evil flowed beneath the streets, hissing, roiling, a hundred thousand shades. And deeper below, far in the darkest caverns, Laila could almost hear it. She felt it bubbling up between the cobblestones. The ancient evil. The great reptile. Angor, the archdemon.

They walked through the city, Laila's boots and the angels' sandals silent upon the stones. The waves murmured in the distance, and strands of smoke wafted in the horizon, as from remote battle fires or camps. Even the birds were silent as they pecked between the cobblestones, as if too weary and wary to sing. Laila kept her left hand on Volkfair's back, and her right hand on her Uzi. A dozen magazines of ammo hung on a strap across her chest, and grenades dangled from her belt.

An angel whispered behind her. "I see nothing here. Are you—"

Volkfair paused and growled, showing his fangs.

Something is here.

Laila clutched her Uzi, staring around. The angels froze.

With a crackle and roar, columns of flame burst from underground through sewer holes, shooting up toward the sky, spreading out swirls of smoke. One column rose only yards ahead, while a dozen others rose from behind buildings across the city. The heat sent sweat down Laila's brow.

"They're trying to burn us out," a tall, wingless angel grunted. His name is Nathaniel, Laila remembered.

She shook her head. "No. They're covering the sky with ash, so that the sun does not burn them." She raised her Uzi with a crooked, chaotic smile. "Be ready, my darlings. My brethren are coming."

The smoke swirled across the sky, thick and foul, and the world swayed with heat waves from the flames. The cackling of demons came from underground, and this time, Laila knew the angels could hear. They took position against the walls and shattered columns, holding their spears ready to fire godlight. Within moments the pall covered the sky, leaving the city in shadow.

Laila spotted the first demon, a shade of blazing eyes and glinting claws, swooping toward them. Her gun rang out, and the demon crashed against the ground at her feet, spattering blood.

For a moment the angels stared in silence. And then a thousand more demons came swooping down.

* * * * *

When the alarm bells clanged, Bat El was kneeling in her chamber by her bed, hands pressed together in prayer, eyes shut.

"Amen," she whispered hurriedly, ending her prayer, and leapt to her feet. Beyond the clanging bells, she heard flapping demon wings, shrieks, and clanking armor. A chill ran through her. This was more than a rogue demon scout, she knew. This was a full attack... and she was alone.

Her fingers trembled as she strapped on her gilded breastplate and hurried out of her chamber, sword drawn. Michael was away in Caesarea. So were Nathaniel, Laila, Raphael, and most of their garrison. Both Heavenfire Division and Talon Division had gone to kill Angor, leaving only Shield to guard the fort, a third of their usual force. Of course Beelzebub would attack now.

Bat El rushed down the tower, raced across the main hall, and burst out into the courtyard. Demon wings and smoke darkened the sky. Countless demons glared above her, eyes burning, leathery wings churning smoke. Their stench, like burning meat, filled her nostrils.

"Rally here!" Bat El cried to those angels she spotted. She saw maybe a hundred angels upon the walls, another hundred battling demons in the air. More angels were emerging from the fort, but they were confused, outnumbered. I'm the highest ranking angel here, Bat El realized with another chill. She had never felt more alone.

As demons were landing on the walls, angels rallied around Bat El. She spread her wings and took flight. "Follow me," she shouted. "Knock them off the towers!"

Pillars of flame burned in the landscape around her, hiding the sky behind black smoke. Between swirls of ash, Bat El flew toward the fort's tower, where her chamber was located. Demons covered the tower, entering the windows. Bat El and her angels slashed their swords, yet more demons descended around them. One demon clawed at her, scratching back the gold on her breastplate, revealing the steel underneath. In midair, Bat El swung her sword, slicing off the demon's head with blazing godlight. The demon's head tumbled to the distant courtyard.

Bat El glanced around. She felt herself pale, and her heart thudded. There were tens of thousands of these demons, and there—behind them, floating under the ashy swirls—Bat El saw a fallen angel. Beelzebub.

"Into the fort!" she shouted. The demons were inside already. She couldn't let them take the fort. I've been on Earth for only a few months. I can't let Michael down already.

She flew through the tower window, but few angels remained to follow. Most were battling demons in the sky, or lay dead upon the ground. We are overrun.

Inside her chamber, more demons lurked, eyes blazing. Bat El and those few angels with her slashed their swords, forcing their way down the tower staircase. Into the fort's main hall they fought, only to find a thousand demons filling it. The demons had already torn down the tapestries and shredded the towering painting of Michael.

Beelzebub himself stood in the center of the hall, angel bodies at his feet. Until today, Bat El had never seen the fallen angel, the new ruler of Hell, but she recognized him at once. He looks so much like his brother Michael.

Of course, Michael had swan wings, and Beelzebub's wings were like those of a bat. A halo lit Michael's head, and Beelzebub sported fangs and claws instead. Michael was a being of light, Beelzebub a creature of darkness. Yet still... Bat El saw the same power in their eyes and stance, their ancient armor, their casual confidence mixed with the jaded weariness of their age and endless war.

"I think I'll place my new statue here, right in the hall," Beelzebub was saying when he noticed Bat El. His dark eyes locked with hers, and Bat El felt a tremble run through her. Laila used to be his lover, she thought, shivering.

Beelzebub smiled. "You must be Gabriel's daughter," he said, walking toward her. "You look a lot like him."

Bat El stood before him, claw marks in her breastplate, demon blood coating her drawn blade. "And you must be Beelzebub," she said and hated that her voice sounded so weak. Michael had left her in charge of this fort, to defend it in God's name, and this was all she could say? If Michael were here, he would have killed Beelzebub on the spot; even Laila might have. Yet she, Bat El, could only stand helpless, sword drawn, no idea what to do next. Guilt filled her. I let Beelzebub take our base. I failed God.

Beelzebub seemed to read her thoughts. He placed a hand on her shoulder, and Bat El could not even shove him away; his eyes seemed too sympathetic.

"There is nothing you could have done, sweetheart," he said softly. "Don't feel like you failed my brother. It was his failure for leaving the fort with inadequate defenses. He was so excited to have Laila with him, that he erred. It's not your fault."

She was alone here, Bat El realized. Those few angels who had entered the fort with her lay dead, sliced open by demon claws. The sounds of battle were fading outside; the ancient Shield Division had cracked and lay shattered across the ruins and beach. Heaven ruled this fort for fifteen years, and it falls in fifteen minutes.

"Are you going to kill me now?" she asked, and instantly regretted it. It made her sound young and scared. When she landed on Earth a few months ago, Bat El had thought herself a great warrior of God. She now felt callow as a cherub. Beelzebub must think I'm a child.

Yet if Beelzebub did mock her inwardly, he showed no sign of it. He took a handkerchief from a pouch on his belt and wiped a smear of blood off Bat El's lips; a demon must have bashed her, drawing blood she did not notice in the heat of the battle. Beelzebub's fingers brushed against her cheek, and Bat El hated that she found his touch soft and warm. Those hands would once touch Laila.

"No, I won't kill you, Bat El. You know I won't."

She forced herself to look away from him. Of course he'll take me alive. I'm Gabriel's daughter. What better bargaining piece?

She lowered her head. I won't let him capture me. Michael would never let himself be taken alive. Bat El tightened her lips, then screamed and slashed her sword at Beelzebub.

Chapter Six

Clouds of demons surrounded Laila and the angels among the ruins of Caesarea, a maelstrom of scales and claws. Flames left the demons' mouths, and their fangs bit into angels. The angels shot back with spears and blasts of godlight, and the ruins trembled under the smoky skies.

As the battle raged, Laila stepped away, leaving the angels behind in the sea of demons. When demons flew her way, she knocked them aside with blasts of bullets or thrusts of her claws. She had her own business here, and it wasn't killing shades. She, Laila, had come to fight her own battle, and that battle waited underground.

Volkfair killing demons around her, Laila soon found a hole in the ground. An iron trapdoor covered it. A bomb shelter, she knew; the humans had built many during their wars before Armageddon. Laila fired at the demons around her, knocking them aside, then pulled the lid off the bomb shelter.

The demons kept buzzing around her, clawing and snapping their teeth, annoying like mosquitoes. Laila felt her anger rise. I'm wasting ammo on them. With a snarl, she waved her hand, and a ring of fire burst around her, crackling. The demons sizzled and screeched, and the walls of flame rose around Laila, for a moment shielding her and Volkfair from the demons.

She knelt by Volkfair. "You'll have to wait for me here," she told the wolf. "You can't climb down the ladder or tunnels, and I can't carry you while holding my gun."

For the first time since she'd known him, Volkfair growled at her. His eyes said, I'm not leaving you.

"You brought me this far, Volkfair," she said, "and I don't just mean from the fort to these ruins. You brought me far on a long journey that started years ago, but here's one step I must take alone. Stay here aboveground, Volkfair. Stay here and protect Michael; he's going to need it, and I'm going to need him." She kissed the wolf. "Kill lots of demons for me."

With that, she leapt into the hole, plunging into darkness, wings pressed close to her sides. She heard Volkfair howl mournfully above, and then blackness overcame her, muffling all sounds. Laila fingered her jerrycan of gasoline. I'm going to need this.

In the dusty bomb shelter, the fire of her eyes and halo illuminated canned goods, a few gas masks, a scorched crib, and several skeletons. A human family lived here, Laila thought. They must have fled here just as Armageddon began twenty-seven years ago. They hadn't lasted long; most of the canned goods had never been opened. This bomb shelter must have served the family well during the human wars, but when demons come to the world, underground is the last place you want to escape to.

Confirming her thoughts, Laila spotted a hole carved into the floor, roughly hewn by demon claws. She entered the hole, feet first, and began climbing down, digging her claws into the walls for support. The tunnel was narrow, and Laila folded her wings against her. The sultry air smelled like smoke and sulfur, and grumbles and creaks sounded deep below. These tunnels would run miles underground, Laila knew. She had seen too many demon hives in her life.

The tunnel curved after a hundred yards, and Laila found herself crawling on her belly, her Uzi held before her. Soot covered her. She could hear nothing of the battle aboveground and wondered how long it would last. The dwellers of these tunnels had emerged to fight, but when their battle ended, they would swarm through the hive, and there were more demons than Laila had bullets. I have to hurry.

All tunnels would lead to Angor, she knew, crawling through the darkness, ash murmuring beneath her knees and elbows. Thus were Hell's hives built; the King Archdemon dwelled in the deepest, largest cavern, feeding on rock and lava, spewing lesser demons to become his troops.

Archdemons. Laila shuddered, still feeling the pain of Zarel's claws on her shoulder. I hate archdemons. The last one she'd fought—Zarel—still unnerved her. Laila had glimpsed Angor once against the night sky, when she was a girl, seven or eight years old. She had been living in the forest and hunting boars. A shadow had covered the stars, and the owls and jackals fled. Laila had looked up and seen a serpentine creature, fiery, black and burning in the sky. Its screech tore the night, and Laila froze in terror, wishing she had never fled those humans who had tended to her; she had never felt such fear. Years later, still haunted with nightmares, Laila learned that had been the night Beelzebub summoned Angor to emerge from Hell and join the war against Michael.

Laila shoved the memory aside. I'm no longer a frightened girl living in the forest. That was twenty years ago, and I'm a grown woman now, a legend. She smirked. Some legend. If anyone ever glimpsed the pain, doubt, and fear in her heart, they would no longer tell stories of her might.

The tunnels were getting narrower, the creaking and cackling louder from below. The heat of underground fires brought sweat to Laila's face, dampening strands of hair that clung to her brow. Just as she thought the tunnel would become too narrow to travel, it opened into a rough, round chamber. Laila stood up and stretched, rubbing her muscles. She surveyed the chamber in the light from her flaming eyes. She grimaced. A nursery.

The demon maggots lay piled against the walls, slimy with black ooze. Each maggot was the size of a rolled-up sleeping bag, soft and semi-transparent. They were sleeping, writhing softly. Disgusting, Laila thought. Hundreds filled the room, and in several weeks, they would sprout fangs and claws, then finally grow wings and join Beelzebub. The room stank of them, like rotting fruit.

Once she took over Hell, Laila would need troops, but not yet. Not yet. These maggots were Angor's spawn, loyal to Beelzebub. They would have to go.

Laila uncorked her jerrycan and sprayed gasoline over the piles of demon maggots. They awoke, squirming and screeching, opening toothy maws. When the jerrycan was empty, Laila tossed it aside. It clanged.

Two adult demons burst into the chamber. The nurses. Laila had expected them, and she leapt up, swooped down, and tore out their throats. The demons crashed dead against the floor. Laila wiped her hands against her pants. She hated dirtying her hands with demon blood—the stuff stank—but firing her Uzi would not do in a room soaked with gasoline. She stepped out from the chamber into the next tunnel, turned around, and tossed back a stream of flame from her fingertips. The piles of maggots caught fire. They screamed as they burned, wriggling.

This new tunnel was tall enough that Laila could walk upright. As she stepped away from the burning nursery, a great howl came from miles below. The entire hive seemed to tremble. Laila smiled. Angor sensed his children dying. He would be expecting her now. Good. Let him await me, let him stew in his loss for a while. She wanted him to know she was coming. If her plan was to work, that could only help.

Down the tunnel Laila the half-demon walked, the maggots screaming and burning behind her, a small smile on her lips, her bat wings unfurled, her claws dripping demon blood.

In the next chamber she entered, a dozen demons tended to barrels of bloodwine. They saw her and hissed, eyes flaming. Laila's Uzi rang out, lighting the chamber, sending demon bodies to crash against the walls. Soon blood covered the room, and Laila kept walking, her smile widening. The blood only made her hungry for more killing. The old bloodlust always made her smile, even as a child hunting in the forests.

In deeper chambers, fires burned, shrieking over pools of lava, feeding the columns of flame that burst aboveground to cover the sky with ash. More demons lived here, and Laila moved from chamber to chamber, firing. She soon emptied her tenth magazine. She had only three left, but she was close now, so close she could sense the beast below, smell it.

Down more tunnels she climbed, into the heat and blackness, the darkness a living thickness around her, caressing her skin. She was miles underground, not far from Hell itself. This place was almost like Hell. Laila bared her fangs and licked her lips.

She was crawling down a sooty tunnel when Angor's growl sounded below, loud now, shaking the caverns. He can't be more than two hundred yards away, Laila thought. She dropped through the tunnel into a towering, wide cavern, holes littering its floor. Demons covered the walls, hundreds of them, red eyes glinting. Their hisses rose, so loud it hurt Laila's ears.

Her halo of fire burst into flame, crackling, and she spread her wings, baring her fangs, eyes aflame, claws glinting. The demons shrieked and cowered.

"Laila has come!" they cackled, a thousand voices. "The half-angel, yes comrades, Laila has finally come to us. We have been waiting for you, Laila."

Laila spun her arms, igniting a ring of fire around her. She flapped her wings, rising from the flames, sending sparks flying. "I have not come for you, shades," she shouted. "I come seeking your father. I come to see Angor."

A growl came from a large hole fifty yards from Laila. The room shook, and flames flew from the hole, spewing ash. Angor is down there.

She flew toward the hole, and the demons shot toward her.

Laila emptied her eleventh magazine, killing several demons, then clawed at a hundred others who mobbed her. She had no time to reload; the demons clawed and bit. Shades—the lesser demons—could not cause much harm to one such as her, a child of Lucifer. Yet Laila knew that even she could die from a thousand cuts. She growled and clawed at them, yet for every shade she killed, three more appeared, blocking her way to Angor.

She tossed flames across the room. "Angor!" she called. "Are you such a coward that you will not see me?"

His growl shook the chamber, and more fire lit the hole.

"I come with an offer," she cried over the din of demon hisses and crackling flames. "Call off your servants, or all will know that Angor the archdemon feared to speak with Laila the half-devil."

The demons paused their onslaught, glancing at one another, panting. Laila breathed heavily. Several cuts covered her, beading with droplets of blood, and the cuts from Zarel's claws had opened on her shoulders. Not a problem. Laila had fought with greater wounds before.

Finally Angor's voice came from below. It sounded more like an echo than a voice, deep and rumbling, as if the caves themselves spoke. "Enter my chamber. We will talk."

Laila tightened her lips, trying not to remember the one time she had seen Angor, the nightmares it had placed in her seven-year-old mind. The demons scuttled aside, hissing at her, eyes burning. The hole into Angor's chamber lay dark before her, unguarded. Laila loaded another magazine into her Uzi, yanked the cocking handle, and leapt into the hole.

* * * * *

When Bat El lashed her sword at him, Beelzebub reached out and blocked the blade with his arm. The blade clanged against the iron vambrace on his forearm, chipping off pieces of its golden filigree.

Bat El stood before him, eyes wide, mouth open, looking shocked that her attack had failed, or maybe shocked that she had attacked him at all. Beelzebub lashed out, grabbed her wrist, and squeezed. Bat El gasped in pain. Her hand opened and her sword clanged at her feet.

Still clutching her wrist, Beelzebub raised his other hand, ready to strike her. She only glared back at him, not cowering, and Beelzebub lowered his hand slowly. He sighed.

"Don't do that again, Bat El," he said. "This armor is over two thousand years old. The best blacksmith in Rome forged it. You know how hard it is to repair?"

Bat El tried yanking her arm loose, but Beelzebub held her fast. She struggled for a moment longer, then capitulated.

"I don't want to chain you," he said. "I don't want to send you to some prison cell, to bars and torturers. So please, don't fight me. I am not your enemy."

"So who is my enemy?" she demanded, blue eyes flashing. Her cheeks were flushed, and strands of her long blond hair peeked from her helmet, sticking to her face with sweat. She's not all that bad looking, Beelzebub thought.

"Why, God is, of course," he answered.

She glared at him, cheeks flushing even pinker. "Do not speak of my lord that way."

"You can't even speak his name, can you? He demands total subservience from you, and blind faith. Lucifer and I realized early that in Heaven, we were living in a tyrannical dictatorship." Beelzebub sighed. "I tried to get Michael to join our rebellion. If he had agreed, we might have won. We might have ended things five thousand years ago, and avoided this war now altogether." He shook his head, clearing it from thoughts. "But that's a conversation for another time. Michael will be back soon, and we have defenses to prepare. Let's find a comfortable place for you."

Through the windows he saw demons taking position, covering the battlements like bats on a cave wall. Holding Bat El's wrist, Beelzebub scanned the room and found a hallway, then a stairwell leading underground. He led Bat El downstairs to find a dark armory. Angel and demon bodies covered the floor. A hundred living demons were feasting on the corpses.

"Here," Beelzebub said, pulling Bat El toward a chair. "This will do for now. Wait for me here, darling. I'll be back soon."

The armory was dark, foul, and bloody, but there was some advantage in frightening Bat El into obedience. To the demons in the room, he said, "Do not harm this one. She is my friend. Keep her here, and keep her away from the weapons on the walls."

With that, Beelzebub left the armory, closing the door behind him. A few hours with demons and corpses would do Bat El good, he thought, and she would be safe there. Beelzebub smiled when he remembered that Zarel was back in Jerusalem; he might just be able to have some fun here without his wife knowing. He loved Zarel, of course. He loved her flaming hair, her scales, her passion. Yet he was a fallen angel, born in Heaven. Sometimes a fallen angel longed for a woman's soft skin, silky hair, pink lips. After all, was that not one reason he had fallen in love with Laila ten years ago?

But there would be time for that later. Michael would be back soon, and Beelzebub was determined to set up his defenses. He smiled. His brother might have Laila now, but Beelzebub had just made them even again.

* * * * *

Laila landed in Angor's chamber, Uzi in hand, wings unfurled. A vast chamber it was, thrice the size of the coliseum above the ground, cloaked in shadows and scurrying spiders. Angor lay in its center. Laila stared, keeping her finger on the trigger of her Uzi, though she suspected that no bullets would harm this creature.

Angor was large as a bus, like a great reptile with flaming eyes, bat wings growing from his scaly back. He was made of fire, horns, claws, and black scales. Forged in the deepest pits of Hell was Angor, Laila knew; one of the first demons Lucifer had created, and still one of the fiercest.

"Hello again," Laila said to him.

Angor laughed. At least, Laila thought the deep, rumbling sound that came from him, spewing smoke from his nostrils, was laughter. "So you remember that night," he said, "when you saw me in the forest. I had sensed you, a bundle of power below. Young you were then, Laila the half-angel. I was not sure you would remember. I must have left an impression."

"You did," Laila admitted. "I was shocked by the power and evil I sensed in you. I was very young then, but I remember, which is why I came to see you today."

He slammed his spiked tail against the floor, raising chips of stone, and growled. Fire rose from his nostrils, and the chamber trembled. Rocks and dust fell from the ceiling.

"You come here with Michael," he said, spitting flame. "You come to try and take this city. You come working for Heaven."

Laila growled too, showing her fangs, though she suspected that her own growl seemed somewhat less impressive. "I work for no one," she said. "Especially not for Heaven. I come with my own purpose." Her halo burst into flame, and she flapped her bat wings, rising from a ring of fire. "I am Lucifer's daughter, and Hell is mine. I have made my claim to Hell's throne, and I will take that throne." She flapped her wings and landed before Angor's head. His head was as tall as her entire body, and she stared levelly into his burning eyes. "Join me, Angor," she said. "Serve me as you served my father, your master Lucifer."

Angor chuckled, and Laila stepped back from the flames that shot from his nostrils. "So the rumors are true; you are Lucifer's offspring. I can see that in you. You have the same eyes. Nevertheless, girl, you'll never take Hell." He narrowed his eyes. "You're strong, but not nearly strong enough."

He flapped his wings, rose to his full height, and swooped toward her.

Laila leapt aside, and his teeth—each like a spear—bit into the cave floor, tearing out chunks of stone. He turned toward her, maw gaping, hissing. His spittle sprayed her, burning like acid, steaming over her. Grunting, Laila fired her Uzi, emptying the magazine into his mouth. The bullets did not hurt him. He spat them out like a man would spit out grape seeds.

He lashed toward her, and Laila leapt aside again. His teeth once more hit the floor, shattering stone. His left wing slammed against Laila, tossing her against the wall thirty yards away. The thud knocked the breath out of her, and pain bloomed inside her. Ice filled Laila's belly. He's going to kill me now.

Angor spun toward her, flames rising from his mouth. As he charged, Laila tossed a grenade, squinting against the pain and fire. The grenade rolled under his belly and burst, denting several of his scales. Angor howled in rage and lashed his clawed front leg.

Laila rolled aside, escaping the brunt of the blow, but the scales alongside Angor's leg rubbed against her arm, tearing her shirt and skin. The cuts sizzled; there was poison on those sharp scales, poison that burned like salt on wounds. Angor laughed with smoke and fire.

Laila bared her fangs, snarling, his laughter enraging her. Ignoring the pain, she somersaulted through the air, landed on Angor's back, and stabbed down her claws. She could not break through his scales, and Angor bucked, trying to shake her off. Laila clung to his back, screaming, slamming her claws down again and again. With all her strength, she could not break those scales, and fear flooded her, drenching her with sweat. Can nothing harm this archdemon? Laila, you are a stupid girl, thinking you can defeat one of Hell's most ancient evils!

Angor bucked, tossing Laila against the wall. Her head hit stone, and she cried in pain, feeling blood soak her hair. Angor's maw thrust forward, and all Laila could see were his teeth and dark, quivering gullet. Stench and fire engulfed her, and Laila cried, shaking her head.

He's swallowing me. He's eating me.

Angor's mouth closed around her, sealing her in darkness. She fell against his tongue, the fire of his belly burning her. No, I can't let him do this, God, please help me.... The mouth moved around her, and Laila slid down Angor's throat. Slime covered her. She landed in his belly, the acid steaming against her, burning her clothes. The stench spun her head.

Laila grunted, squinting against the pain. She could smell her clothes burning. In a moment or two, I'll burn away, digested. Jaw clenched, Laila looked around the inside of Angor's stomach. There were no scales in here. Only his soft flesh.

Grinning in her pain, Laila slammed her claws.

Even inside his belly, she could hear Angor scream. The scream slammed against her eardrums, deafening. Laila slashed her claws again and again, slicing into his gut, kicking his insides, firing her Uzi into the soft flesh of him. He leapt around the chamber, tossing Laila within his belly, but she kept punching and kicking, until the stomach heaved. Laila found herself thrown up his throat, and he spewed her onto the floor.

She lay on the ground, wet and steaming, a faint smile finding her lips through the burning. She opened one eye and saw Angor crash against the wall, moaning in pain, wrapping his wings around his belly.

"Something bad to eat?" Laila asked, pushing herself to her feet, knees trembling. Panting, bloody, Laila flapped her wings and hovered before him. She shook off the goo covering her like a wolf shaking off rain. Her head spun, and she struggled to focus her gaze. "Angor, stop this. I don't want to fight you."

He moaned and spat, glowering with bloodshot eyes. "What do you want, then?"

"You know what I want," she said. "Your fealty. Serve me, Angor."

He spat a glob of lava thick with the shells of her fired bullets. "I've sworn to serve Beelzebub. I'll die before I betray him. You'll have to kill me, half-breed."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Still dizzy, she struggled to hide her weakness, and aimed her Uzi at him. She took some pleasure seeing him wince. He can still feel those bullets inside him. "I'm not going to kill you, Angor. I won't let you die in battle. No." She managed a crooked smile. "But when I take over Hell, I'm going to reassign you. I'm going to demote you to work in the firepits, shoveling coal with shades."

He shook his head and growled, spitting flame. "I will not shovel coal like a lesser demon, girl."

She fired her last magazine against his face. He groaned, his scales dented, blood seeping from his mouth. "You will shovel coal like a good little demon once I rule Hell. Unless...." She leaned against his head, smiling, wiping globs of his spit off her clothes. "Well, if you join me, Angor, I won't forget the favor. I never forget a favor."

Angor snapped his teeth at her, trying to bite her, but he was tired and wounded, and Laila avoided his jaws. Powerful was Angor, and the wounds he had given her hurt, but Laila had proved her strength this night—to Angor, to herself. Pride swelled within her. I, Laila the half-breed, only twenty-seven years old, defeated an ancient archdemon. Let all in Hell and Heaven fear me now. Hell will be mine.

Yet as Angor snapped weakly at her, beaten and moaning, Laila's pride ebbed. She had never cared for glory. The angels and demons had built her legend, speaking of her in hushed tones and shadows, murmuring of her power, hunting for her allegiance. She, Laila, had never wanted more than a home. Remember that, Laila, she told herself. You are in this to make a home in Hell, not for glory or pride.

Angor looked into her eyes, as if reading her thoughts, and for the first time it seemed as though he believed she stood a chance, believed she could usurp Beelzebub. He nodded slowly. "If I join you," he said, "I demand a guarantee." He eyed the scratches on her shoulder, the marks Zarel's claws drew. "If you take over Hell, grant clemency to my daughter. Promise you won't harm Zarel, and I'll join you."

Laila raised an eyebrow. Who would have thought this great reptile could have a tender side?

"You've spawned countless maggots," Laila said to him. "You've filled these tunnels with countless shades. What's so special about Zarel?"

His red eyes seemed almost sad, almost loving. "She is my only archdemon. Shades? I care not for shades; I spawn them to kill angels, not for love. But Zarel is special. Zarel is precious."

Laila snorted, blowing back a wet strand of hair. "Zarel is a big girl," she said. "She can take care of herself."

Smoke rose from Angor's nostrils. "She is strong, yes, but she would not be safe from one who sits on Hell's throne. Offer clemency to my daughter, and I'll help you take that throne."

Laila shook her head. With the adrenaline wearing off, the pain of her cuts and bruises nearly overpowered her, but she ignored them. "I can't do that, Angor. Zarel envies me. She loves Beelzebub, and he loves me, or did once. She tried to kill me, and she'll keep trying even if I take over Hell. She will always be an enemy to me."

Angor howled, spitting fire and bullets. He rose to his full height, a church of scales and fire, towering over Laila. "Then you will have to kill me too," he roared, flames leaving his nostrils.

Laila shook her head. "No deal, Angor. I need you. You're going to help me take over Hell, like it or not. You want clemency for Zarel? I will offer her exile, no more. Once I take over Hell, Zarel must not enter it. She'll have to wander whatever worlds she might find outside the gates of Hell, and so long as you are alive, I will not harm her. That's the best I can offer you, Angor."

Angor growled in flame and smoke, lava dripping from his mouth. "You swear this on your demon blood, on the name of your father?"

Laila nodded. "Ay na kha Gehenom, ge godor, ta gol dae loo gesha kra ay anoos neleeta." she said solemnly, staring into Angor's eyes, her halo aflame. I swear by Hell, the fatherland, and may my soul burn if I break my vow. The ancient words in the tongue of demons.

Angor bowed his head and repeated the words. "Ay na kha Gehenom, ge godor, ta gol dae loo gesha kra ay anoos neleeta. I will help you, Laila, daughter of Lucifer. I will help you take the throne from Beelzebub."

Laila slung her Uzi over her back, her bruises aching. "Go to the Sea of Galilee, Angor. Wait for me underwater, and let me take this city. When I need you, I will summon you from the water. Now leave this place."

Angor smirked with flame and smoke. "I will do as you wish. If you survive, I'll see you at the lake."

With that, the archdemon spun around and began digging into the floor, burrowing underground, leaving the chamber to tremble and rain boulders and dirt. Angor disappeared into the earth, and cracks ran across the floor and walls.

"Damn," Laila said and started to run. Mental note, she told herself. Demon hives collapse once the archdemon leaves them. She raced through the tunnels as they shook, cursing Angor, swearing that she might just kill him someday after all. Ash and stones rolled. Around her, Angor's demons also fled, screeching.

A boulder crashed ahead of her, blocking her way. More rocks pelted her. Damn damn damn. She shoved two boulders together, making a pocket of air, and scuttled into the shelter. Rocks tumbled around her, and the boulders protecting her shifted. Laila bared her fangs and hissed as the hive collapsed over her.

* * * * *

Around Michael, the ten thousand demons he fought suddenly screamed, fluttered their wings, and began to flee, flying east. Michael stood, panting, his spear and armor splashed with demon blood. More blood covered the ruins of Caesarea around him, both demon and angel blood.

"What the hell?" said Nathaniel, standing by Michael with a spear just as bloody. A gash ran down the wingless lieutenant's face, narrowly missing his one good eye. Close call, Michael thought.

Michael slammed the butt of his spear against the bloody cobblestones between the bodies of demons and angels. He watched as the demons fled, darkening the sky. The columns of fire fizzled away.

"She killed him," he said.

A tremble shook the ruins. Cracks ran along the streets, and bricks fell from the ancient walls around him, walls that had stood since the days of Christ. Michael struggled for balance. Around him, those angels who had survived the battle looked around, bewildered, their armor bloody and dusty.

"Earthquake?" Nathaniel asked, holding a nearby column as the world shook. Dust rose around them.

Michael shook his head, grief filling him. I've killed her, he thought, dread like ice along his spine. And Raphael will kill me.

"The underground hive is collapsing," he said. "Angor is dead."

The earth finally ceased its trembles, and the dust began to settle. Several marble columns had fallen, and a Roman aqueduct lay cracked and toppled, rainwater trickling from it.

Nathaniel spat. "Good. And the half-breed too, I hope. You're better off without the girl, sir."

Michael glared at the wingless angel. "Watch your tongue, lieutenant. I keep my own counsel as to who is an ally. Help me dig. She might still be alive."

Nathaniel bowed his head, and Michael ran to the bomb shelter where Laila had entered the hive. Her wolf was there, already digging at the tunnel, howling, his claws tossing aside stones and ash. Michael and Nathaniel joined the wolf, digging, rolling back boulders. The wreckage filled the tunnel.

"She's dead, sir," Nathaniel said, soaked in sweat and blood, ash sticking to the stubble on his face. "The entire hive's collapsed. She couldn't have survived that."

"Then we'll find her body," Michael snapped. Damn it. How would he explain this to Bat El? For whatever reason, the young angel loved her demonic half-sister. Michael could already imagine the look in Bat El's eyes when he returned dragging Laila's body on a litter. Her blue, teary eyes would be full of anguish and accusation. You killed my sister, those eyes would say, because you were too cowardly to face Angor yourself.

Sweat soaked Michael as he dug. Volkfair howled mournfully. Damn.

Chapter Seven

Standing on the Crusader fort's wall, Beelzebub stared south along the beach. Caesarea lay miles from here, but fallen angels had sharp eyes. When the distant city trembled, Beelzebub frowned. A dark cloud rose from those ruins, heading back to Jerusalem. Demons fleeing, Beelzebub knew.

So Laila succeeded. The columns of fire sizzled away over Caesarea, and the ash settled over the ruins. She defeated Angor. Beelzebub took a deep breath. A hundred shades perched around him, staring at the distant city with him.

The time would come, Beelzebub knew with a sigh, when he'd have to deal with Laila. Sooner or later, he would have to send Zarel on the hunt, or face Laila himself. But not yet, he thought, patting a demon that growled beside him, perched upon the walls like a gargoyle. Not yet. Let's see how things play out. He had Laila's sister captive. He could use that to his advantage. It was always better, he thought, to do things the smart way, rather than the rash, violent way.

He walked down the stairs to the courtyard, where dented helmets and shattered swords still lay in the dust. Five thousand demons manned the walls and chambers, and five thousand more flew around the fort in circles. Michael would be unable to retake this fort, and that, Beelzebub reminded himself, was what mattered now. Let his brother keep Caesarea. Let him parade Angor's bones in the courtyards. He, Beelzebub, had the fort and Bat El, not a trifle prize.

You haven't won this war yet, brother.

He walked across the courtyard between more demons and entered the fort's main hall. He was tired. He was often tired these days, and his head hurt. He thought back to the old days, twenty-seven years ago, when he first rose to Earth, commander-in-chief of Hell's forces. Back then, fire had wreathed him, burning in his eyes. He had been a figure of black menace, rising from flame, bat wings always spread, fangs always bared; the horror everyone expected him to be. But that was a long time ago. These days, he hadn't the will to be frightening, and some days—like today—all he wanted was a glass of wine to warm his bones and a woman to warm his bed.

The thought reminded him of Bat El. A slow smile found its way to Beelzebub's face, tickling the corners of his lips. Laila might have joined Michael. Angor might be dead, and Caesarea lost. But not all was grim. With Bat El around, he might enjoy his stay in this seaside fort.

Beelzebub walked across the fort's hall, kicking aside some broken spears. A few angel bodies still littered the floor, and Beelzebub grunted. "Guys, really, clean up the mess," he said, and several demons fluttered down from the walls to do his bidding. They lifted the bodies and dragged them out from the hall, smearing blood across the floor. Beelzebub grimaced.

Leaving the hall, he stepped into the basement and opened the door. The sound of cackling demons greeted him alongside the stench of bodies. The demons were flapping around Bat El, tugging her hair, pinching her arms, licking her. The young angel was struggling against them, flapping them aside, tears in her eyes. When the demons saw Beelzebub enter, they froze and fluttered into the corners, cowering in the shadows.

"Oh, hell," Beelzebub said. What was wrong with his demons today? He stared into the shadows, the flames from his eyes piercing the darkness. Those demons who had tortured Bat El burst into flame, then fell to the ground, turning to ash. Other demons cowered in every corner, peering at him with burning eyes.

"I told you not to touch her," he said in disgust. Angel bodies still covered the floor, tooth marks in some. The bodies stank. "And clear out these bodies." Like wanton children, these demons were, he thought. You had to watch them every moment.

He knelt by Bat El, who had dropped to her knees, panting. She turned her head aside, as if to hide her tears, and rubbed her fists against her eyes. Her hair fell over her face.

"I apologize for this," Beelzebub said. "Come with me, sweetness. Please. We'll find you a more suitable place to stay."

He tried to take her hand, but she shook him off and rose to her feet. She tossed back her head and began walking upstairs, leaving the basement. She tried to walk steadily, head held high, but could not hide the tremble in her knees. Beelzebub followed, a small smile on his lips. When they reached the main hall, the demons were clearing away the last bodies.

"I found a chamber in the tower," Beelzebub said to Bat El, "with a simple cot, a bible, and a harp. It seems sparse but comfortable enough for now. Would you like to stay there?"

Bat El refused to look at him, staring at the bare wall where once Michael's painting had hung. "That was my chamber before you took this fort."

"Perfect. Mind if I show you there? I wouldn't want you to step into the room and find demons in your bed."

Bat El said nothing, but her face paled, and her fingers trembled before she clutched them. Beelzebub nodded. "Let's go."

They ascended the staircase up the tower and entered the small, round chamber. Indeed, several demons filled the room, playing dice and drinking from bottles of bloodwine. At the sight of Beelzebub, they knelt.

"Leave us," he said, and the demons fluttered out the window, leaving their bottles and dice behind.

"Such dirty creatures, aren't they?" Beelzebub asked Bat El, kneeling to collect the empty bottles and dice. He tossed them out the window and heard the glass shatter in the courtyard. "Not like us angels."

Bat El said nothing. Beelzebub didn't have to be a mind reader to hear her thoughts. You are no longer an angel. "Angel, fallen angel, same stock," he answered her thoughts with a wink.

"Thank you for seeing me to my chamber," Bat El said, not looking at him, her voice a study of emotionless courtesy. "Thank you also for freeing me from my tormentors. You may leave now."

"I thought I'd stay and talk for a while," he said.

Still Bat El refused to look at him. "I have nothing to say to you."

Beelzebub sat down on the bed. He sighed inwardly. What are you doing here, Beelzebub? he thought to himself. What do you want here? Of course, he knew the answer. Let's face it, buddy. Your wife's a scaly dragon, and you're looking for some consolation with another woman. Another part of his mind protested, reminding him that he did love Zarel, and that part of his mind was right—yet as much as he loved Zarel, the truth remained. He had not married the archdemon for love. He had married her because Laila had left him, and Zarel was the only other female so mighty and feared.

Beelzebub looked at Bat El, who stood before him, cheeks still flushed, hair draggled, ash and blood still on her pale skin. As beautiful as Zarel was, with her flames and glinting scales, Beelzebub missed the touch of soft skin on a woman.

"Look, Bat El," he said. "I know you hate me now. I can understand that. But I'm not such a bad guy. I did what I had to do here, what Michael would have done in my place."

Finally she met his eyes, her own eyes flashing. "Your brother would never slaughter hundreds of angels like you did today."

Beelzebub raised an eyebrow. "My brother is in Caesarea now, where he slaughtered hundreds of demons. The line between angels and demons is a fine one, Bat El. We're more alike than you've been raised to believe. After a while longer on Earth, you'll learn the truth."

"Which is?" she demanded.

He shrugged. "That not all demons are pure evil like Heaven teaches, and that angels at war can lie, cheat, and murder with the best of them."

"You're a liar," she said, but her voice had lost some of its conviction, and she looked away from him. It always takes the young angels on Earth some time to learn how shielded they've been in Heaven, Beelzebub thought.

"Sit down, please," he said, and she sat on the simple wooden chair by the bed. "How is your dad?" he asked. "We used to be good friends, you know—back in the old days when I still lived in Heaven. We would go hunting together." A sadness filled Beelzebub, a feeling like a shudder in a drafty room, not wholly unpleasant but enough to run a chill through the bones. "Those were the days, back before the rebellion." He nodded slowly with a soft laugh. "Gabriel and I, and my brothers, and Lucifer. Oh man, the trouble we'd get into, sneaking down to Earth to run around, drink cheap beer and hunt in the forests. We'd piss off God more than a few times. We were young, wild hell-raisers then. Your dad too."

Bat El nodded. "He told me," she said softly.

Beelzebub flicked a piece of ash off his breastplate. "Does Gabriel miss those days? How times change, don't they? Look at us now. Michael and I—the angelic brothers—him the lord of Heaven's hosts, I the lord of Hell. Your dad—once our partner in crime, now the mature, responsible governor of Heaven. You young angels, born after the rebellion, raised on tales of terror from Hell.... Sometimes I think the younger generation misses the whole point. Other than Laila, that is." He grinned. "Your half-sister hates both Heaven and Hell, and thinks we're both bastards. She's the only one among us with any damn sense."

Bat El stared at him, and her eyes suddenly blazed with such anger, they could almost pass for demon eyes. "I know how you've hurt her. If you hurt her again, Beelzebub, I will kill you."

Beelzebub stood up, walked toward her, and leaned down to kiss Bat El's lips. She turned her head aside, and his kiss landed on her cheek. He caressed her hair with ashy fingers. "I would never harm a fly," he whispered, his lips on her ear, letting just the hint of menace fill his voice. "So be a good girl, Bat El. Don't turn me into a liar."

With that, he spun around and left Bat El in the chamber, locking the door behind him.

* * * * *

As she lay underground, boulders and dirt pressing against her, strange dreams filled Laila, memories more vivid than she had ever known them, crushing her like the rocks. She remembered another time, twenty years ago, when weight had crushed her, trapping her, the weight of grief and guilt.

She was Laila, the only seven-year-old girl nobody ever called cute, the only seven-year-old girl adults feared and shrunk away from. She rarely cried during those years, but the grief always filled her, and her body always found ways into corners where it could curl up, silent, staring with burning eyes.

The old farm had been full of corners and nooks for her to hide in: rickety barns, the coop where chickens always made a ruckus, the shed where three old cows lived. The animals hated her, even more than humans did, shrieking when she walked by, turning away in fear if she tried to pat them. Even Mamma and Papa, the elderly humans who owned the farm, who put out plates of food for her and sewed her dresses, smelled like fear if she came too close. All but Eclipse. Eclipse never feared her.

She had found the puppy behind the farm in the copse of pines. Thousands of wild dogs roamed the Holy Land then, seven years into Armageddon. Some had been pets before the war, before their owners perished in flame; others had been born wild into this battlefield of angels and demons. Eclipse was the size of a potato when she found him, a shivering black thing with a stripe of white along his breast. Laila, the child everybody feared, lifted the puppy from the ground, and he licked her palm.

"You don't fear me," she whispered, tears of blood flowing down her cheeks. She cuddled him against her and named him, and thought that maybe, just maybe, if an innocent puppy could love her, she wasn't so evil and monstrous after all.

She made the puppy a home inside the barn by the cows, so it would have other animals for company. She built him a bed of straw and fed him cow milk from a bottle. When he was old enough, she let him share the food Mamma and Papa laid out for her. She noticed that the old farmers laid out larger portions, and she suspected that they knew of her dog, and wanted to let her keep tending to him herself, in secret.

"See how she tends to the pup," she heard the old farmer whisper to his wife one night, as Laila crept outside their house, kneeling beneath the window. "She has goodness to her; she isn't a demon child."

"She is half angel, half demon," Mamma said. "She is outcast from both camps. Poor child. Let this be a home to her for as long as it can be."

That night, Laila realized that she loved Mamma and Papa, these old farmers who had let her stay in their barn and yard. She had never been inside their house before—she knew how much they feared her—but that night, Laila crept into their home, Eclipse in her arms. They saw her enter the window and froze, staring at her, pale, as if they had seen a ghost. Laila said nothing, but lay down on the rug at their feet, curled up, and went to sleep by the fire. For the first time in as long as she could remember, no nightmares filled her sleep, and she felt as if she had real parents, a true home.

She spent months sleeping on the rug by the fire, silent. Mamma and Papa tried talking to her, tried reading her books, tried teaching her to read and write, but Laila never spoke back. She knew by then that she was half-demon, and she feared that her words could curse the farmers, could bring evil into them. Yet slowly, as they tended to her, gave her dolls and dresses and love, Laila began to feel her angel side. She began to feel like maybe she had beautiful angelic light within her, a goodness to her soul that came from Heaven, that could shine upon anyone who loved her. When she finally spoke to Mamma and Papa, her first words were, "I love you."

Half a year after she found Eclipse, several bedraggled children came to the farm, barefoot orphans seeking food. They came as beggars to the door, bellies empty, faces ashy. Laila and Eclipse were huddling under the staircase, reading from a book, peering out of the shadows.

When Mamma opened the door to the orphans, Eclipse began to growl. He was a large dog by then, larger than Laila, with sharp fangs, and the farmhouse was his territory. "Hush, Eclipse!" she said to him, but he would not stop growling. When the orphans stepped into the house, Eclipse barked and broke free from her grasp. He leapt toward the orphans and bit one's leg, drawing blood. The child screamed, as did Laila. When she rushed forward to save the orphan, the children froze. They stared at her, pale, eyes wide and teary. Her bat wings were unfurled, her eyes burned, and her halo of fire crackled above her head; even Mamma gazed at her in terror.

Laila grabbed Eclipse's collar and dragged him outside, tears of blood on her young cheeks. As the orphans wept, Laila pulled Eclipse into the forest.

"Bad dog!" she said, dragging him as he yelped. "Bad Eclipse!" She hit the dog, anger burning inside her, tears in her eyes. "Mamma and Papa will kick us out of the house now. We finally had a home, and you had to ruin it."

She hit the dog again, then sobbed and embraced him, rocking him, weeping. "I'm sorry, Eclipse!" She had never cried so hard. "I'm sorry I hit you."

He gazed up at her with glassy eyes and did not move, and Laila realized for the first time that great strength filled her, greater than any child ever had, the strength of an archdemon or archangel. Eclipse, her dearest friend, was dead.

She howled into the sky that night, and tore down trees, and etched her claws along her arms and legs, drawing her mixed blood. She fled into the forests in terror, until she was lost in the darkness and wilderness, until the farm was miles behind and she could never again find it. She knew then, with a pall of blood that covered her eyes, that the demon inside her eclipsed the angel, that she was a being of light turned monstrous with fire. She knew that none were safe around her, and that she could never love again.

She would never make another friend, she swore. She was a monster, Laila knew, and she must keep herself in exile, away from any pet or human. Nobody was safe from her; not Mamma, not Papa, not children. In caves and riverbeds she lived, a creature covered in mud, hair draggled. She hunted wild boars and birds, and lived as a banished spirit with a dirty, bloody face, her clothes woven of leaves and fur, an outcast hunter.

"I am Laila!" she shouted into the forest sky, a bedraggled youth, a teenager with bat wings among the trees. "I curse you Heaven, and I curse you Hell. I am Laila, of the night, of shadows." She howled like a wolf, face covered with the blood of animals she hunted, halo flaming.

The years went by, and she wandered from forest to desert, wild and dirty. For a decade after she killed Eclipse did she live as a hunter, as an animal, alone in the wilderness, fierce and untamed and cruel. For ten years, she howled in the night in her grief, until that one day.

Until that terrible, wonderful day at age seventeen.

Until the day she met Beelzebub.

When she heard the creaking and shifting above her, she thought at first that it was him, that Beelzebub had come looking for her, to save her again from darkness and fear. Groaning, blinking her eyes, Laila shifted her claws. I'll have to fight him, she knew, for he was no longer her lover, no longer the one who tamed and consoled her, who taught her of Heaven and Hell. He was her enemy now, the fallen angel who had sent Zarel to kill her, the fallen angel she must supplant from the throne of Hell.

"Laila!" came a voice above, and hands grabbed stones and tossed them aside. There she saw his face, the face she had once loved so much... only it was not Beelzebub. Instead of dark hair, blond curls topped this head, crowned with a halo. No dark fire filled these eyes, only godlight and heavenly piousness that seared her. It was Michael, Beelzebub's older brother.

His hands, ashy, tossed aside rocks and stones. Sweat drenched his face as he pulled the boulder that covered her. The sunlight burned Laila's eyes, and she squinted, head spinning, muzzy. Volkfair dug beside Michael. When the wolf saw her, he leapt onto her, licking the ash off her cheeks. Laila blinked weakly, lying down. She wanted to embrace Volkfair, but her arms would not move.

"Eclipse," she whispered, lips dry, dusty. "I killed him, Michael. My demon blood, my evil. Let me die, Michael. Please, I deserve it." She felt tears flow down her cheeks to touch her lips, bloody and dusty.

Michael tossed aside another boulder, then knelt beside her, examining her, eyes narrowed. He placed his hands atop her arms, her legs, her belly, her chest, feeling for injuries, then finally leaned back.

"You'll be all right," he said, voice muffled as if speaking miles away. "How do you feel?"

She managed to shift her head, but could not lift it. "Like a demon hive collapsed on top of me."

She tried to speak again, but no words left her throat. Her body felt bashed up like an old tin pot. She could not raise her head to look at her body, but from what she saw, it was dusty, bruised, and bloody. I'm hurt, she thought. Maybe badly. I wish I had died down there. Why do I keep living, only to feel more pain?

Michael and his angels lowered a litter into the pit, lifted Laila gingerly, and carried her back to the surface of the world. Laila lay with eyes shut, hating that she cried, hating to be so weak, so helpless. It could have ended there. I could have died, and I would have deserved it. I'm sorry, Eclipse. I'm sorry, Bat El. I'm sorry that I'm like this, that I'm tarnished. Run from me, let me be. I'm a monster. Leave me. Let me die.

"We'll heal you," Michael spoke, and she felt his calloused fingers against her cheek.

Laila swallowed, pain burning through her. "Your godlight can't heal me," she whispered. "God's grace is forbidden to me, and your healing light would burn me."

She could say no more. As the angels carried her litter, Laila found herself wishing Bat El had joined them. For the first time in her life, Laila missed her sister, worried for her.

Be careful, Bat El, she thought, as if she could transfer her thoughts into her sister's mind. Be careful out there in the fort. If I know Beelzebub, he's on his way there... or with you already. He can be sweet, Bat El, and he will be a friend to you. But be careful. He is dangerous, more than you'll ever know.

She tried to speak to Michael, to ask of Bat El, but could not. Sleep overcame her, and darkness covered her world.

Chapter Eight

Bat El woke up, sunlight against her eyes, pain across her body. She kicked off her blankets; they felt heavy as boulders, crushing her, constricting her breath. She looked around, blinking, confused. In her dreams, she was stuck underground, buried, and still her body ached as if bruised.

With stiff fingers, Bat El pushed the hair back from her eyes. Laila is in trouble, she knew. Laila is in pain.

Bat El rose to her feet, smoothing her nightgown. She gazed out the window of her chamber, and saw a thousand demons flying in rings around the fort's tower, a constant vigil. Bat El wished she could fly to her sister's aid, but there was no escape from this fort. She looked past the flying demons to the sea, and the waves seemed so beautiful to her, so close yet out of reach. I used to swim in those waves in the morning, Bat El remembered, the memory bringing tears to her eyes.

If Laila hurt, that was good, Bat El told herself; it meant the half-angel was still alive. Bat El had long known that she could sense the tribulations and heartache of her sister. Whenever Laila got in a fight, the pain pounded through Bat El's head. Whenever Laila found comfort in a mossy cave or dry burrow, Bat El slept peacefully through the night, sweet dreams comforting her.

Laila hurt this morning, but in the deepest shadows beyond her conscious mind, Bat El felt the steady pulse of the half-demon. Laila was wounded, but strong, strong in ways Bat El knew she would never fully comprehend. Laila would live.

Bat El sat down on her bed, placed her hands in her lap, and stared at her fingers. Demon blood still dirtied her fingernails. Beelzebub had left her only a small jug of water, which she had drunk, leaving no water for washing. She had tried to sneak down into the bathing chamber at night, but demons patrolled outside her window, and her door was locked.

Beelzebub will visit me soon, she knew, and she hated that, strangely, the thought comforted her. He was the lord of Hell, the demon who had imprisoned her, who slaughtered angels around her; how could she feel anything but hatred toward him? Bat El sighed. As much as it shamed her, she did look forward to his visit, perhaps because all other demons here were twisted, scaly, cruel. Beelzebub was still an angel, albeit a fallen, demonic one. He was, she hated to admit, the closest thing to a friend—or at least a fellow angel—she had in this fort.

He was also, Bat El thought as she gazed to the shades out the window, the only one in this fort who didn't want to rip out her throat.

Sure enough, she soon heard his footsteps climbing the stairs, and he unlocked the door and stepped in. As always, he wore his old Roman armor, blackened as by fire, filigreed with gold. The breastplate, vambraces on his arms, and greaves on his shins carried the dull sheen of two thousand years of use. Instead of a helm, he wore only his dark curls. He looked so much like Michael, Bat El thought; the straight nose, the strong jaw, those ancient eyes.

"Good morning, Bat El," he said. "How did you sleep?" He carried a basket topped with cloth, and Bat El struggled not to sigh with pleasure, the basket smelled so good. She could smell fresh bread, oranges, and omelets, and her stomach grumbled. When she noticed that Beelzebub also carried a thermos of coffee, she couldn't help but sigh; coffee would be heavenly. She quickly composed herself, struggling to hide her hunger and thirst.

"I slept fine, thank you," she said icily, but he caught her eyes flick again toward the basket, and he winked. Bat El cursed herself and felt her cheeks flush.

"You must be hungry," Beelzebub said. "I know I am. I have some omelets. I made them myself, with cheese and mushrooms and green peppers. And trust me, after twenty-seven years of war, it's tough to find cheese, mushrooms, and green peppers. I thought we might have a picnic on the beach."

Bat El stared at the wall. Why does he want my friendship? Why is he so pleasant this morning? Whatever he wants from me, I won't give it to him. "I'm more than content to eat here," she said, "and mushrooms or peppers won't be necessary. I am on Earth for duty, not pleasure. Toast and water would suffice."

"There will be no toast and no water in this fort. Come with me to the beach. I insist. If you agree, I'll let you have a bath later. You must be wanting a good bath, at least."

Bat El pursed her lips. A bath would be as heavenly as coffee; the demon blood and ash still coated her skin, and her hair had never been so dirty. She knew she had come to Earth for war, and had been prepared for it, but temptation was hard to resist. She looked out the window to the beach, and a longing filled her to let the sand touch her toes, the wind touch her cheeks, to escape from this fort which had become her prison.

She walked to the window. "Let's go," she said, placing a foot on the windowsill. I'll humor him today, she thought. I'll go with him to the beach. The real reason she kept to herself. Out there, at the beach, no demons flew in vigil.

There, outside the fort, Bat El could escape.

* * * * *

Standing in the chamber with his picnic basket, Beelzebub took Bat El's hand. She tried to pull her hand back, but he held her fast, and she finally capitulated and let him hold her hand, even squeezed back. She likes that I took her hand, he thought, surprised at how good her skin felt. Zarel's hand felt like scales and fire; Bat El's was soft and warm.

They leapt out the window and spread their wings, holding hands. Bat El's wings were like a swan's, wide and white, brilliant. His wings were leathery, black, bat wings. They flew down to the beach and landed in fluffy sand. Beelzebub let go of Bat El's hand and let her take two steps away from him. The wind blew her hair back from her face, and she stared at him with a mixture of uncertainty, hatred, and hunger. She still wants that picnic.

"Before you try to escape," he said, "let's have our picnic. I can see you're hungry."

"I'm not planning to escape you," she said, and Beelzebub knew she was lying. After millennia in Hell, he could always tell a lie.

He removed his armor and placed it in the sand, remaining in his tunic. Bat El still wore her night gown—a flowing piece of white cotton—and no armor. He removed the blanket from the basket and placed it on the sand, then set out eggs, breads, a jar of jam, and fruit salad. He poured mugs of coffee, and they sat down to eat, the sand soft, the waves whispering. Beads of light danced on the turquoise sea.

"Ah, a romantic picnic!" he said. "What a lovely first date for us."

Bat El wiped egg off her mouth. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm here for the food, not the company."

"Oh, sure. Play hard to get. It only encourages me, baby."

Bat El sighed and sipped her coffee. Gradually color was returning to her cheeks, and she even struggled at passing her fingers through her hair, untangling it. "You're not a typical overlord of Hell, are you? I never knew the devil could make a decent cup of coffee."

"Oh, the devil makes the best coffee. Now I'm thinking that instead of omelets, I should have made deviled eggs."

"Leave the puns to the angels. You stick to cooking."

"Fair enough." He sipped his own coffee. "So tell me, Bat El, what are you doing here? You're Gabriel's daughter. You had a cozy job up in Heaven and more nepotism than anybody but Jesus. Why come down to this hell hole?"

She spread jam on her bread. "To fight the likes of you."

"Ouch. Now I'm insulted. I'm thinking I won't let you have any dessert."

She stared at the waves, bread in hand. "Lucifer was nothing like you. I never heard of Lucifer making anybody breakfast. You're more like... well, you remind me of your brother, almost. You do look like him."

"Aside from the swan wings, the halo, and the godlight, you mean." He leaned over and punched her arm. "Come on, Bat El. You don't think I'm all that bad. Admit it."

"Maybe," she said, not looking at him. "When you're not locking me up in a dungeon full of demons."

"Hey, I'll take a 'maybe'. That's more than I'd get from most angels." He lowered his voice. "And you're not like most angels, no more than I'm like most demons."

Finally she looked at him. She bit into her bread. "And how is that, oh mighty Beelzebub, great King of Hell? How am I unlike most angels?"

"You're good at heart."

"All angels are good. That's why we're not demons."

He nodded and bit his own bread. "That's what they teach you in Heaven. You must have been a good student."

"Straight A's, wouldn't you believe it?"

"Maybe I can teach you a few more things." He reached over to touch her hand. "Are you willing to learn? I can teach you a lot about both Hell and Heaven."

She leaned over with a smile, as if to kiss him. "Oh, I'm sure you can," she said... then punched him in the face.

He blinked, pain filling him, when her swan wings flapped, and she flew into the air.

With a curse, Beelzebub leapt up and flew after her, wings flapping. She flew fast, shooting into the clouds above the beach. He followed, eyes narrowed, face still tingling from her punch. Bat El flew like a bullet, clouds flurrying around her, but she was not fast enough. Not as fast as a five-thousand-year-old fallen angel who happened to be the ruler of Hell. He caught her leg among the clouds, and she kicked, but he would not let go.

She screamed and struggled, punching him. He pulled her toward him, wrapping his arms around her. She fought against him, and he refused to let go. He folded his wings against him, and dived down with her in his arms, falling through clouds until they crashed into the sea.

The waves flowed over them, and for a moment they held their breath underwater. Then their heads burst onto the surface, and they took deep breaths.

"Leave me alone!" Bat El said, but Beelzebub refused to let go until she ceased struggling, going limp in his arms. "Damn you," she whispered, tears in her eyes, and let her head fall against his shoulder. The water rose to their necks.

He looked at her, still in his arms, and his grip turned into an embrace. At a whim, he touched her hair, then kissed her forehead as she cried, and without knowing how it happened, he found himself kissing her. She kissed him back, deeply, her hands in his hair, his hands around her waist. For long moments they kissed in the water, the sun twinkling around them, rising and falling in the waves. Her lips tasted like strawberry jam, the softest lips he could remember kissing, and Beelzebub had kissed many girls in his long life.

For a moment thoughts left Beelzebub's mind, and he could not feel the cold water, or the sunlight in his eyes, or smell the salt. All he could feel was Bat El's body pressed against his, supple and soft, and all he could smell was her hair; it smelled like flowers despite the war, fire, and seawater she had been through. God, that feels good. She trembled against him—from fear or excitement, he did not know—and he stroked her hair. He knew without having to be told that this was her first kiss.

If Zarel finds out, she'll kill the angel and try to kill me too, he thought. He banished her from his mind. To hell with that. All he cared about now was Bat El, her scented hair, her arms around him, her body pressed against him.

"I shouldn't have done that," Bat El whispered, but she leaned her head against his shoulder and kept her arms around him. "You... you used to be my sister's lover. It's wrong."

"Horribly wrong," he whispered, and kissed her again, and kissed her until they trembled in the cold water and their fingertips wrinkled up. They swam to the beach, walked along the sand, and were silent for long moments.

Michael might have won one sister to his side, Beelzebub thought as he kissed Bat El in the sand, reaching under her tunic to feel her skin raise goose bumps under his fingers. But I have won the other.

* * * * *

Laila stood in the burned battlefields of Caesarea, head lowered, her cloak wrapped around her. Strands of her black hair peeked from her hood, fluttering in the cold wind. Ash roiled in the skies above her, black and red, and swirled around her boots. Smashed columns and walls littered the landscape, scattered fires burning between them, and the bones of demons and angels peeked from the ruins.

Volkfair stood beside her, and Laila put her hand on his back, running her claws gently through his fur. Patting her wolf could always soothe her, ease the pain that forever burned through her veins. Since the hive collapsed above her, her bruises and cuts had healed, but fire still burned in her, the pain of her angel and demon blood warring, sizzling. My body is healed, but there can be no healing for this torn heart.

The wind was cold, and she wrapped her wings around her. She looked at the sky and saw vultures circling below the burning ash, occasionally swooping down to pick at a demon body. The battle for Caesarea had ended, and Heaven had claimed the city, but her war was far from over, Laila knew. Her Uzi hung over her back, a familiar weight. I won't rest until Hell is mine. That's the only way I can find a home, find a place to belong, find some peace, some end to pain. She caressed the grenades that hung on her belt. I ran from you last time, Beelzebub, but we'll meet again soon.

"Laila," came a voice behind her, and she turned to see Michael walking toward her, dust coating his sandaled feet. He stared at her, eyes hard. More dust filled those angelic curls of his.

"Hello, Michael," she said softly, staring at him from within her hood.

"I hear you are healed, that you've been flying, hunting, running with your wolf." He stood before her among the ruins, ash on his cheeks. "I'm glad you're getting stronger. If you are fully healed, I have more work for you."

She glared at him. He could always kindle the anger within her. "I work for no one. Remember, angel?" Volkfair growled by her.

Michael put a hand on her shoulder. She tried to shrug him off, but he kept his hand there. "You have rested here long enough, Laila," he said. "There are more enemies for you to fight. Angor was just the beginning." He turned to walk away, still talking, not turning to see if she followed. "We're heading north. We have a fortress to recapture."

Laila shook her head. "Forget the fort. Beelzebub won't let you have it." She smiled crookedly and pulled back her hood, her halo bursting into flame. "You want the fort back? You want Bat El? We'll grab his church, and we'll grab his wife. Then we make a swap. Come, Michael. We go to Jerusalem."

* * * * *

Beelzebub lay in bed, unable to sleep. No matter how much he tossed and turned, he was uncomfortable. His blanket was hot, yet whenever he kicked it off, he felt cold and pulled it back on, only to feel hot again. Memories of Bat El kept floating through his mind—the way her wet body had pressed against him, the taste of her kiss, the blue of her eyes. How could one sleep this way? Finally Beelzebub stepped out of bed and lit a candle.

In the flickering light, he surveyed the chamber he had chosen for his bedroom in this fort. It must have been Michael's bedroom once; the bed was wider than a simple soldier's cot, and a heavy desk stood in the corner, topped with bristly papers and pens. His brother never lived anywhere without a desk, Beelzebub knew.

No paintings hung on the walls. No photos stood in frames on the bedside table. Beelzebub sighed, suddenly feeling sorry for his older brother. Michael lived for this war, nothing more; he never got married, never raised a family.

Why not? Beelzebub wondered. In the old days, Michael had known his share of women, Beelzebub remembered—both angel and human. In the old days, before the rebellion, they used to sneak down to Earth, Michael and him, Gabriel too, and make love to mortal women. When had his brother become so austere, so... dedicated?

At the thought of women and lovemaking, Beelzebub found his blood heating, and the image of Bat El filled his mind. At the memory of her soft lips on his, her wet body in his hands, his pulse quickened. He sighed. I'll get no sleep if she doesn't leave my mind.

Beelzebub left his chamber, carrying the candle, and wandered through the fort. A thousand years old this fort was, crumbling and dank. The angels had tried to reconstruct as much of the ruin as possible, but they could not hide the age and decay of this place. Knights had built this fort during the Crusades, a foothold in the Holy Land; what would they say now, if they saw the devil wandering its halls? The thought tickled him.

Should he visit Bat El's chamber? Would she welcome him? She had been quiet on the walk home from the beach, and had refused to look at him, as if embarrassed that she had kissed him, that she had allowed him to touch her. When she did meet his eyes, just briefly as she stepped back into her chamber, they had said, I made a mistake.

Still, Beelzebub found that his feet led him past the fort's chambers, across its hall, and toward the tower where Bat El slept. She still hated him, he knew. She would still escape in a heartbeat if given the chance. But a part of her is mine, and will remain mine. Beelzebub had known enough women to recognize the first glimmers of love. Laila, Bat El's younger sister, had been the same.

Without meaning to, Beelzebub found himself walking up the tower toward Bat El's chamber. If he could kiss those lips once more... lie in bed with her, teach her all the mysteries of love making.... To lie with Bat El in bed would make Earth almost bearable, he thought. He would sleep like a baby, if he could sleep beside her. It had been many years since a girl stirred his blood like Bat El. There's just something irresistible about taking this innocent, virginal angel and showing her all the pleasures of Hell.

A smile spreading across his face, Beelzebub reached Bat El's door, unlocked it, and stepped in.

Once inside, his smile vanished.

The window was open. The chamber was empty.

Chapter Nine

"How do you even know Zarel is still at the church?" Michael asked Laila as they flew toward Jerusalem, thousands of angels flapping wings behind them. "She could have joined Beelzebub in the fort."

Laila smiled as they flew over dunes, burned hills, and ruined towns. The Holy Land was small; she could see half the country from here under the clouds, from Caesarea behind to the hills of Jerusalem ahead. Such a small land, she thought, yet for thousands of years humans fought over it, and now we creatures of Heaven and Hell destroyed the planet in our own war to claim it.

"I saw the Demon Queen," Laila responded. Her bat wings made deep, thudding sounds while Michael's swan wings sounded like grace and light. "She's not Beelzebub's type. He'll have left her behind to guard his church."

"That's conjecture," Michael said, his spear and armor glinting in the dawn. "Not knowledge."

"I know," Laila said, snarling. "I know Beelzebub like few others do. I almost married him, remember?"

She looked behind her at their troops. All of Heavenfire flew there, Heaven's fabled Fifth Division, bearing banners of flames on white fields. They flew in two brigades—Orion and Barracuda, five thousand angels each. Heavenfire was an old division, Laila knew, formed thousands of years ago, trained for nothing more than killing demons. Here were Heaven's elite troops.

Back in Caesarea, they had left Heaven's Sixth and Seventh Divisions to keep the city. Would it be enough? Laila wondered. Between the fort, Caesarea, their trenches in Jerusalem, and their other towns across the Holy Land, Heaven was spreading its forces thin. Most angels had perished during the past twenty-seven years of war, and angels were born far fewer, and grew far slower, than demons. We'll have to defeat Hell soon.

As they flew, Jerusalem growing larger ahead, Laila thought of Bat El. They had not heard from the young angel since Beelzebub took the fort, but Laila doubted that Beelzebub would harm such a lofty bargaining chip. Bat El was Gabriel's daughter, worth far more alive than dead.

That, and, well.... If Zarel was not Beelzebub's type, Bat El was everything he loved in a woman, Laila knew. The angel was young, frightened, inexperienced, and not hard on the eyes. Like myself when I first met Beelzebub. The fallen angel loved the role of the mentor, the father figure, the wise and handsome ruler who could provide protection and knowledge. He had seduced Laila with his little game; at seventeen, confused and frightened, she had fallen for it. Bat El—callow, scared, in peril—might find the same comfort in Beelzebub's arms.

Lucifer was mean and frightening, Laila thought. Beelzebub is charming and sweet—a far better devil.

Laila did not know what disgusted her more; the thought of her former lover with another woman, or the idea of her innocent, angelic sister in bed with the devil. Neither was a pretty concept, and Laila tightened her lips and fists, forcing herself to think only of the battle ahead. That was what mattered now, only this war, and certainly not whatever love still lingered within her for Beelzebub. Think only of claiming Hell's throne, Laila, she told herself. That is your destiny now. Hell will be your home, and you'll never more have to run or hide. Beelzebub is no longer your lover, Laila. He is an enemy, and regardless of how you might still feel for him, you will have to kill him.

"You think you're strong enough to capture Zarel?" Michael asked, and for once, true concern filled his eyes. Laila hated when she saw love and pity in him; she found the stern, cynical Michael moderately less grating.

"Maybe not," she confessed, wings churning wisps of cloud. "But she's the only demon we could swap for Bat El. And as annoying, sanctimonious, and prissy as my sister might be, I kind of, well... love the girl." She growled at Michael. "Don't tell her I said that."

Michael smiled thinly. "Not a word."

Jerusalem was below them, pale in the morning light. The ruins spread across the hills, a hodgepodge of tumbled stones, rusty cars, skeletons, columns of fire, and endless weeds. Laila descried Beelzebub's church atop a hill, swarming with demons. The streets around the church rustled with more shades.

"You attack from above," she said to Michael. "Take Barracuda Brigade and drop on the church from the sky. I'll lead Orion from the streets."

Michael shook his head. "We shouldn't split up. The plan was we all descend from above. Together."

"I'm changing the plan," Laila said. "We attack from two fronts." She slammed a magazine into her Uzi. "We'll confuse them a little. Meet you in the church. Last one there is a rotten demon egg."

Michael sighed and issued a few commands, and soon the force of angels split in half. Michael led Barracuda's five thousand angels toward the church, to drop from the skies onto the demons. It would be a hard battle for Barracuda, she knew; thousands of demons fluttered over the church, waiting for them. Yet Laila knew that her own brigade faced a tougher battle; they would have to duke it out in the streets, an uphill battle toward the church.

Uzi in hand, she led Orion—another five thousand angels—toward the Jewish Quarter. They landed in a large cobbled square. This was still Heaven's neighborhood, but just ahead, behind the Mount of Olives and the Temple Mount, lay the dominion of Hell. There rose Hell's church where Zarel waited.

"We proceed on foot," she said to the angels. She folded her wings against her back and checked her arsenal: her trusty Uzi, loaded with a full magazine; seven more magazines strapped across her chest; six grenades on her belt; her claws and fangs. Would it be enough? Remembering the last duel with Zarel, Laila regretted not having brought a Hydrogen bomb or two; perhaps that was the only weapon that would break Zarel's scales.

Last time we fought, I gave her a bloody lip, Laila told herself. She's not invincible She can be harmed. Laila preferred to forget that just that bloody lip took several magazines and grenades. She wished Volkfair were with her. She missed him. Remembering how Volkfair was wounded in the last duel with Zarel, Laila had left the wolf behind, though it tore at her heart. She hated being apart from her best friend. It must be how Nathaniel feels without his wings.

The wingless angel, as if summoned by her thoughts, stepped toward her. The dour lieutenant, commander of one of Orion's platoons, stared at her with his good eye. A patch covered his other eye, and stubble covered his face.

"When you face the Demon Queen," he said, voice gruff, "I go with you. We capture her together."

Laila spat. "To hell with that, man. The bitch is mine. Besides, she'd kill you where you stand."

Nathaniel refused to remove his stare from her; there were few angels so foolhardy. "Kill me where I stand? I'm not so sure. I faced the Demon Queen before. How do you think I lost my eye and wings?" The tall angel smiled. Laila had never seen him smile before. "When we see her today, look to her left thigh. You'll see a missing scale where my spear cut her." Nathaniel opened his palm and brought it close to Laila. Inside was a small red scale.

Laila stared at it in silence for a moment, then back at Nathaniel's face. "Right. You come with me."

With that, the force began to move through the city. Laila walked ahead, Nathaniel at her side. Five thousand angels followed with armor, swords, and spears. War. Laila bared her fangs and her halo burst into flame, crackling.

They moved through the cracked roads and alleys, the ruins around them, weedy and tumbled, some covered with demon prints. A few of the ruins sported boarded windows; homes to human survivors. Gradually they saw more and more demon prints, and Laila eyed the ashy sky. The sun was hidden, and any moment, she knew, Beelzebub's troops would emerge. She remembered walking these streets only weeks ago, seeking Beelzebub, seeking the truth about her father.

Lucifer. I am the devil's daughter. A princess of Hell. Laila tightened her lips, fingers tingling. The discovery of her parentage still made her shiver, but she snarled, refusing to let horror overcome her. Think only of the battle, Laila. Think only of Hell—it will be your home, a place where you can finally belong.

At the outskirts of Hell's neighborhood, Laila paused and issued a few commands to Orion's officers, halving the brigade. She sent two of its battalions to climb the hill from the east, under the dawn. Laila kept the remaining two battalions—over two thousand angels—to climb the hill through the shady western streets. She kept The Wrecking Balls at the vanguard; Nathaniel's platoon. They were fifty burly, scarred angels with dented armor and spears that had shed much demon blood. Nathaniel had done a good job with The Wrecking Balls, Laila thought. They were all older, battle-hardened angels who loved killing like they loved drinking and whoring.

She led her troops up narrow streets, moving toward the church. When they stepped around a toppled bridge, a dozen demons appeared atop rusty, broken cars. The shades' eyes lit up, they flapped their wings, and began to shriek.

Laila fired her Uzi, taking out three demons. The angels shot godlight from their spears, burning through the other demons, crashing their bodies to the ground. For a moment the world was silent; then a thousand more shades emerged from rooftops and sewers, swooping toward Laila. Ahead in the sky, she could see Barracuda Brigade descending toward the church, crashing against thousands of flying demons.

Laila struggled to push her way through, clawing at demons, shoving them aside. At her sides, The Wrecking Balls fought with spears, cursing and smirking as they killed demons. Through the flying blood, Laila narrowed her eyes and stared ahead. The church rose several blocks away, ten thousand demons guarding it. But at least Beelzebub is gone with half his force. If we're going to reach this church, today is the day.

Laila decided to save her bullets for Zarel and fought with claw and fang. The demons seemed endless, and time passed in a blur of demon fangs, blasts of godlight, and the thudding of wings. They fought for hours, Laila and her angels taking the streets brick by brick. By evening they had claimed two blocks, three by nightfall.

Laila toyed with the idea of hunkering down for the night, but dismissed it. I won't let Michael enter the church before me. Zarel is mine. She could see Michael's troops still battling demons in the sky. Barracuda was half its size now, as was Hell's force. Every moment, a demon or angel body fell from the sky and thudded against the ruins. Demons grew more brazen in darkness, but Laila did not care. I take the church tonight.

"We keep going!" she shouted to her troops, hoarse. The Wrecking Balls had lost most of their men; only Nathaniel and twelve others remained. Laila sent them back and pulled fresher platoons up to the vanguard. Nathaniel refused to retreat but remained by her, fighting with his spear. Cuts covered him, yet still he fought, killing demon after demon. He wants Zarel even more than I do, Laila knew.

She wished she could kill Zarel today. Merely capturing the Demon Queen, and swapping her for Bat El, would be hard to do. Damn you, Bat El, Laila thought. I should let you rot in whatever prison Hell put you in. Laila grew up apart from her half-sister. While Bat El grew up in Heaven, pampered and protected, Laila grew up in forests and deserts, running from Heaven and Hell, hurting and hunted. The sisters had rarely met growing up, but some memories still remained. In some of her darkest hours, Laila conjured old memories of the years before she turned six, when she still lived with angels on Earth, before she escaped into the countryside. Bat El would visit sometimes then, descending from Heaven with gifts for Laila, dolls and teddy bears which Laila never played with. While Laila hated those toys, she loved Bat El's visits. Her older sister always knew how to comfort Laila when she cried bloody tears. The angel, already a young woman in those years, would rock the demonic child, kissing her forehead with soft lips. Everyone else feared or pitied Laila. To Bat El, she was just a younger sister—different, yes, but family. Loved.

She might have met Bat El only several times in her life, but blood was blood, Laila knew. Bat El was perhaps the only being in Heaven, Hell, or Earth who truly, fully loved her, even more than Beelzebub ever did. She was perhaps the only soul Laila herself loved.

Damn you, Bat El, she thought again, fighting on those sloping streets outside Zarel's church. I hope you appreciate what I'm doing for you.

It took hours to reach the church. Weariness slowed Laila like shackles by then, and she cursed. I need my strength to face Zarel, damn it. Thousands of angel and demon bodies surrounded the church; their spirits would travel to Heaven and Hell, become godlight and hellfire, and never more war upon the earth. Most of Orion Brigade had died on the streets, splashing the cobblestones with blood. About two thousand angels remained around Laila. Barracuda had fared scarcely better; two thousand of them remained too. Michael stood atop the church roof, killing the last few demons, bloodied angels surrounding him.

Beelzebub will be on his way here with reinforcement, Laila knew. She flapped her wings, flew onto the belfry tower, and growled.

"Zarel's inside," she called to Michael.

The archangel stood on the roofs by her. He nodded, speared a last demon, and moved toward the shattered church windows. "Ready?" he asked.

Laila reloaded her Uzi and her halo of fire crackled. She nodded. "Let's crash this party."

* * * * *

Beelzebub stood in Bat El's tower chamber, staring around, candle in hand.

When he'd arrived just a moment ago, the door had still been locked. A hundred demons still circled outside the window. And yet the chamber was empty. Bat El had escaped.

Beelzebub placed the candle down on the dresser, thinking, forcing himself to calm his nerves. No need to get mad. No need to freak out. Think. Where could she have gone?

He explored the walls, the floor, the ceiling, searching for trap doors, but the bricks seemed solid. An iciness flowed through him, a disappointment that she had left him after that morning at the beach. He had kissed her, whispered loving whispers into her ears, and she had left him.

He snorted. Come on, Beelzebub, you're no schoolboy in love. Of course she would escape if she could. She's still Gabriel's daughter, and you're still the lord of Hell. And yet it rankled. How could she have slipped from his grasp so easily? Beelzebub sat down on her bed. Lumpy mattress, he thought. Maybe she just escaped because her bed was uncomfortable.

He stood up, walked to the window, and leapt out, spreading his wings. The demons outside saw the wrath in his eyes and cowered. He would kill many of these demons tonight. I will find answers.

* * * * *

When Beelzebub sat on her, Bat El bit her lip not to cry out. The fallen angel nearly crushed her bones, and it was all she could do to stay silent. Blessedly, Beelzebub soon stood up and leapt out the window.

Bat El let out a shaky breath. It was hot here inside the mattress, stuffy and sticky, with barely any air. Bat El pushed open the tear she had made on the side of the mattress and peeked. The room was empty. Outside, she could hear Beelzebub questioning the demons, voice raised. One demon screamed in pain.

Hurriedly, Bat El pushed herself out from the mattress and stood up in the room. She pressed herself against the wall by the window, so that Beelzebub could not see her from outside. As Beelzebub interrogated and killed the shades, Bat El inched along the wall toward the door. She reached to the door knob and opened it. Unlocked.

Dressed in her tunic—Beelzebub had taken her armor and sword—Bat El raced down the tower stairs, heart pounding. She had to do this carefully. Thousands of demons still swarmed through this fort, and thousands more fluttered outside. For a moment, Bat El cursed herself, sure that she had taken on a suicide mission. The demons will kill me now. This is insane. And yet Bat El could not bear to remain in this fort, with Beelzebub, with the fallen angel who sent tremors through her. She had come to Earth to fight for God, to fight for Heaven's light and truth; she would not let her soul be possessed by the devil, no matter how tempting and sweet his lips seemed.

As she raced downstairs, Bat El hated the sadness that filled her at the thought of leaving Beelzebub.

I'll have to be quick, she thought when she reached the bottom of the tower. There would be no sneakiness, no crawling through tunnels, no hiding in shadows. She'd have to rely on surprise and sheer strength, burst into the hall, and crash outside. Bat El took a deep breath, grabbed a torch from the wall, and kicked open the door into the fort's main hall.

Hundreds of demons filled the place, playing dice and cards, drinking from mugs of beer, feeding on meaty bones. At the door opening, they spun around and stared, maws hissing, smoke leaving their nostrils.

Bat El did not waste a second. She spread her wings open with a thud and leapt into the air, screaming. She flew above the demons, waving her torch, keeping them at bay. Their claws scratched her arms and legs, and she screamed and kept flying. She crashed through the window and flew into the night.

I made it out of the fort! she thought, joy filling her. Then a thousand demon eyes burned ahead of her, and Bat El shot into the sky, flying up, streaked in light, a pillar of white. "Stand back, in the name of God!" she shouted, a thousand demons beneath her, grabbing at her feet. Like a rocket, she flew into the sky, toward the stars, armies of Hell surrounding her.

I am Gabriel's daughter. An archangel. I have strength in me.

She swirled around a cloud, somersaulting, then swooped down, swan wings pulled close together, a comet streaming with godlight. Demons swarmed behind her, hissing. She shot up just before hitting the ground. At two hundred miles an hour she flew, leaving the fort behind, countless demons in pursuit. She headed toward the forests in the north, the Carmel woods where thousands of years ago prophets would wander.

Her strength was waning. She was hurt, maybe badly, was losing blood. She'd need rest soon, food and drink and healing. She flew toward the trees and crashed between them, leaves and branches snagging her, tearing her clothes. Thousands of demons followed, crashing into the canopy around her, tearing down trunks.

Bat El ran between the trees, leaping over boulders and thistles. She could see nothing in the darkness. Sap covered her, thorns scratched her, and ivy wrapped around her feet. The hissing of demons rose around her.

"Bat El!" she heard Beelzebub's voice behind. "Please, Bat El, you're hurt. Let me take care of you. I won't harm you."

Bat El kept running through the dark forest, until she found a shallow stream, and there—behind bushes and two boulders—a burrow. Some animal must have lived here once, maybe a boar or jackal. Bat El pushed herself into the damp, earthy burrow and pulled vines over its entrance, hiding.

She sat in the darkness, knees pulled up to her chin, arms wrapped around her legs. Her entire body shivered and hurt, and tears filled her eyes. As the hissing of demons streamed through the forest, Bat El bit her lip, trembling and praying.

Chapter Ten

Standing atop the church belfry between two gargoyles, Laila surveyed what remained of Heavenfire, God's ancient and legendary Fifth Division. She saw several thousand angels, beaten and bloody, armor dented and wounds bandaged. They covered the church roof and courtyard. In the surrounding streets, Laila saw thousands of angel bodies upon the cobblestones. As the ashy sky grumbled, Laila knew that the greatest challenge lay inside the church. Zarel. Demon Queen of Hell. Here waited an evil greater than ten thousand shades.

"Nathaniel!" she called out. "The Wrecking Balls enter with me through the clerestory." She turned to face several other platoons. "Spear. Falcon. You enter the main gates. You, Blade, enter the back doors. The rest of you wait out here. If any demons try to escape, kill them." The angels nodded, grim, faces bruised and ashy.

"I'll enter the main gate with you, Falcon and Spear," Michael said. The archangel stood upon the church roof between more gargoyles, swan wings spread wide, halo glowing bright even under the fiery sky. Demon blood dripped down his lance and splashed his old Roman armor. He stared at Laila. "If she tries to escape through the clerestory, she'll meet you. If it's the main doors she chooses, it'll be my lance."

Laila nodded, though she had the feeling that Zarel would rather fight than flee. The archdemon, she knew, might just be strong enough to face both Laila and Michael and win. As for the thousands of angel troops, well.... Those will annoy her no more than fleas annoy a dog.

Dawn was starting to rise, tickling the east with pink feathers. Laila shut her eyes. Last time I was here, I escaped through these shattered windows, but I'm back now, Zarel, and I brought some company. I'm going to take Hell from you and your husband. I am Laila, of the night, Lucifer's daughter. I am fallen. I rise again. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes, tears just stinging at their corners. Hell is mine. I'm going to make a home for myself there, and nothing can stop me.

With a flap of her wings, she leapt through the clerestory windows into Hell's church.

She landed on the floor in darkness. The torches had been extinguished, and no demon eyes lit the shadows, nor did Laila hear demon hissing. As the angels joined her, filling the nave, Laila narrowed her eyes and raised her Uzi. Could Zarel have abandoned her post?

Then, with a crackle of flame, the altar shattered and Zarel emerged from within it. The Demon Queen shot up like a rocket, wreathed in fire, and broke through the roof, flying into the clouds.

Laila understood.

Damn.

"A trap!" she shouted. "Get out, get out!"

Without waiting an instant more, Laila shot out the roof after Zarel, wings flapping. From below, the blast hit her, tossing Laila into a spin. The shock-wave took the air out of her lungs, like a thud from Angor's wings. Stones and smoke buffeted her and flames licked her.

She glanced over her shoulder. It was as she thought. The she-devil wired up the entire church. It looked like Zarel had planted several tons of explosives. Laila could barely see through the stinging smoke and dust, but it seemed like the explosion had leveled the church and the streets surrounding it. Laila returned her gaze above, flapping her wings, flying up. Where was Zarel? Laila could see only smoke, and she narrowed her tearing eyes.

There. She glimpsed a trail of fire—Zarel's wake. Laila snarled and flew in pursuit. You won't escape me.

The fiery trail led to the west, and soon Laila emerged from the smoke and saw Zarel. The Demon Queen flapped her bat wings, a fireball, scales glinting. She was heading toward Beelzebub and his garrison at the fort, Laila knew, cursing. If she reached that fort, she'd be untouchable.

Where was Michael? Laila glanced behind her, seeing only a cloud of smoke and dust. No angels followed. Had any escaped the church in time? Laila cursed again. She had planned on facing Zarel with Michael and a few thousand troops watching her back. Now she was alone again.

Laila tightened her lips, fighting down the anguish and fear that filled her stomach like ice. If Michael's died on me, I'm going to kill him. She cursed the fear that refused to leave her, quickening her heartbeat and making her fingers tremble. She'd have to face Zarel herself.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?" she cried out to Zarel. "Scared to face me without your hubby?"

Zarel spun around in the sky, her great wings churning the clouds. She hissed, eyes aflame, hair crackling. "Well, well, my dear," the Demon Queen called back. "Were the cuts I gave your shoulder not enough? Do you want some more?"

Laila flew toward the sun, then swooped down with the sunrays at her back, to blind the demon. "Zarel," she said, claws outstretched, "I beat the brains out of your dad last week. He whined like a baby. I bet you're going to sound just the same."

Zarel snarled and charged too. In the fiery clouds, the Demon Queen and half-angel clashed.

* * * * *

Beelzebub wandered the forest, sandals crunching fallen pine needles. Dawn had risen, painting the old pines grayish green, sending ruby tendrils across the sky. No demons surrounded him; he had sent them back to the fort. They would be no more help here. He would find Bat El himself.

Beelzebub enjoyed walking through this forest, smelling the pines and sap. It amused him that trees should still grow in this land. Few trees had ever grown in the hot, sandy Holy Land, and most of those few had burned in Armageddon. More trees had survived than humans, he thought, wandering between the pines, tickled by the notion. Audacious bastards, these pines. Haven't they heard that Armageddon was supposed to destroy the world?

When he crested a hill, Beelzebub saw valleys where indeed trees stood burned and blackened, but between them younger trees were growing. The planet was recovering from the first waves of Hell's war, but things wouldn't last long, Beelzebub knew. With Laila back and serving Heaven, the war flared with escalated brilliance. All those trees, birds, and bugs that thrived in the lull after the initial flame would soon meet the returning fire.

Beelzebub sighed. "My dear Laila, look what you set in motion. Couldn't you have just stayed in exile?" The girl's return had started a chain reaction; Beelzebub could not predict its end, but he doubted it would be pretty. Sooner or later he would have to kill her, and damn all those kisses he had once given her.

The rising sun revealed acorns strewn among the pebbles, cyclamens growing between mossy rocks, and mushrooms that clung to gnarly tree trucks. Birds fled as Beelzebub walked through the forest, as if they knew that here walked the lord of Hell. Beelzebub sighed. Why did the birds hate him? He liked birds. Even they had heard his reputation, it seemed.

In the morning light, Beelzebub soon located Bat El's trail. A piece of her torn gown hung on a branch, and her footprints covered the moist earth. She was wounded; Beelzebub saw specks of angel blood on leaves and branches. He shook his head. Why did the angel flee? Did she truly think she could escape? She was young, brazen and foolish. Innocent. You almost got yourself killed, Bat El. He felt sorry for her. The little thing must be frightened here in the forest, hurt, bleeding. His pity only lasted a moment, though, replaced with disappointment. He could not tolerate these repeated attempts to escape him.

For an hour, he tracked her through the forest, until he reached a thin stream. A curtain of vines seemed to hide a burrow there, and Beelzebub saw specks of blood coat the leaves between angel footprints. He smiled slightly. Brave the girl might be, but not the best woodswoman. Not wanting to startle her, he found a mossy boulder and sat down, making a point of ignoring the burrow. The breeze rustled the trees, and the birds still chirped. No sound came from the burrow.

Beelzebub relaxed and began to whistle, a tune he would sing with Michael, Lucifer, and the others in the old days. They would wander around these hills sometimes, he remembered, thousands of years ago, long before the rebellion. Raphael, now the great healer, had always known where to find good wine, and Gabriel had always known which villages held the prettiest, most willing girls. It was on these hills, Beelzebub remembered, that he knew his first human girl. He could no longer remember her name, but she was slim and short, with long brown hair, mocking eyes, and clothes that fell off whenever he was around. It wasn't far from here. But it was such a different time.

Beelzebub remembered the first time he touched the human girl, kissed her, not really knowing what he was doing, but liking it. Oh, man, God was so pissed, Beelzebub remembered. He and his fellow angels had made more than a few Nephilim, monstrous spawn born half angel, half human, giants who terrorized the hillsides. But God, Heaven was boring, Beelzebub thought. Who wanted harps and prayer, when you could go down to Earth and know saucy little brunettes with a wicked side that could put demons to shame? Gabriel, Michael, Raphael... those three had grown up, of course, straightened out, took on high positions in Heaven. But he and Lucifer, the two scoundrels, the wildest members of their little gang, well, they would not bow the knee to God. Beelzebub laughed softly. Not even as their Nephilim spawn wandered around the hills, destroying villages, would they straighten out. No. He and Lucifer just kept drinking, knocking up human girls, and infuriating the powers that be.

Sitting on this mossy boulder, Beelzebub lowered his head. He missed Lucifer sometimes, but he kept telling himself that the old Lucifer, his best friend, the angel who rebelled against God with him, was very different from the Lucifer who became ruler of Hell. The Lucifer who refused to acknowledge Laila. The Lucifer who, when he learned of Beelzebub's love for Laila, had thrown a fit and tossed his wine horn at Beelzebub.

Lucifer changed. Beelzebub closed his eyes. I had to kill him. I had no choice. He might have killed Laila otherwise, and maybe me too. The tempers he would have in his later years.... Beelzebub sighed. Why did things have to change? Michael, his older brother, was his enemy now. Lucifer was dead. Gabriel, once their partner in crime, now governed Heaven while Raphael wandered around healing people and preaching. It seems like only I stayed the same, Beelzebub thought. Then again, he could not believe that thought; he too had changed, had grown from a wild youth to becomes a prince of Hell, then finally a great king. If you lived long enough, he thought, everything changed. That life evolved, ever changing, could be the greatest curse for an immortal.

Is that why you like Bat El so much? he asked himself. Does the little thing alleviate the loneliness, the unbearable ancient memories?

"It's beautiful here, isn't it?" he spoke to the burrow. Bat El did not respond, and Beelzebub took a deep breath. "Why don't you come out and sit beside me? We can enjoy the fresh air together."

For a long time, the burrow was silent, so long that Beelzebub worried that Bat El wasn't in there after all, or maybe she had crawled in to die. Finally, however, her voice broke the silence.

"It's only a matter of time, Beelzebub. With Laila's help, your brother is going to win this war, and he will kill you."

"Oh, I seriously doubt both those things, Bat El. Now please, come out of there. You're hurt and you must be thirsty and hungry. Don't make me come in there to get you."

"I'm not going back to that fort," she said from inside the burrow, suddenly sounding scared and younger than ever.

He nodded. "Deal. You come out, I won't force you to come back with me."

"You'll let me go?"

"At some point, yes, of course. First I'll see how the story with Laila unfolds, and once things come to light, of course I'll let you go. I won't keep you a prisoner forever. For now, we'll stay here in the forest. No demons. No locked doors. Just you and me, until you are healed, and until we figure out what to do with that sister of yours."

For a long moment the burrow was silent and still. Finally Bat El crept out. Dried leaves filled her hair, mud and blood caked her face and limbs, and thorns had torn her clothes. She was pale, and her halo gave but soft light.

"I may be the devil," he said to her, "but you, my dear, look like hell."

"Charming as always," she said.

"Let me take a look at you." He stepped toward her and placed his hands on her limbs, examining her cuts and bruises.

"Let go of me," she said and tried to push him aside, but he refused to let go.

"I'm just seeing how badly you're hurt, don't get all excited." The cuts covered her, some from demon claws, most from thorns. "You're going to be fine, but I want to take you to find some food and bandages."

She shook her head, dry leaves falling from her hair. "No deal. You promised we'd stay here. God's grace and light will heal me soon, and as for food, I'm not hungry."

Her knees wobbled, and she sat down by the stream on fallen leaves, boulders and cyclamens surrounding her. Beelzebub sat beside her, close enough so that she could lean against him. For a moment they sat in silence, and then Beelzebub put his arm around her, and she leaned her head against his shoulder.

"Strange place, this Earth, isn't it?" he said softly.

She nodded and closed her eyes. "I miss Heaven."

"Do you? Really? I hated Heaven when I was younger. I always snuck away to come down to Earth and raise some hell."

She smiled only slightly, a half smile soon gone. "Well, you've always been a hell-raiser. I'm a good angel girl. I like Heaven. Come on, Beelzebub. Could it have been that bad? Dressing up in white on Saturdays, having dinner around the table with the other angels, sipping wine, playing the harp, singing.... Even you couldn't find that too bad."

"It was dreadful," he said. "Heaven's wine is too sweet, and I'll take a rowdy bar song over harps any day." He smiled. "You should visit Hell sometime. If you like parties, you'll love Hell."

She picked dried leaves off her clothes, as if she could somehow make herself stately and neat again. "Oh, I heard all about Hell. Fire, demons, torture, pain. No thanks."

"Well, there is that part," Beelzebub confessed. "But there's also good, loud music, lots of drinking and singing, debauchery and craziness. No rules. No inhibitions. You'd like it."

"I seriously doubt that. Besides, the hellfire would burn this poor angel to a crisp. My kind is forbidden there."

Beelzebub feigned a sad sigh. "You and I, like the Capulets and the Montagues. A tragedy, really."

"Only Romeo and Juliet loved each other," she said, "and while you are clearly madly in love with me, I couldn't care less about you."

He blew her a kiss. "I always do like it when a girl plays hard to get."

She was about to respond, when he tensed and hushed her with a finger to her lips. She tried to protest, and he shushed her. Silent, he looked around, listening. There. He heard it again, could smell it. A slow smile crept across his lips, and he leapt up and crashed through the bushes.

"Stay here," he called to Bat El and leapt forward. He saw it there, a few paces ahead, rubbing against a tree: a young boar, two or three years old, nice and plump. When it saw Beelzebub, it tried to run, but if Beelzebub could chase Gabriel's daughter across the skies, a boar stood little chance. He caught the squealing creature and silenced it with a slice of his claws across its neck.

"I'm a vegetarian," Bat El said, watching as he carried the boar back.

"Say that after you smell my roast boar. You'll find it quite irresistible. And if you still don't like it, well, there would be plenty of vegetarian meals available back in my demon fort."

As he started to collect firewood, Bat El sighed. "You really do think highly of yourself. How must it be for you, to love Beelzebub so much?"

"Someday maybe you'll know," he replied and piled up fallen branches. He sent sparks from his fingertips, and soon a bonfire was crackling.

They had no knife, so Beelzebub carved the boar with his claws as Bat El looked away. They had no pot nor pan, so Beelzebub held the meat over the fire in his hands, letting the flames caress him as they cooked the meat. He would have suggested flying for supplies, but Bat El still seemed so unnerved, he didn't want to move her yet.

When the meat was ready, they ate in silence, watching the fire, and drank from the stream. Grease dripped down Bat El's chin, and she hardly seemed to notice, the flames reflecting in her blue eyes. Laila once lived in these forests, Beelzebub remembered, running wild among the trees. When he had found her here ten years ago, she had been like an animal, hair knotty and tangled, fangs always bared, twig-thin and feral.

"Nothing like good bacon for breakfast," he finally said, licking his lips.

Bat El washed her hands in the stream. "I can't believe I ate that. Poor boar."

"Poor Beelzebub," he countered. "I miss my fort already."

"It's not your fort. It belongs to Heaven."

"It belongs to the humans, actually, or did until we came to this planet."

Bat El leaned back and stared at the crackling flames. Dry leaves still filled her hair. "Crusaders built that fort, hence it has always belonged to Heaven."

"My darling, if you were truly so pure and godly, you'd wish to disassociate yourself from the Crusaders as much as possible. If anything, the bastards worked for us."

Bat El tossed a twig into the fire. She watched it burn. "You know, you'd be a lot sweeter if sometimes you'd just shut up. Everything's a big joke with you, isn't it?"

He looked at her over the flames. "Not everything."

She lowered her eyes, and he knew she was remembering their kiss, his hands on her, their lips and bodies pressed together. He knew he was thinking about it, and his blood suddenly felt hotter than hellfire.

Bat El fell onto her back in the fallen leaves. She pulled a couple acorns from under her, tossed them aside, and looked up at the canopy. "God, I wish I could stay here forever," she said. "Away from this war, from fighting, from duty...." She seemed to realize what she had said, her face turned pink, and she blew out her breath. "But of course that's impossible. We have responsibilities. We are leaders, both of us."

He lay down beside her, watching the rustling leaves above, the sunrays that broke through the clouds. He let his hand reach out and touch the tip of her hair, twirling it. "We can stay for a while, at least," he said. "I know there's a war going on, I know we both have roles to play, I know your sister is out there wreaking havoc. But hey, you and I, we deserve a little rest. Call it a weekend getaway."

"It's Tuesday," she whispered, turning her head toward him, his fingers in her hair. She looked at him, then lowered her eyes, trembling. Her whisper was so soft, he barely heard. "I hate that you do this to me. And I hate you period. I really do want to escape you. I could probably run now, you know."

"I know," he uttered silently and was about to kiss her when, with a gasp, she pointed up. Beelzebub looked and raised an eyebrow.

Streaks of fire burned in the sky, and the cries of battle echoed. A great duel burned above, and Beelzebub rose to his feet. Those flames and cries could mean only one thing.

Either Zarel or Laila would soon die.

* * * * *

In the clouds, Laila and Zarel crashed into each other, sending out a shock-ring, bursting with flame. Pain filled Laila like pain had never filled her. She felt like every bone in her body shattered, and her teeth rattled in her jaw. She screamed, slashed her claws, and felt Zarel's teeth sink into her shoulder.

"You will die now, angel," Zarel hissed, Laila's blood on her fangs.

Laila gritted her teeth. Not yet. I'm still alive. She curbed the anger and pain that blinded her. Concentrate. She punched hard, and her knuckles bled against Zarel's scales. Before she could even cry in pain, Zarel punched her in the stomach, knocking all air and sound out of her.

Laila doubled up, tears in her eyes. She's too strong. Too strong for me to face alone. She pulled back just in time, avoiding Zarel's claws, and pushed down the pain, ignoring it. I have to kill her. I have to, and damn my promise to Angor. If I can't take Hell, life is over for me; I'm going to kill this one or die trying.

When Zarel charged toward her, wings flapping, Laila fired her Uzi. The bullets slammed into Zarel's face, into her eyes, her mouth, her forehead. The Demon Queen shrieked. I hurt her. She can be hurt.

Zarel's claws slashed, and Laila blocked the blow with her arm, more pain filling her. That blow nearly broke her arm. She wanted to fire her gun again, but had no time to reload. Zarel kept scratching and biting, and it was all Laila could do to avoid those fangs and claws.

She reached for a grenade, letting down her guard for an instant. Zarel's claws found her arm, drawing blood, but Laila had set off the grenade. She pulled her wings close and dived down, leaving the grenade in the sky to fall above her. Zarel dived down in pursuit, and the grenade burst above the Demon Queen. The shrapnel slammed into Zarel, whose body shielded Laila from the blast.

This was enough to faze the Demon Queen, and Laila suddenly changed course and flew straight up, slamming her head into Zarel's belly. The Demon Queen tumbled, knocked aside, and Laila tossed a second grenade. It burst against Zarel, and Laila followed it with more bullets.

The archdemon was mad now. Blood dripped from her nose, her hair blazed, and spit oozed from her maw. She came swooping at Laila, eyes aflame, growling. Damn it, can nothing kill this beast? Laila wondered, pulling back. She escaped the brunt of Zarel's charge, but the demon's leg still kicked her shoulder, knocking Laila into a spin.

Before Laila could recover, Zarel grabbed her, digging her claws into Laila's shoulders. Oh, hell. Laila felt the fear flow through her, an instant of terror at the sight of Zarel's furious eyes and chaotic, drooling smirk. She struggled and cried, kicking, but could not release herself from Zarel's grasp. The Demon Queen leaned in to bite, and Laila felt teeth sink into her shoulder.

She bit back. Her fangs tore at a scale, pulling it loose, and she dug her bite into Zarel's flesh. Blood filled her mouth, and Zarel screamed.

Laila pulled back, bleeding, dizzy, blood in her mouth and on her body. She was so dazed, she could barely fly.

"You shouldn't have done that, sweetling," Zarel said and pulled back a fist. She punched, and the blow hit Laila's cheek with a burst of white brilliance.

Limbs like noodles, wings limp, Laila tumbled from the sky.

"Leave her alone!" came a voice from somewhere impossibly distant and vague. It sounded like Bat El, Laila thought as in a dream, but of course that was impossible. She could barely see a thing through the blood and fire, but it seemed like she saw great swan wings spread in flight, crashing into Zarel.

It was the last thing she saw. The pain overwhelmed her, and the ground rushed up below. Laila the half-demon, outcast from Heaven, banished from Hell, slammed onto the earth and darkness rolled over her world.

Chapter Eleven

Michael coughed, dust filling his lungs, and struggled to his feet. When he straightened, he winced in pain and rubbed his neck. Every part of his body ached. Blinking in the flying ash, he surveyed the scene. The church debris lay strewn about, a hodgepodge of shattered bricks, shards of glass, and twisted metal. Dust still flew over the scene, hiding the sky.

Were there other survivors? Michael looked around, but saw none, only the ruins of the church. The blast had even leveled the buildings surrounding the church, turning the streets into piles of rock. Michael surveyed himself and cursed. The blast had cracked his breastplate and blown off his greaves. His clothes were bloody tatters, and bruises and cuts covered him. It took a lot to hurt an archangel. Michael could not remember the last time weapons had made him bleed. Zarel meant business; had Michael not managed to reach the window at the last second, the blast could have killed him.

The wind blew, tendrils of fire flurried among the ruins, and ash flew. Michael groaned and began to climb down from the pile of wreckage. Had Laila escaped? Any of the others? Michael tried to think back to just before the blast. "A trap!" Laila had shouted, and Michael had burst into flight at once. He had reached the window, and just begun to exit the church, when the blast hit him. The thud tossed him outside, and then stones buffeted him, knocking him to the ground, covering him with ash. It seemed like Laila had managed to flee the church in time, but Michael could not be sure. As for the other angels... Michael was not optimistic. If this blast was enough to batter Michael, the Lord of God's Hosts, it would tear apart lesser angels.

"Damn you, Beelzebub," Michael sighed. Things were bad. Laila might be dead. Shield Division had been destroyed at the fort, and it seemed like he had just lost Heavenfire too. How could this had happened? We have Laila fighting with us now. How could we be losing?

Pushing aside despair, Michael concentrated on finding survivors. Countless bodies lay strewn about, both angelic and demonic, but Michael heard groaning and weeping. Moving about the wreckage, he found wounded angels covered in dust and blood. Some angels, those who had stood far back enough, were well enough to help him clear the wreckage.

Survivors were few. Most of Heavenfire, fabled Fifth Division of Heaven, had perished here, and Zarel had escaped them. Bloody and battered, Michael lowered his head, the wind cold against him.

A grunt came from behind, and Michael turned to see Nathaniel, the dour commander of The Wrecking Balls platoon. Blood dripped down the angel's forehead, and he cradled his left arm.

"Managed to leap out the window just in time," he said, voice hoarse. "My men weren't as lucky." He stepped down a pile of rubble, winced, and cursed. "Damn, smarts."

Michael looked at the sky where a trail of fire burned. "We're going to need reinforcements. I want to secure this neighborhood. The church may be gone, but it's another few blocks of Jerusalem to claim."

Nathaniel followed Michael's gaze to the fiery wake, like the path of a comet. "The half-breed abandoned us."

Michael shook his head. "She's following Zarel. I'm going after her. Lieutenant, stay here. Make this neighborhood safe."

With that, Michael unfurled his wings, ignoring the pain from his bruises and cuts. As powerful as Laila was, if she challenged Zarel to a duel, she would die. Michael wasn't ready to lose the girl yet. He still needed her.

Though his body ached and begged for rest, Michael took flight and followed Zarel's path. The strands of smoke and flame spread across the sky, leading west. The wind slammed against Michael, ruffling the feathers on his wings, stinging his wounds. Damn Laila. Damn the girl. What could she have been thinking? They had brought an entire division to capture Zarel, and now Laila went after the archdemon alone. She wanted to die, Michael realized. This was a suicide mission, and Laila knew it.

Michael flew, worry gnawing on him. Most likely, he knew, Laila was dead already.

* * * * *

When Bat El shot into the sky to attack Zarel, Beelzebub froze for a moment, able only to stare in shock.

Bat El. Laila. Zarel. The three women of his life, together above him, battling in the sky. Beelzebub could only blink.

"Damn," he finally said.

He flapped his wings and flew after Bat El, crashing through the canopy of pine branches. This could not end well. Zarel would either kill Bat El, or learn of his romance with the angel. Whatever the outcome, it would end in blood and tears.

"Leave my sister alone!" Bat El cried above, slamming her wings against Zarel. The Demon Queen growled and crackled, and Laila tumbled from the sky, bruised and bloody, to crash into the forest.

For an instant, Beelzebub wanted to follow Laila, to capture her if she still lived, but the half-breed was probably dead, and Bat El needed him. In a second or two, Zarel would kill the young angel.

"Zarel!" he called out, using his deepest, most echoing voice. He flew up to hover before her in the sky.

The Demon Queen glared at him, hissing. In her claws, she clutched Bat El's throat, a second away from crushing the angel's pale neck. Droplets of blood trickled down Bat El's throat, and she gasped, struggling for breath, tears in her eyes.

"What do you want, Beelzebub?" Zarel demanded, fangs dripping drool. Her hair of flame raised sparks.

"Leave the girl alone," he said.

Zarel spat, still clutching Bat El's throat. The young angel struggled and kicked, but could not free herself. "Oh, my my," the Demon Queen said, cackling. "Have you found another innocent angel to love, my dear husband? Have you found a young girl to defile?"

Beelzebub gave Zarel his sternest, coldest glower. Damn his wife. Damn the archdemon. "Zarel, for God's sake, will you give it a rest? It's Gabriel's daughter you hold there. I've kidnapped her from Michael rather painstakingly, not so you could kill her now."

Clutching Bat El's throat with one hand, Zarel traced the claws of her other hand across Bat El's face. She hissed at the angel, smoke rising from her nostrils. "Kidnapped the girl, how clever of you, and I suppose you'll do some dog and pony show now, how she's of great importance, and a lofty bargaining chip, is that correct?"

Beelzebub flapped his wings, raising more sparks from Zarel's hair of flames. "Damn it, Zarel, you know she's a bargaining chip, so stop killing everything you see."

"Go to hell, Beelzebub," Zarel said. "Don't give me that. Of all the angels to kidnap at the fort, you chose the pretty blond one, is that so?"

"I kidnapped the highest ranking one I could find," he responded icily. Bat El still struggled, but seemed to grow weaker. Her body was still bruised and cut, and she could hardly breathe in Zarel's grasp. As for Laila, Beelzebub had no idea if she still lived. The half-breed was probably dead; it was unlikely that she could have survived a duel with Zarel and a fall from this height. Beelzebub's head spun.

"Zarel, let the girl go, that's an order."

"An order? Do you think I'm some lowly shade?" Zarel spat a glob of lava. "Did you sleep with her, Beelzebub?"

"I won't dignify that with an answer."

"Did you kiss her, then? Don't even bother answering. I can see the answer in your eyes. You kissed her, Beelzebub, so now watch me kill her." She tightened her grip around Bat El's throat, drawing another few droplets of blood.

Beelzebub grabbed Zarel's wrist and twisted hard. Bat El came free, fell a few feet, then managed to flap her wings and flee. As Bat El flew into the distance, Beelzebub slapped Zarel across the face as hard as he could. His hand stung, and Zarel screamed in pain, blood flying from her lip. The anger fuming in him, Beelzebub hit Zarel again, a slap to her other cheek that sent her swirling backwards. The Demon Queen hissed and wept.

"You're lucky I'm busy, or I'd give you more than just a couple slaps," he said icily, then flapped his wings and took after Bat El. Zarel did not follow. Beelzebub knew he had hurt her, but he refused to feel guilt. The archdemon had to learn her place.

As he flew, following Bat El under the clouds, Beelzebub glimpsed a light in the eastern sky, like a flare or comet.

Michael.

The archangel was flying toward where Laila had fallen, following her wake of fire. So my brother came to protect his ward, Beelzebub thought, rankled. If Laila had survived, Zarel would be unable to kill or capture her now, not with Michael there. Briefly, Beelzebub considered confronting his brother, but he was in no mood for the archangel. Bat El is the only one I care about now.

Shoving his wife and brother out of his mind, Beelzebub kept flying, following Bat El over dunes and cracked highways. The angel cried as she flew, bloody and battered. She soon lost strength and began to flag, then finally landed in a sandy field, her hair tousled, her wings ruffled.

Beelzebub landed beside her, the sand soft against his feet. He was still dressed in but a tunic, he realized; he hadn't had a chance to change since going to Bat El's chamber last night and finding her missing.

Bat El turned toward him, eyes huge and weepy, lip trembling, blood on her neck. She knelt in the sand, trembling.

"Laila," she whispered. "Is my sister.... Do you think she's okay?"

Beelzebub embraced her. "I don't know," he said. "But after you left, Michael showed up. If Laila lives, Michael will protect her."

Bat El wept against his shoulder, shaking, and he held her for long moments, saying nothing. He tore off bits of cloth from his tunic and bound her wounds, and they lay in the sand, spent, holding each other. The breeze blew softly, scented of distant grass and sea. They were safe here for now, far from any other angels or demons.

"I'm scared, Beelzebub," she finally said. "I'm scared that Laila is dead. I'm scared that Zarel will come back. I'm scared for Michael, for everything. I don't know what's going to happen." She kept her arms wrapped around him. "Everything here on Earth is so different. I miss Heaven, and my dad, and... just understanding things. I'm so confused here, I don't even know who's good and who's bad anymore." She looked into his eyes, her own eyes haunted. "Sometimes I think you're one of the good guys, but.... Oh, Beelzebub, I don't know. I wish it would all just go away."

"Do you really?" he whispered, and kissed her, and marveled at how her lips seemed softer and fuller than ever. She kissed him back, hands in his hair.

Beelzebub shut his eyes, holding Bat El. Though she was an archangel, daughter of Gabriel, puissant and high-ranking, she felt so fragile in his arms. When he felt her arms around him, her lips against his, Beelzebub felt like he could forget the whole war, forget his new throne in Hell, and stay here forever with her. Wasn't this better than all the glory and might in Hell?

What was it about Bat El? Women had always been his greatest vice, back since the old days when he knew human girls, planting Nephilim in their wombs. Yet few women made him feel like this; none had since Laila fled him into exile a decade ago.

He kissed the tears off her cheeks, and when he took off her clothes, he saw cuts and bruises his demons had given her, so he touched her only gently. She had never made love before; he had known ten thousand women. That day, Beelzebub wanted no one else. If Bat El is the last woman in my life, I'd be happy.

"This stupid war," she said to him an hour later, lying by him, her head against his chest.

She slept then, and Beelzebub lay watching the skies, wondering how long before Zarel came looking for them.

* * * * *

Laila opened her eyes in the forest. She looked upon the canopy above, the rustling pine needles, the branches and blinding sunlight. The Carmel forest. Her entire body ached, and her head felt swollen. She turned her head to see roots, rocks, acorns and vines.

It was here, she remembered. This very place. Here is where I first met him.

It was a decade ago that she met Beelzebub. It had been a different world. There were still isolated human villages eking out a living across the land, Lucifer still ruled in Hell, and she, Laila, lived feral in the backwoods of Israel. On a cold night in her seventeenth winter, she caught a goat among the trees, a shaggy old beast with long horns. She first spotted it eating mint leaves, and it never saw her approach. She leapt onto its back and slashed its throat, then clutched it as it kicked and died.

As she feasted upon its raw meat, she remembered that as a girl, she had seen a goat only once, but now they filled the forest. Nearly all humans had perished in Armageddon, that first great battle between Heaven and Hell seventeen years ago, allowing the boars, jackals, and other beasts to breed unmolested... that is, other than by Laila. She tore off meat with her fangs and chewed, blood dripping down her chin. The forest was dark, and only her flaming eyes pierced the shadows. The only sounds were the breeze and stirring of pines.

"Don't you want a fire?" came a sudden voice ahead, and Laila raised her bloody face from the goat, staring into the darkness, heart racing. She snarled and bared her fangs, her halo bursting into flame. Laila the half-demon had sharper ears than any beast in these hills, and she had heard none approach.

"Don't be scared," said the voice in the darkness. "I won't hurt you."

Laila growled, blood dripping down her fangs, and unfurled her bat wings. "It is you who should be frightened," she said. "Few interrupt Laila of the night as she feasts—and live." She rose to her feet, claws glinting.

A figure stepped out from the shadowy trees. The flames of Laila's eyes and halo lit his black Roman armor, his black curls, his dark eyes. Great bat wings he had, and when he smiled, Laila saw fangs. A fallen angel, she knew.

"Are you really going to eat all that yourself?" the fallen angel asked, looking at the goat. "I'll teach you how to cook a mean steak if you let me share the meat."

Laila stared at him over the carcass, its blood staining her face and tattered cloak. She had never seen a fallen angel before, but all knew of them. Here were those ancient angels who'd rebelled against God thousands of years ago and lost. God had banished and cursed them, removing their halos and swan wings, granting them bat wings, fangs, and claws instead, marking them forever as wicked. They are like me, feral, banished from Heaven. They had created Hell and styled themselves demon lords, forging scaled shades from the hellfire, arming themselves for this war, for Armageddon. Laila felt both fear and fascination seeing such a fabled creature before her. Many whispered that her own demon father was no lesser, scaly shade but one of these great fallen angels. Perhaps this one can teach me some things beyond goat cuisine.

"I like my meat raw and bloody," she said to him.

"It tastes better cooked. Come, I'll build us a fire." He opened his palms to show that he carried no weapons.

She flexed her claws. "Fires summon curious angels and demons. I prefer to live in shadows and silence."

The fallen angel began to collect firewood. "This fallen angel found you even in the shadows, and you don't need to fear if any other souls approach. Few can harm me, and few can harm Laila the half-breed."

She watched silently as the fallen angel collected branches, stacked them, and lit the bonfire with a spark by snapping his fingers. The flames lit the trees and tossed a thousand shadows into a dance, like an army of demons. When the flames were lower, the fallen angel produced a grill from his backpack and cooked cuts of goat. The smell was good, and as the meat cooked, Laila's mouth watered.

"You know my name, fallen angel," she said, watching the fire. "Before we enjoy your amazing goat dish, tell me yours. There were a hundred and thirteen fallen angels; which one are you?"

The meat was ready. Her companion removed the grill from the fire and handed her a chop. "I don't have a plate," he said, "but you're used to eating with your hands. Go on, taste it. It's good. As for my name, I've had many in my life. Thousands of years ago, some would call me Baal and mistake me for a god. Others call me the Lord of the Flies, not a name I especially favor. God used to call me the Unpious, while the archangel Michael would often just refer to me as 'my knuckleheaded kid brother'."

Laila took the meat and bit into it. It was pink and juicy. It had been ages since she'd eaten cooked meat, not since she had escaped Mamma and Papa's farm. The bonfire crackled, reflecting in her companion's gilded breastplate.

"So what is the mighty Beelzebub, field commander of Hell's army on Earth, doing wandering the Carmel mountains alone?" she asked over her meal. "Shouldn't you be off marshalling armies and killing angels?"

She examined him closely in the shadows. It was not every day that one met such a legendary being. He was not what the stories described. In Heaven's paintings, Beelzebub always appeared ugly and hook-nosed, groveling under the heel of this or that archangel, begging for mercy before the coupe-de-grace from angel lances. In Hell's lore, Beelzebub was always portrayed as wrathful, wreathed in flame, ten feet tall and terrible. While the fallen angel before her impressed in his own way, with his tall frame, strong jaw, and exquisite armor, he was anything but beastly or monstrous. He looks more like one of those movie stars in old human posters, Laila thought. A guy you'd want to have a beer with, not a demon overlord who's after your soul.

When he smiled, Laila realized she had been staring, and she returned her gaze to the fire, feigning nonchalance.

"I do marshal armies and kill angels on most nights," he said and passed her a bottle. "Try this pinot, it's good. You know what they say about pinot, don't you? 'God made cabernet while the devil made pinot.' Truth is we from Hell taught humans how to make both; before us, all they drank was fresh spring water. Horrible, isn't it?" When Laila had sipped, he took the bottle back and drank himself. "Now where was I? Oh yes, we were discussing the purpose of my excursion into these woods. Truth is, Laila... I came here to find you."

She finished her meat and tossed the bone aside. They had not touched most of the carcass, but Laila knew the jackals, crows, and bugs would consume the rest. "I came to this forest to avoid Hell and Heaven," she said, wiping her lips with the back of her palm.

Beelzebub gazed around at the trees. "A fine home it is, I don't deny it. But don't you want more? Walls around you, fine meals, real clothes? You are of Hell's stock. I came to offer you a home with us, an education, a place to belong."

Staring at Beelzebub, Laila indeed felt a moment of envy. The fallen angel wore fine armor, fine leather sandals, and his hair was combed and neatly cropped. She herself wore a tattered cloak, a rope for a belt, and her hair was a great knot of leaves and twigs. Blood and dirt smeared her, and while Beelzebub sported a fine golden ring for jewelry, she wore a string of boar tusks around her neck. What would it be like to live in splendor, with fine clothes, fine wine, fine company? Yes, for a moment Laila was tempted, but the moment vanished. Hell was not for her. She was half-angel, and hellfire would burn her, and demons would drool over her as over a good meal.

"I belong in this forest," she said. "I need no more."

"I'm sure you don't need more, but you must want it. Won't you let me help you, Laila? You are well known in Hell, and we want to care for you."

Laila rose to her feet. Her boots, clunky leather things she had stolen years ago, seemed so tattered compared to Beelzebub's fine sandals. "When I was a girl, angels tried to raise me, to tame me. They could not bring me to Heaven. When they once did, the godlight boiled my demon blood, burned my skin, and nearly killed me. So they raised me in the trenches of Earth, and tutored me, tried to make me wear dresses and read scripture. I ran from them early, and have been living alone since. I have no wish to be tutored again."

Beelzebub blew out his breath. "I assure you, our camp is nothing like that. Among the demons of Hell, there is just good booze, and song, and merriment." He leaned over the bonfire, the flames painting his face red. "And we can train you, Laila. Train you to discover the great strength of your blood, to become a warrior of legend. Don't you want to learn such power?"

She turned and began to walk away. "Goodbye, Beelzebub." Who needed him? She had enough of other people. Wherever she went, she was the odd one out, the freak. Wherever she went, she ended up hurting those she loved. Her back turned to Beelzebub, she remembered her dog Eclipse and bit her lip to curb her tears. She did not deserve civilization. Here in the forests she could hurt no one, but live wild and bloody and dirty, the only way a half-breed could live. To humans she was a monster. To demons she was angelic, and to angels she was demonic. I don't need them. I'm a lone wolf, and that's fine with me.

Beelzebub spoke behind her in the shadows, voice soft. "Do you ever feel scared at night?"

She paused. Something about his soft voice made a tear escape her eye. She felt it flow down her cheek, and she tasted it against her mouth, bloody.

He kept speaking, voice still soft. "I know what it's like, Laila. To live banished. In exile. Cursed and monstrous and hunted. I too was exiled from Heaven, demonic. You are not alone, Laila." She heard him step toward her. "You no longer have to fear the dark, lonely night when your tears fall, when your loneliness and despair creep out of shadows to claim you."

She turned to face him, fangs bared, face bloody with tears. "You know nothing!" she hissed, stretching out her bat wings.

He took another step toward her, eyes like lanterns. "I know that you hide here. That you run. I know that you hurt, that you are confused, not knowing who you are, what you'll do with your power, or once Hell wins this war. Laila, I knew your mother. We were friends long before the rebellion against God. We became enemies—she was an angel, I a demon—but I want to help her offspring, for the sake of the friendship we once had. I want to help you, Laila, because I was once like you. I can help you feel less scared and confused."

His eyes were kind, his hands opened, and Laila felt a sob escape her. She hated that she wept, that her knees trembled. She turned her head to hide her tears. "Leave me," she said. She tried to growl, but could not, only weep.

She felt his hand in her hair. "Poor child. How old are you? Seventeen? Eighteen? A mere child, and yet you carry the weight of Heaven, Hell, and the war between them on your shoulders. All your life, the angels treated you as a monster. So did the humans. I know what that's like, Laila."

Without knowing how it happened, Laila found herself in his embrace, weeping against his shoulder, hating herself for it. He kissed her forehead and smiled upon her, all smooth words and soft caresses, and Laila fell for him that night. Yes, I fell for him during those dark years of my youth.

And so he taught her. He brought her to the old tower where he lived in those years, rising over the ruins of Jerusalem. He taught her about the angels of Heaven, and the demons of underground, about war, and about love. All the secret ways of kisses, caresses, and unspeakable nights did he teach her, of forbidden pleasures Heaven would never know. In his arms, she had come to love him, her mentor, her wise old lord.

Yes, I loved him then.

Lying on the forest floor, Laila blinked, gazing up at the canopy, shifting in pain, bruised. "I still love you, Beelzebub," she whispered. "I always will."

She shut her eyes, a bloody tear trailing down her cheek. Someday, very soon, she would have to kill him and take his throne... and Laila did not know if she could.

* * * * *

As Michael flew, following Zarel's fiery trail, he caught sight of the Demon Queen. A fireball in the sky, she fluttered several miles ahead. She saw him too, then turned to flee, heading west to Hell's garrison at the fort.

Let her flee, Michael thought in disgust. He didn't want to be anywhere near his demonic sister-in-law. He wanted to find Laila. Where was the girl?

A ball of smoke hung in the sky ahead, slowly dispersing in the wind. The duel between Laila and Zarel must have been fought here, though Michael could not see the half-breed. He scanned the trees below and spotted a black cloak upon the branches. Laila's cloak.

The sight of her cloak, like a body upon the trees, sent a cold jab through Michael. Would he find Laila's body below? Eyes narrowed, Michael descended toward the trees, lifted the cloak from the canopy, and examined it. Blood covered the cloth. Michael dropped through the canopy toward the ground and there, upon a carpet of pine needles, he found Laila.

The girl lay on her back, limbs sprawled to her sides, black hair spread around her. Her skin was pale, blood trickled from her nose and lip, and claw marks ran down her arms. Her eyes were shut. Fingers of light fell through the trees upon her, mottling her with patches of light. Damn you, if you died on me, Laila....

Michael knelt by her and placed his ear near her mouth. She breathed, and when he checked her pulse, it seemed strong. Michael blew out his breath in frustration. Laila was bashed up, bruised, and bloody, but aside from a swollen lip, a headache, and perhaps some stitches, she'd be fine.

You scared me, stupid girl.

He bound her wounds with strips from her cloak. She mumbled, shifting, blinking, struggling to wake up, still half-asleep. "Volkfair," she mumbled. "Is that you, Volkfair?"

Michael sighed. Pea-brained, wretched little devil. He couldn't decide what he felt more toward her: pity or anger. He nudged her with his foot.

"Get up," he said, not bothering to mask his disgust.

Laila opened her eyes, blinked, and winced. "Ouch. I have a headache."

Michael grunted. "You're lucky to have a head period. Get up."

Wincing, Laila stood up. Her knees wobbled and she rubbed her temples. She tested her wings, flapping one at a time, and winced again. "My whole body hurts. Owie."

"That's what happens when you attack the Queen of Hell by yourself with no backup. You should know better."

Laila struggled to focus her gaze on him, blinking, rubbing her eyes. "I could have taken her if you hadn't interfered."

"Like hell," Michael said. His own wounds still hurt, and he wanted nothing more than a long bath and a good sleep, but he was not done with Laila. Somebody needed to beat some sense into her; if Zarel's blows hadn't done that, perhaps his words could. "You faced Zarel once before, and she nearly killed you. You should have known better than to face her alone. She is the Queen of Hell, a thousand years old. You're twenty-seven and stupid to boot."

Laila's halo of fire ignited, and her eyes blazed, some of their strength returning. Her cheeks flushed. When you were Laila, a legend in Heaven and Hell, you weren't used to people calling you stupid. "To hell with this." Laila spat and turned to leave, cursing. "Damn it, if I'm so pathetic and weak, why the hell did you pursue me all my life? Since I was a girl, you and your brother have been chasing me, trying to get me to join you, telling tall tales of how I'm some super warrior. And now you tell me I'm weak?"

"I didn't say weak," Michael said. "I said young. And stupid. And inexperienced."

"Gee, thanks, mister." She started to walk away, pine needles crunching under her boots. "I quit, jerk. I'm out of here. Goodbye."

He grabbed her arm, digging his fingers into her. "Where will you go, Laila?" he said, holding her fast as she twisted. "Back to living in the forest like a stray dog? Wandering the desert like a hermit? Moaning and weeping until Heaven or Hell takes over Earth and fills it with godlight or hellfire, either one of which would kill you? What happened to your plan of taking over Hell and extinguishing the hellfire?"

"I've changed my mind."

"Zarel gave you a few bumps on the head, and you decide to give up and run away? You abandon all your plans, leave Zarel to rule in Hell, leave your sister imprisoned?"

She tugged her arm, but could not free herself from his grasp, and her eyes blazed. "Back off, man. You don't know me. You don't know what I've been through, okay?" Bloody tears ran down her cheeks.

He still would not let her go, refusing to pity her; pity did no good to Laila of the night. "Do you still want to kill Zarel?" he said. "Do you still want a home in Hell?"

"I thought I was too stupid and inexperienced to kill Zarel. You said so just a minute ago."

He stared at her. A tear of blood flowed along her lip and entered her mouth. "Too inexperienced now, yes. But I'll train you."

She glowered. "I don't need training. I know how to fight."

"By firing an Uzi? Please. Any common human infantryman learned how to fire a gun at his first week in basic training. Did your bullets do Zarel any harm? Did your grenades so much as dent her scales? We're talking about the Queen of Hell here, and you're using weapons designed for killing humans. And when you do scratch your claws, you're slow, and clumsy, slashing like you're trying to carve up meat rather than harm an archdemon."

She snickered. "And you, the mighty warrior Michael, will teach me?"

"I, the mighty warrior Michael, the archangel, the Lord of God's Hosts, will teach you to fight. Not with guns, not with grenades, but with heavenly blades of light, and with speed, and with cunning. You're strong, Laila. You have the strength of a great archangel or archdemon. You are stronger than Zarel, than me, maybe even stronger than Beelzebub. But you lack training. I will train you." He tightened his grip on her arm, leaning forward. "And after I train you, Laila... then, the next time you meet Zarel, she will fear you."

She yanked herself free at last and glared up at him. "I did defeat Angor, you know."

"And nearly died in the doing, if I recall correctly. And Zarel is more powerful than Angor tenfold, and Beelzebub is stronger than Zarel. And you hope to usurp them?"

She gave him her best glare, eyes like lanterns. "And you think you can teach me new tricks." Her voice was half dismissive, but Michael heard the undertone of interest.

"I've been a soldier for thousands of years, Laila. You learned how to fight by hunting boars in the hills."

"I'm not using a sword."

Michael turned and started walking away, the pine needles crunching under his feet.

"Fine, fine!" she called after him. "Sheesh. But at least don't give me a sword with swan wings etched into it or something. I want a black blade, with a skull on the pommel, or maybe devil horns. Please just not some heavenly weapon."

Michael suppressed the small smile that curled his lips, then turned back and stared at her. "Get your rest tonight, Laila. Meet me at Caesarea at dawn, at the amphitheatre. We start your training then."

Chapter Twelve

Laila arrived late at the amphitheatre. Dawn was several hours past when she fluttered down into the ancient Roman structure and found Michael standing there, arms crossed over his breastplate. Her wounds from dueling Zarel ached, and she still felt weak and battered.

She landed in the amphitheatre, feet raising dust. Michael glared at her.

"Be late again, and the deal's off," he said.

"Oh yes sir." She gave him a mocking salute. I don't even want to be here. Everything still hurt, and she wanted nothing more than to escape to a pub or cave and drink the pain away. I don't care about Michael. I don't care if Bat El is imprisoned. All I ever wanted was to drink, to hunt with Volkfair, to be left alone. "I'm only here because I'm curious to see if you really can teach me any tricks, but to be honest, I'm doubtful. If you were such a mighty warrior, you would have faced Angor yourself, not dragged me from my pub to fight him."

Michael shot her his best glare, and Laila smirked. Did he really think he could treat her like some angel recruit new to Earth? She was Laila, of fire and shadows, not some lowly soldier. Michael had to learn that.

Michael spat and turned to leave. "Forget it. You're done. Go to hell, Laila. You don't want to train here? Then leave. We'll take over this world without you. Good luck with the whole usurpation of Hell thing."

Laila rolled her eyes. "You going to pull that whole walking away in disgust routine again? All right! God. I'm sorry, okay? I got beat up pretty bad yesterday, so I overslept. Sue me."

He turned back with a sigh, stepped toward her, and handed her a sword, hilt first. At first Laila didn't realize it was a sword; it looked more like rusty scrap metal. She stared at the weapon with its chipped, rusted blade and wooden handle, then stared at Michael.

"No thank you," she said.

"You agreed to train with a sword. Well, here's your sword."

"That's not a sword, that's a tetanus colony."

Michael shrugged. "You didn't want a heavenly sword. All the others are carved with David Stars, or crosses, or halos and angel wings, filigreed with gold."

Laila took the sword in disgust. Cobwebs clung to the blade. "This sword would break if you cut butter with it," she said.

"Learn to use it, and we'll forge you a better one."

Fine. He wanted her to use a sword? She'd prove she could use one and be done with. Maybe then he'll teach her some real things, not games with rusty blades. Feigning disinterest, she suddenly leapt toward him, lashing the rusty blade. I'll give him a scratch across the cheek, and we'll see how tough he acts then.

So fast she barely saw him move, Michael blocked her blow, kicked her legs from underneath her, and she slammed against the ground. She found herself lying, his boot upon her neck.

"Nice try," he said.

Laila stared at him, hissing, fangs bared. She hadn't thought the old angel had it in him. "For a dour, reflective son of a bitch, you can move fast," she said.

He reached down and helped her up. "You'll be just as fast, soon."

The day turned out to be one of Laila's longest. Michael trained her with swords all day, whacking her all over with his blunt training blade. Laila cursed every moment, her curses echoing in the amphitheatre, and with every whack of Michael's sword, she growled.

"Damn these stupid weapons," she snarled, her muscles cramped. "Who needs swords? They're ancient weapons. Give me bullets and bombs."

Michael thrust his blade at her, forcing her to parry. All these moves—endless types of parrying, thrusting, slicing—made Laila's head ache. "My brain hurts," she complained when evening finally fell. "Enough for today."

Michael sheathed his sword, and Laila tossed her sword aside with such disgust, that it flew out of the ancient amphitheatre and disappeared into the ruins of Caesarea. She hoped she never saw it again.

"You're bringing back that sword tomorrow," Michael said.

"Fine, fine, whatever. I'm off. I'm going to find Volkfair, and then I'm going to sleep for two days."

"We're not done."

"I am."

"That's what you think. You're not done with today's training yet." He tossed her a piece of bread and a bottle of water. "Take ten minutes. Eat and drink. Then we continue." With that, he flapped his wings and flew to the highest seat of the amphitheatre.

Laila sat down, wincing, and stared at the dried bread. It looked a week old, but Laila was famished and bolted it down.

"You know, I'm not one of your recruits!" she called up to him. "I am Lucifer's daughter. Don't treat me like a private."

"You're new to Heaven's army, so you're a private," he called down from above. "Now on your feet."

"That was never ten minutes," she called back. "And I'm not part of Heaven's army."

A heavy brick landed beside her, shattering. Michael stared down at her from above, lifting another brick. "The next one hits your head," he said. "Stand up."

He tossed the second brick, and Laila rolled aside, glaring at him. A human tossing a brick wouldn't faze her; it would bounce off her harmlessly. But Michael was strong, and his stones shattered against the ground, faster than the speed of sound. Here were missiles that could break her bones.

"What the hell?" she yelled up at him.

"You're too slow. The stones are going to get faster. So are you."

He tossed stones at her until nightfall, and raced her through the alleys like a rat in a maze, and sent her to the bottom of the ocean after pebbles he tossed, and sent her into the sky to catch dust in the wind. The sun had been gone for hours when he finally nodded.

"It was a good day. Now go get some sleep."

Laila rubbed her neck. "Sleep. I missed that. I'm going to sleep for at least twenty-four hours."

He shook his head. "I meet you back here an hour before dawn. That's four hours away."

She yawned, stretching out her arms. "Four hours my demon backside. You're crazy."

"Bricks start flying again in four hours. If you're not awake, they'll crush your skull." He turned to walk away, then paused and looked over his shoulder. "Oh, and Laila? That sword you tossed away? Find it and bring it back by the time we meet tomorrow. Goodnight."

With that, he left her among the ruins of the ancient city.

* * * * *

For weeks he trained her. If she wouldn't wake up on time, he woke her with a kick to the stomach, and if she was still slow to rise, he gave her one hour less sleep the following night. All day he trained her with the blade, and for speed, and strength, and endurance. He'd toss a pebble into rocky fields and demand she fetch the same pebble within a breath. He tossed spears and knives at her, and chastised her for every rent in her clothes. He asked the impossible—that she stay dry underwater, grab stars, stop the moon—all so he could chastise her for failure. Throughout every day, Laila cursed endlessly, curses that wilted plants. She growled, hissed, spat... and yet she kept at it.

"You want to leave?" Michael asked whenever she ranted. "Fine, leave. But remember this: As harsh as I am to you, Zarel will be a thousand times harsher. As tough as this training is, facing Beelzebub will be a thousand times tougher."

Whenever he spoke these words, Laila would grumble, glare, and keep evading stones, or parrying his blade, or lifting boulders, or outracing the wind, or performing whatever feat he imagined for that day. She stayed because day after day, despite the bruises and hunger and weariness, she was getting stronger. She could parry more of his blows, even land some of her own. She could lift and toss larger boulders. She could run faster, fly higher.

At nights, she collapsed exhausted and hungry and battered, Volkfair at her side, cuddled against her. Before she fell asleep for those blessed three or four hours a night Michael granted her, she'd whisper, "Soon, Beelzebub. Soon I'll take your throne."

Seven weeks after she began her training, Michael met her before dawn in the amphitheatre, and he carried a new blade.

"Throw away your old rusty sword," he said.

Laila—gaunt, weary, and sunken-eyed after weeks of heavenly boot camp—tossed her blade aside. It hit one of the amphitheatre's tiers and shattered into bits of rust. "Good riddance," she said.

Michael handed her the new sword he carried. His small smile was more evident in his eyes than on his lips.

"For you."

Laila took the sword and unsheathed it. Three feet long, forged of dark steel, the blade glimmered a deep red. When Laila gave it a few swings, it raised tongues of flame.

"I like the fire," she said. "Nice touch."

"It suits you," Michael said. His own sword was bright and glowing, a weapon of Heaven; hers was dark and fiery, half beautiful, half monstrous. The pommel was carved as a black wolf's head—it looked like Volkfair—and the word "Haloflame" was engraved into the grip.

"Thanks," Laila said. She gave the blade a few more swings, imagining herself swiping at Zarel. Bullets and grenades, made to kill humans, shattered against the Demon Queen's scales. This blade, Laila knew, a blade forged in Heaven, would slice Zarel in half.

"You've earned it," Michael said. "Now let's see how well you use it."

The new blade took getting used to. It was lighter than her old one, and balanced differently. By the end of the day, however, Haloflame felt like a part of her. Michael let her sleep for ten hours that night—"Because you've been such a good girl," he said—and Laila slept with her new sword cuddled against her chest, dreaming of Hell.

* * * * *

Under the cloudy night sky, Michael walked the cobbled streets of Caesarea's ruins. The walls crowded around him, weedy and crumbly, winking with arrow slits. Columns that had stood for millennia had fallen the day Laila defeated Angor; they now lay shattered across the streets. Bats flew through the night, and the sea whispered, hidden behind the ruins.

Weariness covered Michael like a cloak, but he could not sleep. Training Laila had placed cramps in his muscles, fatigue in his bones, and doubt like sour milk in his stomach. Laila might hate me for treating her like a recruit, but I bet she's been getting more sleep than me. Michael sighed. He was never one for much sleep anyway, preferring the night for contemplation. An owl called somewhere in the distance, and two fireflies hovered over a broken piece of aqueduct, then vanished. A demon hoof stuck out from a pile or rubble, a last vestige of the battle.

Two corporals on patrol came walking around a corner, swords drawn, helmets and breastplates polished. Michael nodded at the angels, whose faces paled at the sight of the archangel. They saluted him, stiff and dumbfounded, and Michael smiled once he had walked by them. Now if only I could inspire such awe in Laila too. As the thought of the girl lingered in his mind, his smile soured.

Laila. The girl he had sought all these years. The legendary creature who fled from Heaven and Hell all her life. I have you now, Laila. After so long, I have you where I want you, and now I fear the outcome of this war more than ever.

Around a pile of rubble, two smashed columns, a weedy wall, and more angel troops, Michael found the tent he sought. It was a simple tent, just white canvas pulled over wooden beams, a soldier's tent. Typical, Michael thought. Raphael, though a great archangel of equal rank to Michael and Gabriel, had always sought the austere life, wearing but homespun robes, carrying a coarse olive-wood staff, living in a simple home even up in Heaven.

"Raphael," he said softly when he reached the tent. "It's me. Michael. Are you awake?"

Raphael's voice, gentle and sad as ever, came from inside the tent. "I am. Come in, Michael."

Folding his wings against him, Michael entered the tent and found his youngest brother sitting cross-legged on the ground, both his prayer book and flask open in his hands. Michael smiled despite himself. Though austere as a monk, Raphael indulged himself when it came to his cups. His flask was unadorned hide, but always contained only the finest spirits. It was tough growing up with two older brothers like Beelzebub and me, Michael thought. Who wouldn't resort to drinking?

"Open bible, open flask," Michael said, sitting himself down before the fellow archangel. "The two do go best together, don't they?"

Raphael passed him the bible, which was open to Ecclesiastes, displaying an underlined verse. "I thought you might visit tonight."

Michael read aloud the line Raphael had underlined. "'The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong.' Now there was a morose one, Koheleth."

Raphael sipped from his flask. "The man knew a thing or two about this world."

"So I've heard. Yet our old friend spoke of humans, not of angels or demons." Michael shut the bible, a little stronger than he had intended; it slammed shut with a boom and raised dust. He sighed. "Here, brother, the race will be to the swift, and the battle to the strong."

"Hence Laila."

Michael nodded.

An iron candelabrum stood in the center of the tent, its three candles low. Raphael stood up, rummaged through his chest for more candles, and soon new fire burned, though there was little to see aside from a cot, the chest, and books upon the floor. Though many angels on Earth used crude generators to feed batteries and light bulbs, mimicking the humans, Raphael clung to the old ways, a collector of candles instead of lamps, quills instead of pens, prayers instead of curses. He had woven his robes himself, rough woolen homespun, like some ancient human prophet wandering the hills.

"And is she the swift, Michael?" the great healer asked, turning those eternally sad eyes toward his guest. "Is she the strong in this battle between us and our brother?"

"A battle between Heaven and Hell," Michael said, watching shadows dance in the candlelight like tiny demons. "That Beelzebub is our brother is coincidental."

"Be that as it may, the girl has done well." Raphael sipped his spirits. "She won us this city."

Michael sighed, shaking his palm to refuse the flask Raphael offered him. "I've been training her. It's been... bothering me. Does that make sense to you?"

Raphael shrugged. "You've been working her hard. Boot camp is never easy, especially not for a hotheaded wunderkind. It's natural that you'd feel guilty for giving her a hard time."

Michael snorted. "You haven't spent enough time with her, Raphael. Leave Laila alone, and she mopes, weeps, drinks herself half to death while contemplating suicide. Boredom with our friend Laila leads to melancholy. When I work her like a dog, I don't give her time to think. I bet these are the only few weeks in her life when she hasn't cried, prayed to die, or sunken into drunken depression. The training's good for her, and she knows it. That's why she stays."

Raphael placed the bible atop the pile of books on the floor. A wind from outside shook the tent walls. "And yet still you come to me tonight speaking of guilt."

Michael wondered why he even wore his armor tonight. He was so used to being the soldier, to wearing his things of war, that he could not leave his tent without them, not even within their camp. He watched the candles. "I'm old, Raphael. Immortals we are, and our bodies stay young, but I feel old. Ancient. These past twenty-seven years aged me more than two millennia before them, I think."

"Earth can do that."

Michael placed his lance across the floor and gazed at it, its shaft smooth after years of use, its blade polished countless times. "We are soldiers here. Myself, my men, Laila. Killing demons is one thing. Laila doesn't quite fit into the demon category, though, does she?"

Raphael raised an eyebrow. "You train Laila to fight. You train all your soldiers to fight. That doesn't mean you are killing them."

"I send most angels to fight shades, lowly beings of scales and horns. I'm training Laila to face off against the devil and his wife."

Raphael patted a fold out of his cloak. "If there wasn't a chance she could succeed, you wouldn't be wasting your time with her."

"A chance, yes. A one in a million shot." Michael raised his gaze and stared into Raphael's eyes. "Laila is strong, don't get me wrong. She's powerful in ways few are in Heaven and Hell. Can she take over Hell? Can she win this war for us?" Michael sighed and shook his head. "In the forests, in her exile, she might have lived a few years longer, might have even grown old until Beelzebub or I won this war and destroyed the planet for her. Am I training her for an early death, Raphael?"

Raphael stared back levelly. "You might be. That's what training soldiers is. You know this more than anyone." The healer leaned forward. "Michael, you're my older brother. I know you. This is not what's bothering you. You never had qualms about sending anyone into battle and danger. What's troubling you?"

Michael looked away, staring at the wall of the tent. He's right, of course. That's not what's bothering me, is it? He reached over, took the flask from Raphael, and drank deeply, the spirits hot in his throat and stomach. "You have always been closer to him than I am. Gabriel too, but especially you. When we were kids, Beelzebub and I rarely had the patience to sit and pray, but you... you could always speak with him."

Raphael shook his head. "God loves us all, Michael, healers as well as soldiers."

Michael laughed mirthlessly, too loudly, the sound jarring in the tent. "Yet you healers have the easy work, never risking any harm to the soul. It is we, the soldiers, who face trials and tainting every day. I am sending Laila to her death, Raphael, and I've sent many to their deaths before her, and I don't care anymore. It doesn't bother me, and I feel not an ounce of guilt or pity most times. Someday, Raphael... someday this war will end, and I will return to Heaven, and I worry, Raphael. I worry that when that day comes, those gates will be closed to me."

Raphael lowered his head. "Earth is a trial, Michael. We made it that way, didn't we? It has tested mankind for many years."

Anger suddenly flared in Michael, and he slammed his fist against the ground, surprised at his rage, surprised to find his eyes close to tears. "It was never meant to test angels."

Raphael raised an eyebrow again. "Was it not? It seemed to test Lucifer and Beelzebub, I recall. Those two left too many Nephilim in the wombs of human women." The healer smiled softly. "Michael, to feel conflict is to have a soul. Your guilt is a sign of goodness. Don't worry. God still loves you, Michael."

Michael fingered the filigrees in his armor. "Sometimes I wonder if God even exists. I know he speaks to you, Raphael. I know he speaks to Gabriel. God never talked to me."

"God is not an old man with a long white beard, walking in sandals across the clouds, a staff in hand," Raphael said. "He does not speak in words, but in whispers inside you. The fire in these candles, and the light in the sky, those are God's voices that speak to us. He talks to you as much as he speaks with me. He is with you, and Heaven's gates will always be open to you."

Michael looked at Raphael, the sad archangel, the healer of swan wings and long brown hair, of tragic eyes. "If God speaks to you, Raphael... if you can speak back... then put in a good word for me."
Without waiting for a response, Michael stood up, lifted his lance, and left the tent. He walked along the aqueduct, gazing at the dark sea, lance in hand, until sunrise glistened in his armor and swan wings.

Chapter Thirteen

Ash covered the stars, and the night was so dark, Laila could see nothing, even as her eyes blazed. The wind whistled through the trees, and as Laila walked through the forest, branches snagged her and smeared her with sap. Pine needles crunched beneath her boots, and roots and rocks tripped her. She was cold, and her cloak could not warm her. Volkfair padded beside her, his breath warm against her left hand. In her right hand, she clutched her new blade, Haloflame.

On this winter night, Michael had sent her into the woods with her blade and her wolf. "I want you to find me something there," he had said.

"What," she had asked, knowing his challenges all too well, "a particular twig you dropped there a year ago? Your lucky acorn? Maybe a pebble you carved your initials into back in biblical times?"

He had pointed with his sword toward the distant, forested hills. "Go and find in the darkness why you're here. Why you really want to take over Hell. Find the reason and bring it back to me."

"And then I'll be ready to face the King and Queen of Hell?"

He had smiled crookedly. "Nobody is ever ready for that. But maybe, Laila, you'll be one step closer."

And so she walked now in the darkness, the winds creaking the pines around her, the roots tripping her, Volkfair at her side. She cursed under her breath, kicking aside acorns and rocks. What kind of stupid task was this? She didn't have to go into the forest for this answer. Laila knew why she wanted to take over Hell.

"Because if Michael takes over Earth, Heaven's godlight will burn me," she spoke to Volkfair. "If Beelzebub wins, the hellfire would burn me. If I take over Hell, I can extinguish the fire, make it a home. It's how I can survive. What other answer does Michael want?"

Volkfair was silent, padding beside her. The black wolf rubbed against her and licked her paw. She smiled despite herself and ruffled his fur. "You're just a big puppy, aren't you, Volkfair?" she asked him. Feral and ruthless was the wolf around angels and demons, but alone with her, he was just her shaggy pet. She leaned down and hugged him.

"That Michael is nuts," she whispered into his fur. "He doesn't understand me. Only you understand me, Volkfair."

As the wolf licked her face, she sighed. After weeks of Michael's training, her muscles ached, she was more tired than she'd ever been, and her stomach seemed to cling to her back with hunger. She had never been so thin and weary. For weeks now, she had fed on nothing but the morsels Michael tossed her way, and she missed the taste of hot, fresh blood and meat between her fangs.

Tell me why you want to take over Hell, Michael had said. That was easy. So she could make a home there. She had tried to tell him that, but he only said, "Wrong answer."

How much longer would she have to stay in this forest?

Why, Laila? she heard Michael's voice in her mind. Why do you want a home in Hell?

A twisting root rose ahead, triggering a memory she had thought long buried. She had tripped over this root once, twenty years ago, fleeing the farm, Eclipse's body in her arms. Her bloody tears had wet her face then, and she felt them wet her face now. She stepped over the root and down a slope, the memory pounding through her, strong now, cold like the anguish of that day. Around a thorny thicket and three slanting pines she found it, the flat boulder she had placed there twenty years ago. "Eclipse," she had carved into the boulder with childlike script. Her tears had stained the letters with blood the day she carved them, and now moss covered the makeshift tombstone.

Volkfair by her side, Laila knelt before the grave. Cyclamens grew around the tombstone. Eclipse would have liked that, Laila thought. He liked eating flowers.

"I thought I was a monster," she told Volkfair, who looked at her with large eyes as if he understood. "It was difficult for me to befriend you, to have another pet. I didn't want to endanger anyone else."

Volkfair leaned his head against her. Often Laila thought the wolf had dog blood in him. She had found the beast wandering the desert—a burly European wolf lost in the Middle Eastern desert where his brethren were smaller, leaner, the color of sand. He too was an outcast, greater than other wolves, of mixed blood, a hunter with no pack. She had seen herself in him.

"I had to adopt you," she said, running her hands through his fur. "I had to prove I'm not a monster."

Laila sighed. Is that it, then? Is that what you want to hear, Michael?

Dawn was rising, and hunger grumbled in Laila's belly. She rose to her feet. "Come, Volkfair. Let's get something to eat."

When she had been a child, boars and jackals were the only large mammals to wander these hills, but in recent years, goats and deer had returned here, reclaiming the habitat humans had once taken from them. It was not long before Laila found the tracks of goats. The animals moved in single file along recurring trails, leaving cloven paths. Laila followed the trail, and soon Volkfair and she sat by a fire, chunks of goat cooking atop flat stones between the embers.

Volkfair feasted upon raw meat from the carcass, but Laila waited for hers to cook, remembering that day she had met Beelzebub ten years ago, when she was seventeen. He had taught her to cook her meat, and she had fallen in love with him, because he tamed her. He denounced her feral ways, refused to see her as a wild animal, but as an unearthly being of great power, and as a girl who was frightened and lonely. It was with Beelzebub that she grew from a beast into a legend. He too showed her that she could be more than monstrous. He had loved her. More than anything, his love made Laila feel less like a beast and more like a woman.

"And now I want to kill him," she said to Volkfair. The wolf raised his head from the goat carcass, bits of flesh dangling from his maw. "When the day comes, Volkfair... when I face Beelzebub in battle, will I be able to kill him like he killed my father?"

Laila lowered her head. Yes, Lucifer was my father. I am Satan spawn, a child of greatness. She had always known, deep in the whispers of her unconscious mind. How else could she be so strong? Why else would Heaven and Hell pursue her across the world? Lucifer, yes; he was my dad, and Beelzebub killed him.

"I'm not a freak," she said to Volkfair. "I am descended from great blood. I might be outcast from Hell, banished from Heaven, hunted on Earth... but I am still Lucifer's offspring." She stared at her meal, still cooking on the fire, drying out, burning away. She was no longer hungry. "Once I rule Hell, no one will hurt me anymore. Once I rule Hell, all will know that I'm not a monster."

So many times she had wanted to die, but now fire burned in her belly. She was done crying. She was done hiding. I am Laila, of the night. I am Laila, of godlight and of hellfire, of sins and of piety. I am Lucifer's daughter. I am not a beast.

She tossed dirt over the fire, her meal untouched. The passion filled her belly, leaving no room for food. The dawn spreading around her, she bared her fangs and howled at the rising sun, bat wings unfurled. Volkfair howled with her.

"Let's go back to Michael," she said to the wolf. "My training is done. It's time to invade Hell."

* * * * *

Bat El shifted in her shackles in the basement. The iron was cold and rough against her ankles, chaffing her, leaving red marks on her white skin. The shackles bound her to the wall, and the darkness was hot and thick around her. She was hungry and thirsty, and every part of her body ached.

Sometimes Bat El heard sounds from the fort above, screaming and creaking and thudding. The sounds of battle. Angels must be trying to reclaim this fort from Beelzebub. Yet whenever the sounds of battle rose, they faded quickly along with Bat El's hope. No angels ever burst into the dungeon to free her; her only visitors were hoofed shades who brought her stale bread, water, and jeers.

"Beelzebub!" she tried calling once. "Beelzebub, I want to talk!" Yet none responded.

Since her scuffle with Zarel, Beelzebub kept her here in the fort's dungeon, shackled. "I'm sorry," he'd whispered into her ear as his shades first bound her to the wall. "It won't be for long, I promise. Just until things settle down."

Then he had left, sealing her underground in darkness. She had not seen him since.

Sitting here in the dark, chained and hungry, Bat El felt anger fill her. How could she have ever fallen for Beelzebub? She trembled when she remember how she had kissed him, how she had let him know her, how the lord of Hell became the first man to have known her. You're a foolish, love sick girl, she admonished herself time after time. You fell to the devil's charms like a weak-minded mortal.Of course Beelzebub did not care for her. Of course she was nothing but a hostage to him, a bargaining chip. How could she had ever thought he cared for her, loved her, even?

Yet for all her rage and despair, and there was plenty of both here in the hot darkness, she remembered his last soft words to her. "I'm sorry." She remembered the last caress he had given her hair. And so, with her agony, lived the hope that someday he'd return to this dungeon and free her. It's Zarel who made him chain me here, she told herself. It's the Demon Queen who demanded I be locked underground. Beelzebub would never treat me this way if he could avoid it. He's just trying to mollify his wife. It's me he loves.

She hung her head. Despite it all, she still hoped for his love, and she hated herself for it.

Bat El did not know how long passed as she remained here in the darkness. She tried to count how many times the demons fed her gruel and dry bread, but soon lost count. Days passed, maybe weeks. Her hair grew knotty and ashy, and her skin itched. Her shackles chaffed her ankles, and sleep brought nightmares. Many prayers she whispered in the darkness, praying to Heaven, to God, to Michael. Yet when help finally arrived, it came from the devil.

She heard his footsteps walking downstairs that day, and knew at once that it was him. Demons walked on hooves, cackling and hissing; Beelzebub's sandals made sounds like the song of angels to her. When he opened the door, she blinked in the light of the torch he carried, eyes stinging. Her hair covered her face, tangled.

She tried to speak, but her lips were dry. He placed the torch in a sconce in the wall and held a bottle to her lips. She drank the sweet water and tried to speak again, but words still failed her, not knowing if she hated, loved, or feared the lord of Hell.

He leaned in to touch her hair and kiss her cheek. She turned her head away. "How can you even think of kissing me," she said in a cracked voice, tears in her eyes, "after chaining me down here?"

He spoke quietly as he unchained her. "It's Zarel who ordered you chained in this dungeon, not I."

She glared at him through her tears, her legs aching as she finally moved them out of the shackles. "Last I heard, it was Beelzebub, not Zarel, who was running this show."

He helped her to her feet, and she stood shakily.

"She would have killed you if I hadn't done it," Beelzebub said. "She'd kill you if she knew the truth." The torchlight danced in his black armor and dark eyes.

"And what is the truth?" she said, struggling to make her voice stern, though her throat was still parched.

"That we care for each other," he said. "You and I. Maybe even love each other."

She blew out her breath in frustration, tears still on her lashes. "I feel nothing toward you but hate, pity, and scorn that your wife rules you so, that you dare not defy her. I never imagined that the King of Hell would let himself be henpecked."

He looked into her eyes, no anger in him. "I'm sorry," he said. "That's all I can offer. I imprisoned you here to save you from Zarel, and my apology is all I can give."

"So why do you unchain me now?"

He took her hand and began leading her upstairs out of the dungeon. She moved slowly, weak, her legs shaking.

"I sent Zarel south to train an army to reclaim the neighborhoods we lost in Jerusalem. She went gladly, hoping she might get a chance to kill Laila. If there's anyone she wants to kill more than you, Bat El, it's your half-sister."

Bat El glared at him. "Laila will not die easily. I hope she kills Zarel."

Beelzebub sighed. "You know what? Sometimes I do too."

They reached the top of the stairs and entered the fort's main hall. Afternoon light streamed through the windows and Bat El shut her eyes. I'm like Laila now, she thought. The sunlight burns me.

It was good to know that Laila still lived. Bat El had never seen much of her younger sister. When Laila had been born, Bat El was very young herself, only just blossoming into womanhood in Heaven's meadows. She remembered holding the tiny, screaming baby with bat wings and fiery eyes. Laila's skin had turned red in the godlight, and she had not stopped screaming until Bat El suggested bringing the child down to Earth.

Armageddon had just begun in those days, and Earth rose in flame, millions of angels and demons destroying it in war. Bat El had wanted to take Laila down to the world herself. "I need to look after her," she said. Yet her father had refused. Gabriel had taken Laila down to Earth, where the baby's skin healed and she finally stopped weeping. The archangel placed Laila in Raphael's care, hoping that the great healer could cure the evil within her.

Instead, Laila escaped when she was only six, starting her long, lost exile. Standing in the fort's hall, Bat El dared open her eyes, though the light still burned her. She looked at the wall where Michael's portrait had once hung. The demons had removed it, but Bat El could still see the painting in her mind.

"Look after her, Michael," she whispered. "Please, God, protect my sister."

Beelzebub let her bathe then, and gave her fresh clothes and a hairbrush, and fed her grilled vegetables, cheeses, breads, olive oil, and wine. By evening, Bat El felt more like her old self, but worry for Laila, Michael, and the others still gnawed on her.

"Zarel converted your chamber into a guard tower," Beelzebub said when night fell. "Come with me. Let's get some sleep." He led her down a hallway into a chamber that held an oak bed, a desk, and a nightstand topped with candles. Through stone windows, Bat El could see the sea.

"I think this used to be Michael's bedroom," Beelzebub said. "I've made it my own. The bed is comfortable enough for what you'd expect to find in an old fort. It's large enough that we can share it, at least until Zarel returns."

Bat El began to walk away. "I will not share a bed with you."

"Wait, Bat El." She paused and turned back to face him. "No funny stuff," he said. "I promise."

She shook her head. "You sleep on the floor."

"Why should I have to sleep on the floor?"

"Then take me back to the dungeon," she said.

Beelzebub sighed the deepest sigh Bat El had ever seen. He began taking off his armor. "Fine. But I get the blanket, then."

He lit a candle, and soon Bat El lay on the large oak bed. Beelzebub lay on the floor by her, covered in the blanket, his breathing deep and rhythmic. Bat El lay still, watching the candle. It had been so long since she lay in a real bed, and it felt heavenly, but she could not sleep.

"Beelzebub?" she whispered. "Are you awake?"

He did not respond, and the blanket rose and fell as he slept. Bat El shut her eyes and tried to count sheep, but the sheep became demons in her mind. An owl hooted outside, and Bat El started. She rolled onto her side and hugged herself. She was cold. Why did I let Beelzebub keep the blanket?

She stepped out of bed to close the shutters, and saw bats flying outside like tiny shades. She shivered, closed the shutters, and returned to bed, but could not sleep. Instead she found herself watching Beelzebub's blanket rise and fall, rise and fall, like the waves outside the window.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, Bat El told herself as she crept out of the bed to lie beside Beelzebub on the floor. He seemed not to wake as she wriggled under the blanket to lie against him, her head on his chest, her limbs wrapped around him. She lay against him, warm, hating herself. She could kill him in his sleep, she knew. She could grab his sword from the wall and drive it through him. I could end this war right now.

Yet she only cuddled against him, eyes moist. She hated herself. She was weak. She was a betrayer of Heaven.

She was in love with Beelzebub.

* * * * *

"It's time to invade Hell," Laila told Michael.

The two walked over the ruins of Jerusalem, bricks and dust and pebbles under their boots. Volkfair walked by Laila's side, black and silent. Around them, angel troops moved about the wreckage, raising tents, digging trenches, clearing rubble. Since Zarel had destroyed the church, leveling half the neighborhood with it, Heaven had been fortifying these streets. Not much was left—only ruins and bodies—but it was enough. With Zarel fled, her demons dead, Heaven's forces were spreading across the city, conquering street after street. Soon Jerusalem would be theirs.

But for how long? Laila wondered. It was only a matter of time, she knew, until Zarel returned with the might and wrath of Hell.

Michael shook his head, his lance tapping against the ruins as he walked, as if it were a staff. "That's why I lead this army, not you. Your mind is full of stupid ideas."

Volkfair growled, and Laila patted him, soothing the wolf. "How long do you really think you can hold onto Jerusalem, Michael?" She stepped over a fallen column. "Zarel is already mustering an army to drive you out. For twenty-seven years, you and your brother have been slugging it out, and neither one of you is close to winning this world. If you want to win Earth, I must take over Hell, then retreat its armies. That was the deal, remember? You help me usurp Beelzebub, I retreat into Hell and give you Earth." She bared her fangs and her halo ignited. "It's time to take the battle to Beelzebub's home front. To hit him where he hurts. I must carve out a chunk of Hell and start claiming territory there, not just here on Earth."

Two sparrows alighted on Michael, then fled when they saw Laila. The archangel watched them fly away. "You visited Hell once, as I recall. The hellfire boiled your angel blood, nearly killing you. The place is toxic to anyone from Heaven, even to half-angels like you. We might as well invade a sea of acid."

Laila smiled. "Hellfire can be extinguished. Holy water can put it out. I plan to extinguish all hellfire when I take over."

"There aren't enough buckets in the world to carry enough holy water into Hell," Michael said.

"I don't need buckets. I'm going to dump an entire lake on them."

Michael sighed. "Laila, have you been hitting the bottle lately?"

"Well, yes, but that's beside the point. Look, Michael. Hell is nine circles, right? Limbo, the first circle, is just ten miles under the surface of the world. It's only about thirty miles long, another thirty wide. I've been there, Michael. It's a small circle, really just a portal into what lies below, but it can be enough. If I take over Limbo, I'll have a foothold in Hell, and then we can really get the ball rolling."

Michael stopped walking and sat on a fallen column. He rubbed his neck. "Where in your crazy plan does this lake of yours come in?"

She drew Haloflame, which hung over her back, and gave it a few whistling swings. "The Sea of Galilee. Jesus walked upon the water there, they say. The whole bloody lake is holy water. We carve a tunnel from the lakebed down into Limbo, and drain a cubic mile of holy water onto the bastards. That should put out the hellfire long enough to invade and take the place. It won't harm the rest of Hell, but if we can take Limbo, well...." She grinned. "Beelzebub would be pissed."

"Laila," Michael said, "this is reality. Your idea is fantasy. To drain a lake of holy water onto Limbo would mean digging a sloping tunnel that's over twenty miles long and at least a hundred yards wide. Even if you had a thousand construction workers, it would take years."

She sheathed her blade. "Oh, I think we can dig this tunnel in a day or two."

"Not with a million shovels. If you had God himself digging, you wouldn't get it done in two days."

She smiled crookedly. "I don't need God. I just need an old friend who owes me a favor." She spread her wings. "Muster a few divisions, Michael, as many as you can spare. I'm going to need them. I invade Hell in two days."

With that she took off, flying north, the smile never leaving her lips.

Chapter Fourteen

Zarel flew over her army, bat wings flapping, surveying the troops. She had gathered them in the desert upon a rocky field, rows and rows of demons, glinting red under the cruel sun. Zarel herself burned as a second sun, surveying the shades, these troops of claws, fangs, horns, drooling grins. Five divisions she had gathered among the dunes, fifty thousand shades, a force greater than the world had seen in years. Five archdemons commanded the divisions, beasts the size of whales, their eyes and mouths dripping lava.

Zarel licked her lips, grinning as she circled over the army. I'm coming to kill you, Laila, she thought. Twice she had almost killed the young half-breed. Nothing would stop her this time. With fifty thousand troops, she could overtake Jerusalem and kill Laila, maybe even kill Michael. Then this world will be ours. Then Beelzebub will have no more use for Bat El, and I can kill that girl too.

Flames rose from Zarel's mouth when she thought of the angel, Gabriel's daughter. She clenched her teeth and shut her eyes, fiery tears just stinging at them. Why does Beelzebub hurt me so? Why can't he love me the way I love him?

"I love you, Beelzebub," Zarel whispered as she flew. "I love you so much. Why can't I have your love for my own? Why must I share you?"

She remembered their wedding in Hell. They had wed in the Ninth Circle, the deepest and hottest pit of Hell, in a tower of polished jet. All the fallen angels who still lived had been there. Moloch, the ruler of Limbo, had given them goblets of lava to drink, sealing the bond between them. It had been a strange day, Zarel remembered. Lucifer's grave had still been fresh, and Laila had just escaped into exile, the armies of Heaven and Hell hot in pursuit, scouring the world for the girl. Battles raged above ground, and the guests exchanged uneasy looks throughout the ceremony.

"He still loves the half-breed," Mammon, the fallen angel of greed, whispered to Moloch that morning. Zarel overheard, but pretended not to, facing a wall to hide her tears. Beelzebub loves me, she told herself. And if he does not, he will learn to.

She walked through the Ninth Circle that day, lost in her thoughts, gazing upon the rivers of lava and the columns of hellfire. Bred in the Ninth Circle was she, where all the greatest archdemons were forged—daughter of Angor, a great demon, a rising power in Hell.

When she had been a child, fallen angels whispered around her that some day, she might grow to become a bride to Lucifer. "Some day," they would tell Angor, "your daughter will be queen." All her childhood, Zarel believed them, believed she'd grow up to marry Lucifer, and hated the thought. Lucifer frightened her. His eyes were always wroth, his grin always cruel. One day, the King of Hell had visited their home to speak with Angor. Zarel cowered in the corner that day, but emerged when her father commanded her to come forth, to serve wine to Lucifer, to curtsy before him.

Zarel served Lucifer the wine, but did not curtsy, more because fear paralyzed her than any show of defiance. Angor wanted to beat her, but Lucifer only laughed and caressed her flaming hair. "Sweet, demonic child," he said and kissed her scaly cheek.

That night, Zarel dreamed that she was married to Lucifer, forced to serve him wine, to endure his caresses and kisses. That nightmare haunted her for years. She had always thought that Beelzebub, Lucifer's lieutenant, was far more handsome. The fallen angel—brother to Michael—often visited their home to speak with Angor, and always brought her presents: glowing firegems, blades of rippled steel, or animal skulls filigreed in gold. He had always been her favorite among the fallen angels.

"I've always loved you," she whispered, watching the fifty thousand demons below in the desert. "I've loved you all my life."

How she had rejoiced when Beelzebub killed Lucifer and proposed to her! Blinded with joy she had been. Let the fallen angels whisper that he still loved Laila. Let them whisper that she was only a consolation prize. Beelzebub would learn to love her like he loved Laila, Zarel told herself over and over.

He had made love to her the night after they married, in flame and passion and screams that made his fortress tremble. The next morning, he was gone to Earth to fight his war, to fight against his brother Michael. They rarely spent nights together since.

"Do you love me?" she asked him countless times, and he said he did, and she believed him, could see the love in his eyes. When they made love, he loved her, she knew. He confessed his love over and over in bed, when she ignited the flames within him. So why did he cheat on her? Why did he seek pleasures so often with other women?

"That is just his way," Moloch once said to her when she came to him for consolation, tears on her cheeks. "You can't change him, Zarel. He is thousands of years old and set in his ways."

"I thought I could change him," she said to Moloch in his fortress in Limbo, the First Circle of Hell. "I thought he would be only mine."

Moloch, dressed as always in his black cape and scale armor, had poured her more wine. "Back when we were in Heaven, Beelzebub wouldn't let anyone tame him, not his older brother, not God. He and Lucifer were the wild ones among us. Do you know, even in his angel days, Beelzebub couldn't curb his appetite. He'd sneak down to Earth with Lucifer, sometimes with Michael and Gabriel too, and go chasing human girls. God, he loved the human women. I lost count early of how many he knew." Moloch shook his head, his long black hair swaying. "He does love you, Zarel, but he is Beelzebub, and Beelzebub he will remain. My advice to you is to bear it and not try to change him. Be grateful that he loves you, that he made you his queen, and stand by him. There is nothing else you can do."

But there was something she could do, Zarel knew. She could hunt down her husband's paramours and kill them. One day, not long after they married, Zarel learned of a human girl, only sixteen years old, who Beelzebub had found on Earth and impregnated. The girl was one of the few humans left in those years, a survivor who lived in a hovel somewhere in Europe. Zarel had heard demons who served with Beelzebub speak of the girl, and she left Hell, found the girl, and clawed out her throat.

I'll do the same to you, Laila, Zarel swore as the demon army hissed and howled below. And she knew that Beelzebub was sleeping with Bat El too. She could see it in her husband's eyes. I'll kill both sisters. Soon enough, there will be no humans or angels left in this world. Then Beelzebub will finally be just mine.

* * * * *

Laila flew over the Holy Land, out of Jerusalem, heading north over the wooded Carmel Mountains. Thin clouds covered the sky, veiling the sun, and the air was cold up here. Laila's cloak did little for warmth in the sky, and she found herself wanting a hot campfire, a fresh kill, and Volkfair by her side.

Why did I ever get involved in this war? As she flew, Laila reached over her back and caressed Haloflame's hilt. Because she was so powerful, many assumed that she loved to fight, that she was a bloodthirsty warrior, a terror. Nobody knows that all I really want is some peace, a nice fire, maybe a good book if I can find one.

Laila regretted flying. She should have walked, or maybe found an old car she could repair and drive. That way she could have brought her wolf. She missed him. Soon she could see the Sea of Galilee ahead, where Angor waited, and Laila suddenly feared to see him.

I'm tired of facing demons and angels. I'm sick of it all. I just want to drink and sleep. It had been too long since she'd drunk herself unconscious. During training with Michael, she had no time to think, to feel anything but weariness, and now, her training complete, the old anguish crept back in. I'm scared to invade Hell, she realized. She was scared to see Angor again, scared that Zarel was hunting her, scared that Bat El was in danger, maybe dead. Why do I always have to be so afraid?

There was a town by the lake, Laila remembered, long abandoned by humans, a place where she sometimes camped when wandering the north. During her exile, she had spent many days wandering these northern hills, miles from Jerusalem. When she spotted the ancient town, a heap of ruins that dated back to biblical times, finally destroyed in Armageddon, Laila began to descend. I'll face Angor soon. First I need a drink.

She landed in the hilly town between stone houses. Silent, her sword over her back, she wandered down the cobbled alley. Between the buildings, she could see the rest of the ghost town sprawled over the hills, a mix of ancient buildings and newer structures, some toppled, others burned by old fire. Few humans lived here, she knew, only a handful of survivors who locked themselves indoors most of the time. Stray cats and dogs raced across the weedy streets as she walked, fleeing her.

The cobbled alleys were so narrow, the roofs of the ancient houses almost touched. Hundreds of these streets snaked over the hills, an undulating landscape of broken cobbles, crooked homes, ancient temples, and wild pines. Several goats wandered the town, and Laila even glimpsed a skinny human child flee down a street and disappear through a doorway. The town was silent, the only sound the birds and goats. In the distance beyond the hills, Laila glimpsed columns of fire and smoke; armies of angels and demons warred there.

Finally Laila found the old house where she had once spent a month, nursing a wound demons had given her in the forests. She had been nineteen, maybe twenty, wandering the Holy Land in cloak and hood, fleeing Heaven and Hell. She stepped into the old house now, the memories strong. Things had been so different back then. She had been more frightened during those years, weaker in body and spirit. I'm so much harder now, so much darker.

Laila smiled as she entered the shadowy, dusty house. The place was just as she had left it. It was a small home, only a single story with three plain rooms, the brick walls old and crumbly. Her chest of drawers was still there, covered with dust and cobwebs, and when Laila opened it, she found a bottle of whiskey, a survivor of her old stash. Her smile sad, she uncorked the bottle and drank. Still good.

Her power generator was still there, as she had hoped, plugged into an old record player. Buried under more dust and cobwebs, Laila unearthed her record collection, surprised that it took her so long to return here. She dusted off an old record of The Who and placed the needle on her favorite track, "Call Me Lightning". With a few squeaks and squeals, the record player began to play, and Laila sat down and leaned against the wall.

"It's a happy song," she said aloud, just to hear a voice. She was so used to speaking to Volkfair, that even with him away, she found herself needing to speak aloud. She pretended that her wolf was there to hear. "I don't think people would imagine I like a happy song, but I do. It makes me happy."

She took a swig of her drink and shut her eyes. Soon the bottle was empty and her head spinning, and she kept playing the same song. "Call me lightning," she sang in the shadowy room. "Call me lightning. I'm like lightning, Volkfair. I'm fast. I'm fast. I can hurt people. I don't want to. I don't want to go to Hell. Volkfair, do you hear me?"

She smashed the empty bottle against the wall and rummaged for more booze, but found none. "Dum dum dum, call me lightning." Nobody answered, and Laila curled up on the floor, accidentally kicking over the record player. The music died, and she slept.

She slept through the night, sprawled across the floor, like in the old days when she'd sleep in caves, burrows, abandoned houses, and fields, passed out with an empty bottle at her side. When she woke up, her head ached, and her stomach felt queasy. The floor was dark where she had drooled onto it. She looked aside at the smashed bottle, and the smell of alcohol made her stagger outside and retch into the bushes. She straightened, groggy, and winced in the morning light.

"Man, my head hurts," she muttered. Why did she have to drink the entire bottle in one sitting? Her stomach still roiling, she tested flapping her right wing, then her left. I can't face Angor now, hung over, groggy, with that song still stuck in my head. Yet Laila dared not tarry longer. Every day that she dallied, Hell grew stronger. Their spies reported that Zarel was mustering an army in the south, and Laila knew that army was meant for one purpose: to kill her. But I have a few surprises up my sleeve. Killing me won't be so easy, Zarel.

A rooster called atop a roof ahead, but the thought of breakfast made Laila's stomach churn again, as did the thought of flying. Instead, Laila set out to walk to the lake, Haloflame strapped over her back. She took slow steps, rubbing her temples, heading down the hills toward the water. The lake glistened in the valley below, deep blue, fringed by treed beaches. For thousands of years, the humans worshipped at this lake, where they said Jesus walked, where the River Jordan flowed. A lake of Holy Water, Laila knew. A lake that could extinguish hellfire. This better work.

She could not see Angor from here, and she wondered if he hid underwater, or if he had betrayed her and fled. "I told you to wait for me at the lake," she muttered. If he had escaped, Laila swore that she'd hunt him down, chop off his tail and wings, and—once she conquered Hell—demote him to the firepits.

Soon Laila walked alongside the banks of the lake, trees and rushes rustling around her. Thousands of birds flocked here, and Laila glimpsed orange and red fish in the water. Just as she was reflecting how the animals multiplied as the humans vanished, Laila noticed a human girl standing by the water, leaning against a eucalyptus. Eighteen or nineteen years old, the girl wore only tattered underclothes, revealing a bruised, muddy body that had maintained an attractive curviness in an era when most humans were skin and bones.

"Well, what are you then?" the girl asked when she saw Laila, her eyes widening, a smile curling the corners of her lips. Her face was squat and square, attractive in its own unique way, with green eyes, full lips, and wavy hair that fell to her shoulders.

"I'm half-demon, half-angel," Laila replied, surprised that the girl did not recognize her. She thought that everyone on Earth knew of her. If for no other reason, Laila instantly liked the girl.

"My, my," the girl said, eyes widening even further, sparkling with what looked like delight mixed with surprise. "Would you like a trick, then? Loaf of bread gets you an hour. Give me salted meat or fruit, and I'm yours all morning."

Laila blew out her breath. "Just because I wear big boots and carry a sword doesn't mean I roll that way."

The girl shrugged. "Would you like to go for a swim, then? I hate swimming alone. There's a great demon in the lake. But I won't be scared to swim with you, and I could use a good bath."

So Angor was here. Laila nodded. "I'd like a swim." A human girl, young and attractive, selling her wares for cheap... this one would know Beelzebub. Laila was sure of that. If she could befriend the girl, she could use her.

Laila pulled off her boots, doffed her cloak, and stripped down to her underwear.

"Your body is all bruised and cut," the girl said.

"So is yours," Laila replied.

The girl shrugged and stepped toward the water. "Part of the business."

They entered the lake. The water stung Laila's skin, just holy enough to tingle her. This lake had been blessed millennia ago, and most of its holiness was gone. It wouldn't be enough to burn demons, Laila knew. I just hope it's still holy enough to extinguish hellfire. It better be, or I'm screwed.

Particolored fish swam around them, nibbling at their legs, and aquatic plants caressed Laila's toes. She ducked under, letting the water fill her hair. It had been so long since she'd gone for a swim. This felt good—the water, the birds above, the company of a girl who did not fear her, did not even know her. Is this what it feels like to be an angel? Laila wondered. It was so rare for her to feel her angelic side, to feel peace and beauty, that whenever the feeling tickled her, she clung to it. Never forget, Laila, that angel blood flows through you, that you are capable of peace and beauty too.

"What's your name?" she asked the girl as they waded through the lake, the water up to their necks.

"They call me Kayleigh," the girl said, moving through the water beside her, glancing around as if searching for Angor. Her light hair turned brown when wet.

"What's your real name?"

"Kayleigh is good enough. That's my real name now." She laughed uncomfortably and wriggled in the water. "These fish keep nipping my feet."

Laila smiled. "We should catch a couple and bite into them in return."

Kayleigh wrinkled her nose. "I can't gut a fish, and I hate cooking them. Do you know how?"

"I do."

"Okay. We can make some later, if you can start a fire. I'm out of matches."

Laila smiled crookedly. "If there's anything I do well, it's starting fires."

Kayleigh looked into Laila's eyes, fear and fascination mixing across her square face. "Your eyes seem to be on fire, like the flames on candles. Can you see in the dark with them?"

"Well enough. Do my eyes scare you?"

Kayleigh shrugged. "I don't know. I've seen eyes of flame before. There's a fallen angel I know. His eyes are like that too."

Here we go. This was going faster than Laila had expected. "Is he tall, with black curly hair, and black armor filigreed with gold?"

Kayleigh nodded. "Is he your brother? He looks a little like you. He also has fangs and claws, but his are larger and look meaner." She showed Laila old scratches on her shoulder. "He doesn't even realize when he scratches me. He says later that he doesn't remember doing it."

"Beelzebub," Laila said.

Kayleigh nodded. "That's the name he gave me. Are you two related?"

Laila raised an eyebrow. "You don't know who Beelzebub is?"

"He never told me much about himself. I think he's married. I don't ask questions. He brings me good meat, eggs, wine. He's nice, kind of quiet, laid back. I like him."

Laila bit her lip, shocked that anyone would not know who Beelzebub was. Then again, this girl was born after Armageddon, and probably grew up along this shore, illiterate and uneducated. Maybe it's better that she doesn't know. Strangely, the thought of Beelzebub with another woman still sent pangs of jealousy through Laila, even after all these years.

The girls swam for a while with no sign of Angor. Laila caught three fish, and Kayleigh had some rice stashed inside an old suitcase. The girls started a bonfire on the shore and ate lunch, birds pecking the grass around them, columns of flame rising across the lake with sounds of distant battle. At one point, a black hump disturbed the surface of the water, then disappeared with a grumble, sending birds into flight. Kayleigh froze and paled. "The demon."

Laila nodded. "Don't worry about him. I'm going to get rid of him after lunch. I'd like to talk to you a bit more about Beelzebub first."

The girl, it turned out, sold her words for not much more than her body. Laila promised to visit once a week with parcels of food. In return, she had the sweetest little spy in the Holy Land at her service.

"Next time you have him in his passion," Laila told the girl, "when he scratches and moans and is unaware of himself, ask him questions. Can you get him into a state where he'll answer anything?"

Kayleigh nodded with a crooked smile and a wink. "You're good at starting fires in wood. I can start fires in the male heart. If there's anything I can do, it's that. List your questions, Laila the half-demon, and I will give you the answers."

Laila nodded and gave the girl a list, making her memorize it. They whisper, my dearest Beelzebub, that you have another woman, an angel. Is it true? Where do you keep her? Let me know because I'm jealous. They say, my darling, that your wife is gone, that she's somewhere south. What is she doing away? When do you think she'll return? Let me know, because I like you better when your wife is away. They say, my sweetness, that you once loved Laila the half-demon. What do you know of her whereabouts? Tell me, because I must have your love for myself alone.

"Those are innocent enough," Kayleigh agreed. "I can make him answer them. Soon I'll tell you all about your sister, about Zarel's plans, and how much Beelzebub knows about you. And remember your part of the deal."

Laila nodded. "I'll feed you for a year at least."

"And I want some dresses, and some beads for bracelets."

"You'll get them. I'll visit you again in a week with your first payment. If Beelzebub visits you before then, I want answers."

Kayleigh winked. "He'll visit before then. And he'll speak, trust me."

Laila hesitated for a moment, then hugged the girl, surprised at herself. "Thank you, Kayleigh. I hope we can be more than just business partners. I'd like to be your friend." Shocked at herself, Laila realized that she meant those words, was not using them merely to enlist an ally. Perhaps she saw a bit of herself in this lost, dejected girl, another outcast and survivor.

"Goodbye, Kayleigh," she said, then spread her wings and flew. It was time to meet Angor.

* * * * *

The sounds of battle came from outside, but Beelzebub did not feel like getting out of bed. Not when Bat El lay by his side, her head on his chest, her arm and leg tossed over him. Every day now, it seemed, his brother sent angels to harass his demons and act like pests. Michael's full attack on the fort had not yet come. For now, he's just trying to annoy me. Beelzebub refused to be annoyed. Not today. Why should he let his brother pester him so?

He kissed Bat El, who still slept despite the clanging of steel and demon grunts outside. Perhaps they were both so used to the sounds of battle, it took more to wake them. He kissed her good morning.

"I'm going to leave you here for a few days," he said when she opened her eyes.

"Good," she said. "I've grown tired of you already."

They made love as the lines of sunrise through the shutters crept across the floor, and then Beelzebub stepped out of bed. He strapped on his ancient breastplate, black iron filigreed with gold, and strapped his greaves onto his shins and vambraces onto his forearms. The left vambrace was still dented from the sword blow Bat El gave him the day they met.

Beelzebub remembered the day he acquired the armor. The Romans had just destroyed Jerusalem, Hell was young, and there were whispers that Armageddon was near. Lucifer had sent him to visit Jerusalem's destruction, to see if angels were emerging. Beelzebub found Michael standing among the ruins, swan wings unfurled.

"Go home," Michael had said. "It's not this year."

The archangel wore new armor in the style of Roman nobles, glittering, the breastplate lined with silver. His swan wings were spread wide, just as brilliant, and his halo glowed. Look at that, Beelzebub thought. He got all dressed up for the occasion. When Armageddon does arrive, I won't let an angel out-style me.

"Nice armor," he said. "Know where I can get my own?" And so he found the blacksmith, and had his own armor made, the same as his brother's, but black and gold.

Standing by the bed in the Crusader castle, Bat El looking up at him, Beelzebub buckled the last piece of armor. I always wanted to be like you, big brother, he thought. It's a shame I'll have to kill you soon.

"Where are you going?" Bat El asked, the sunlight on her hair.

He strapped his sword onto his waist and kissed her. "To visit my brother."

With that he left the room. His demons had orders to keep Bat El in the fort. Shackling her in the dungeon would be safer, but Beelzebub hadn't the heart to chain her again. He had the feeling that this time the angel wouldn't try to escape.

Sooner or later this war will end, and I'll have to decide what to do with Bat El. Beelzebub knew Zarel would never accept the angel as a concubine in his court. She'd kill the girl as soon as he turned his back. Beelzebub sighed. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Out in the courtyard, his personal guard awaited, thirteen archdemons of white scales, their eyes pale orbs the size of saucers. Brilliant like angels they were, for they were forged with drops of angel blood. Their fangs and claws were long, their malice endless.

"My lord," said their chief and saluted.

Beelzebub saluted back and began to march into the countryside, the sea crashing behind. The thirteen archdemons followed. Out in the fields, an army stood, rolling into the distance. Tens of thousands of demons raised their shields in salute, a sound like the gates of Hell slamming.

A fireball flew over the army and landed before Beelzebub. Zarel. His archdemon wife smiled and kissed Beelzebub. "Good morning, Beelzie, my love," she said.

Beelzebub smiled. She was in a good mood today, and beautiful in the dawn, her hair aflame, her scales glinting. That made Beelzebub happy. He kissed her. "Good morning, dear. Shall we head out?"

"Let's."

In the past two days, Beelzebub's spies reported that Michael had been moving troops, mustering three divisions in Jerusalem. He plans to attack this fort, Beelzebub thought. Lucifer would have stayed in the fort and let Michael crash against the walls, but Beelzebub had always preferred a swift offense. I'll catch Michael while he's still polishing his swords.

Of course, there was the possibility that Michael didn't intend to attack the fort at all, that he was simply trying to lure Beelzebub out, or maybe planning an attack on Hell itself. Those didn't sound like actions his brother would take, but Beelzebub reminded himself that it wasn't just Michael he fought now. Laila was there too. The girl was unpredictable, and Beelzebub knew to expect surprises today.

They marched along the cracked human highways, tens of thousands of demons snaking across the Holy Land. The sea crashed behind them, angry under livid clouds. Ahead rose sandy hills. In the afternoon they reached the outskirts of Jerusalem. Among those ancient ruins ahead, Michael and Laila waited, Beelzebub knew. He camped his army in the hills to wait for night; in darkness they would attack. They dug pits of fire around the city and raised columns of flame and smoke. They fed upon raw meat, drank bloodwine, and slammed fists against shields of jet.

When the sun disappeared behind the hills, Beelzebub blew a horn, and the army of Hell charged into the ancient city.

Chapter Fifteen

Laila flew over the lake, wings outstretched, until she saw a shadow snaking under the water. She descended in circles toward the lake.

"Angor!" she called.

The archdemon raised his head from the water, scaly and covered with algae. He squinted his red eyes at her, and his tongue darted from his mouth. "Laila," he grumbled.

"Well, aren't you a regular Loch Ness monster," she said with a crooked smile. She landed on his head and sat there, cross legged. "I've come to call on that favor you owe me."

He snorted, the water rippling around him. "I do you no favors. I help you; you keep your grubby angel hands off my daughter. That's the deal."

"Yes, yes," Laila said with a sigh. "Angor, I'm going into Limbo. I need you to dig the way there."

He rolled his eyes to stare up at her. His tongue lolled, slimy and bloated. "The hellfire would burn your angel blood."

Laila shook her head. "Angor, I hope your claws are sharp. You've got a lot of digging to do."

* * * * *

Once Laila took flight, Angor swam to the bottom of the lake, the water heavy above him. It was dark here. Angor liked the darkness. He liked to dig too, and his claws had been idle for too long.

He sent those claws into the moist, mossy floor and began tossing aside the dirt. It swirled around him, blinding him, filling his nostrils. Digging. It had been too long. Soon he had dug himself into a tunnel, the water heavy above him. His claws kept scratching, tearing out chunks of rock and soil.

The half-breed was crazy, he thought. Did she truly think she could win Hell? Did she truly think this plan would work, that this water could extinguish hellfire? It had been two thousand years since Christ had walked upon this lake; by now, the water was barely holy enough to sting Angor. Crazy. Stupid. And yet... and yet the girl had made it into his chamber under Caesarea. She had beaten him in battle. She had survived the tunnel collapsing. If Laila was truly Lucifer's daughter, she had the power to make her claim. And if Laila succeeded, she would remember who helped her.

His claws dug like spinning knives, and he moved deeper and deeper underground, snaking miles under the surface, the water gushing behind him. The earth and rock got hotter and hotter as he dug. For a day he clawed at rock and soil, maybe longer, moving toward Hell, a torrent behind him.

Laila might be strong with claw and fang, he thought. But nobody can dig like me.

As he dug in the wet blackness, he thought of Beelzebub. What would the fallen angel do if he learned of this? Beelzebub was not one to tolerate betrayal. Angor snorted. Let him be mad. Let him try to come after me. I served Lucifer. I owe nothing to Beelzebub.

It was Lucifer, the great fallen angel, leader of the rebellion against God, who forged Angor in the pits of hellfire. For a thousand years, Angor raised Zarel to be a bride to Lucifer, to become the greatest archdemon in Hell, a worthy queen. And then Beelzebub had killed the devil, stole his throne, stole Zarel. So no, I will not weep for you, Beelzebub.

Soon the earth became so hot, the water gushing down the tunnel he dug steamed and whistled. The tunnel walls trembled around Angor, smoke seeped through cracks, and lava dripped. The water screamed and roiled, raising steam, enraged. Angor kept digging, snarling, the holy water and hellfire burning against him. With a roar, he slashed his claws, tearing aside chunks of rock, until finally the tunnel opened into a fiery world.

Limbo lay below.

Boulders tumbled. Roaring, the water burst into Limbo, tossing Angor down into the flaming blackness. He tumbled through the hellfire, flapped his wings, and flew aside. Smoke flurried and fire roared, almost loud enough to deafen him. Demons fluttered and screamed. Angor flattened himself against the ceiling of Limbo, the stream of water crashing by him through his tunnel.

Angor could see almost nothing but steam, smoke, and flame, hear nothing but their roar. Here and there, he glimpsed shades fluttering by, panicking. The tips of Limbo's towers peeked through the deluge, jagged and black. The flames, water, and swirling steam hid everything else.

Limbo. A great cavern, thirty miles long and wide, the entrance to Hell. Moloch's domain. As Angor watched, the holy water drenched this world, dousing the ancient hellfire, flooding the first circle of Hell.

* * * * *

When Laila saw the maelstrom form in the lake, the water draining, she knew that Angor was digging. For a moment as she flew over the water, doubt sent cold fingers down her back. The plan was so preposterous, it would take a miracle to work, she thought. She clenched her teeth. I'm just going to have to be a miracle worker. Hell is my home, my birthright. I'll make it my own.

She flew south from the lake, past burned fields, to the valley where her troops mustered. Flying a mile above, Laila gazed down into the valley. Demontears Division already bivouacked there, fifteen thousand angels, their campfires raising smoke, their tents lining the valley. Their banners flapped, bearing their sigil: a bloodred teardrop against a field of black. Barbwire and sandbags surrounded their camp, and hundreds of angels fluttered over the tents below Laila, a constant patrol of the skies. For years now had Demontears guarded these northern hills, battling demons who emerged from underground tunnels and their strongholds in the snowy Hermon Mountain above.

When Laila gazed south, she saw more angels snaking along the roads toward them, not ten miles away. These angels wore white robes, and their banners displayed golden talons against fields of blue. Here was Talon Division, which had fought with Laila for Caesarea. They would now fight with her for Hell.

Cedar Division was traveling south toward the camp from Lebanon; Laila could see their distant green banners and, when the wind was right, hear hints of their marching songs. For years, Cedar fought in the northern hills, hunkered down outside the Holy Land, slamming against demons on its borders.

From the east came marching the fabled Brimstone Brigade, five thousand desert-hardened angels clad in tan cloaks, swords in hands. They were among Heaven's meanest angels of retribution and wrath. Many in Brimstone boasted that they were among the destroyers of Sodom and Gomorrah.

Finally, along the western roads marched Thorn Division, ten thousand troops, leaving the Mediterranean ports to delve with Laila underground. They beat drums as they marched, and their banners showed bloodied thorns against silver fields.

In all directions, Heaven's wrath spread below.

Watching the armies gather, Laila glided over the winds, caressing her blade. Impressive as the hosts of Heaven might be, Laila had to bite her lip to curb her fear. She had been to Hell once, seeking to learn of her father. She knew what waited in Limbo. Moloch the fallen angel lurked there, eternally besmeared with the blood of sacrificed children. Humans had once worshipped this demon, burning their children to his idols of bronze. His strength and malice were great, Laila knew, his armies vast. She drew her sword and gazed at it. The sun glinted red in its blade like beads of blood. Just remember your training, she told herself. You're strong. You can face him.

She descended toward the camp and landed between the tents. Angels saluted as she walked by, her bat wings folded against her back, her boots rustling the rubble. Some gave her suspicious looks, less than pleased that a half-demon should lead them, but Michael had trained them well. They would follow her. She walked among the troops, gazing at them, letting them gaze at her. The faces were stern and ageless, but many were decades, centuries, even millennia old. Laila felt young among them, inexperienced. She missed Volkfair. She missed her sister. She even missed Michael... a little. Nice, Laila. Even among fifty thousand souls, you feel alone.

As she stepped around a mess tent, she finally saw a familiar face. Nathaniel, the wingless angel who fought with her for Jerusalem, stood ahead, polishing a sword. When he saw her, he nodded and grunted.

"You know," she said to him, unable to stifle a grin, "I am your commanding officer now. You should really salute."

He spat into the dust, but his good eye sparkled with just a hint of good humor. "Girl, I'm too old, aching, and tired to salute some half-demon pup. I lost my wings battling Hell when you were still sucking at your mom's bosom."

She showed him her fangs and tapped one with her finger. "See these things? I was born with them. I sucked no milk. I was raised on raw flesh and blood." She slapped his shoulder. "What are you doing here? I thought you were back with The Wrecking Balls in Jerusalem."

"Not much left of The Wrecking Balls, girl." He stared into the sky, scratching the stubble on his chin. "I lost many good angels there. Didn't make much sense to stay with my platoon gone. I asked for a transfer. Heard some crazy rumor you want to invade Hell. Sounded like fun."

"Oh, it will be."

He slammed his sword into its scabbard. "We leaving soon?"

Laila nodded. "Lake will be empty soon. We won't have long before Moloch rekindles the fires. It'll be a quick invasion, that's for sure."

Nathaniel nodded. "Wham bam thank you ma'am, just the way I like it." He slapped Laila's shoulder, so strong she nearly fell over. "You be careful down there, girl, and don't worry. I'll be watching your back."

As the armies gathered and the lake drained, Laila found the tent they had prepared for her, tall and black. She found a cot inside, curled up, and tried to sleep. I could use some sleep before going to Hell, at least an hour or two. Yet sleep evaded her, and she kept seeing Moloch in her mind, his face wreathed in flame. She had met this fallen angel once, and the memories would not leave her.

She had been fifteen, a wildling of the forests and deserts. She had just reached her full height, her full malice, her wings wide, her fangs sharp. "I will find my father," she swore in the wilderness. She would travel to Hell. She would find her demon family.

"I need a family," she would sob in the nights, when nobody could see her weakness.

So Laila the half-demon, fifteen years old, slung a knife through her belt, stuffed a handgun into her boot, and set off. She carried no backpack, no pots or pans, no sleeping bag. Wild in the forests, she owned little. She wandered across the Holy Land for days until she reached a demon camp. Silent in the sunlight when demons slept, she crept in, killing any demons who stumbled across her way. She found their tunnels. She crawled down into Limbo, ten miles under the surface of the world, into a land of hellfire and sin.

At once, the heat made her cry out, and her very blood seemed to catch fire. All the holiness within her sizzled. "Angel blood enters Hell!" came hisses from below, and demons grabbed her feet. Laila kicked but could not free herself, and her hair caught flame. On Earth, no shades could face her and live, but here, crippled by the hellfire that boiled her angel blood, she could not struggle. The demons stuffed her into a sack, and she screamed.

They carried her through Limbo. In the darkness of the sack, she screamed and kicked, her skin red, her fingers blistering. The columns of hellfire roared around her. She wanted to die. She pawed for her handgun, to kill herself, but could not find it; perhaps the demons had taken it from her. When the demons finally untied the sack, she could hardly move, her eyelids fluttering. They spilled her onto a hard floor, hellfire roaring outside the windows.

She raised her burning eyes and saw, blurry, a figure before her. He stood in scaled armor, bat wings outstretched, eyes blazing, hair black and long. His fangs glinted.

"A half-angel enters our realm, my lord Moloch," hissed a shade, jabbing Laila with his hoof.

Moloch gazed down upon her. "This is Laila you bring me, the daughter of night and sunlight," he said, voice deep and soft. "Why have you come, girl? Do you spy for Michael?"

Laila tried to speak, but could not. She could not even raise herself from the floor, and she felt the tips of her singed hair crackling again, about to catch flame. Her lips bled.

"Take her outside," Moloch said to the demons. "She's nearly dead. Nail her to the gates of my fort, so that she might burn away there, for all to see what happens to angels who enter this realm."

She could barely hear his voice beyond her boiling blood, and she prayed for death. "Please, God," she whispered through bleeding lips. "Please, God, if I am truly half-angel, if I am truly of Heaven, grant me death." Yet God would not hear her prayer; as she was banished from Hell, so was Laila the half-demon banished from Heaven and God's grace.

"Wait," came a voice as the demons began to drag her outside. "She does not come here as a spy. My brother would know better than to send a half-angel into Hell. The girl just came to find her father. There's no need to kill her."

Laila tried to raise her head, to see who spoke, but could not. She saw only red.

Moloch seemed to snort. "Beelzebub, your mercy is angelic; your brothers would be proud. Her father doesn't care for her."

"May be," said the first voice, "but we might still find use for her, if she lives. A princess of Hell she is, and powerful on Earth. I'll take her back. She might still live."

Somebody lifted her then. It did not feel like a shade; the arms had no scales, and when she squinted, Laila thought she could see the face of another fallen angel, one she did not know. She passed out then, thought she had died. When she woke up, she found herself in an abandoned house in Jerusalem, lying on a mattress, a basin of water beside her. Her wounds were bandaged, her burned hair cut short. There were no signs of demons.

As she lay now in her tent, a dozen years later, she still could not forget the face of Moloch, pale and scornful, almost amused, of long fangs, framed in long black hair. She could still hear his voice in her mind. Lying curled up on her cot, Laila reached out and touched the hilt of Haloflame, the sword Michael had given her.

"Twelve years ago, you wanted to kill me, Moloch," she whispered. "I've grown since then. I'm stronger now, and this time, I will kill you."

She reached into her pocket and caressed her vial of holy water. Michael had blessed this water for her, infusing it with all his godlight and piousness. If the Sea of Galilee was just holy enough to tingle demons, this vial would burn them like bubbling oil on humans. Laila hated carrying this vial; the very thought of the stuff made her shiver. Yet Michael had insisted she take it. Just in case, he said.

She shut her eyes and tried to imagine that she lay in a peaceful place. She pretended that she was back in the forests, a hunter, sleeping on dried leaves, animal blood beneath her fingernails. When she lived in the forest as a predator, she had no duties, no worries. If she had ever tasted something close to happiness, it must have been then, to be wild amid the trees, her wolf at her side. Imagining the trees and sap, Laila finally slept.

Three hours later, she woke up. The armies had gathered and were ready. She stepped outside her tent to find the seraphs, generals of these divisions, waiting for her. They stood like statues of gold, so bright they hurt her eyes. She forced herself to stare at them.

"Gentlemen," she said, "let's go to Hell."

* * * * *

The wail of Beelzebub's horn still hung in the air when all hell broke loose. In the night, the demon army descended upon Jerusalem, banners flapping, fangs bared. Great archdemons, towering and scaled, led rolling battalions of shades, crashing into the city, destroying all in their path.

Angels emerged from trenches, charging with blazing swords, sending blasts of godlight to tear down demon hordes. More angels shot godlight from guard towers, from ancient walls, from homes and makeshift barricades. The blasts lit the night.

Surrounded by the Thirteen, his personal guard of archdemons, Beelzebub spread his wings and hovered into the air, overseeing the battle from above. Twenty thousand angels at least fired upon his demons. A formidable force it was, but smaller than Beelzebub had expected.

Where is Talon Division? Beelzebub could not see their blue and gold banners. Where were the other forces Michael had been moving across the Holy Land? Brimstone Brigade had left the eastern dunes, and Thorn had abandoned the ports, yet Beelzebub could not see those forces here, unless they hid in the city, or were still on the way. Dear brother, are you planning an attack somewhere else?

"We must take this city quickly and secure it," he told his archdemons. "Michael is up to something. So is Laila."

He blew his horn again, three short blows. The demons below heard and rolled out the artillery, human weapons they had plundered and maintained. Soon shells were falling upon Jerusalem, tearing down ruins that had stood for millennia. Beelzebub watched as hundreds of rockets destroyed the ancient city.

Not to be undone, red flags soon waved in the angel camp, and as Beelzebub watched, hundreds of rockets flew from Jerusalem onto the invading demons. The blasts tore into the ranks of shades, strewing demon limbs about.

The shelling continued all night. Beelzebub flew between his units, sending forces forward and back, claiming more and more of the city. By dawn they were deep in Jerusalem, leaving hills of bodies in their wake. With the sunlight, the angels gained courage. Three seraphs they sent forward, beings of woven gold and light that burned demon eyes. The seraphs tossed aside shades like rag dolls, ravaging the demon ranks.

With a grunt, Beelzebub flew down to the battlefield, the Thirteen around him. They landed upon cobblestones and circled the three seraphs, squinting against the burning godlight.

"This city is God's domain," spoke one of the seraphs, his voice like an echo. It was impossible to discern the seraph's face; he seemed made of liquid light, his voice floating from within his core. "Leave this place, the demon Beelzebub, and return to your banishment."

Beelzebub shook his head. "You speak with old terms, seraph. Banishment? Those days are over. It has been thousands of years since your tyrant banished Lucifer and his followers. We rule Hell now, a great kingdom, hardly what you'd call banishment. We come to claim Earth too." He raised his sword. "I am tempted to emulate your magnanimity and offer you a chance to flee too, but I think I will not. I prefer to kill you now."

The Thirteen moved in, closing around the three seraphs. The light pulsated from the beings of God, tearing down walls and rows of shades, and the hum of their wings sent rippling waves of bass that ached in Beelzebub's chest. His archdemons swung their blades, and the seraphs blocked the blows with swords of their own, raising showers of sparks. The Thirteen kept hacking, and soon they were twelve, then ten. Demon and angel blood covered the ground.

Beelzebub swung his blade at one seraph, knocking its sword aside, then lunged forward with claws. Closing his eyes against the light, he ripped out the seraph's throat. Ichor sizzled against him, and Beelzebub screamed and cursed. It hurts like hell.

He kept hacking at the other two seraphs, his archdemons with him, until the great angels lay dead, their light extinguished. Beelzebub stood above them, panting, his arms still burning where the seraph blood had touched them. His face felt burned too, his eyebrows and hair singed.

"Bastards," he said and spat. "I hate seraphs."

Their light extinguished, they looked like pale men, their skin white, their features ageless, their wings made of golden wire. Beelzebub kicked one just for fun.

"Let's go find Michael," he said to his remaining archdemons. Only eight had survived.

The shelling continued throughout the day, and the demons kept pushing deeper into the city. The angels fought stubbornly, hiding in the houses, firing from within them. Beelzebub had to send demons into every house, one by one, routing out the angels, claiming the city one block at a time. Bodies of demons and angels lay about the city like so many cobblestones. Shells burst against walls and towers, sending down crashing stones.

Soon they reached the heart of the city. The hill where his church had stood rose to Beelzebub's left. There was nothing left of it but rubble. A battalion of angels waited there, charging to crash against the swarming shades.

Beelzebub flapped his wings and flew above the battle, dust clouding beneath him. A gleam of light ahead caught his eyes, piercing the dust, and he glimpsed swan wings. An archangel moved there, Beelzebub knew. There had only ever been seven archangels, the great rulers of Heaven. Whichever one this is, I'll kill him, Beelzebub thought, stomach tingling. I might just end this war today.

Through blasts of godlight and fire Beelzebub flew, wings spread out. Flames ignited around him, wreathing him, and he snarled. He remembered the battle of Armageddon, twenty-seven years ago, when he emerged to earth clad in flame and malice, a figure from nightmares. Let these angels see me now as they did then. The devil has come to this town.

The glow of archangel was close now. Beelzebub flew behind an ancient, crumbling building. He found himself in an alley, shielded from the shells, flames, and blasts of light. The alley seemed strangely silent, the sounds of battle muffled. There before him, standing upon the cobblestones, glowed Raphael.

"Hello, brother," said the healer, staff in hand, robes singed and stained with droplets of blood. His brown eyes were sad as ever, huge and round like a hound's.

Beelzebub blew out his breath in frustration. "What are you doing here, Raphael? Go home. Go back to Heaven."

Raphael shook his head. "God needs me here. I have come to this world to heal. It's you, brother, who should leave."

Beelzebub raised his sword, sudden rage finding him. Raphael, youngest of the three brothers, always found some platitude to speak, some condescending words to bestow upon any who'd listen. Beelzebub had never understood this one. Michael, at least, Beelzebub could look up to; there was an angel strong and proud, an older brother Beelzebub aspired to emulate. Raphael, the youngest of the three, had always seemed cryptic to Beelzebub, studious and quiet, spending all his days praying, meditating, or—more often than not—drinking.

"I don't want to hurt you," Beelzebub said, taking a step forward, sword in hand. "I don't want to remember what happened between us. This war is for soldiers. It is for Michael and me. Go back to Heaven now, Raphael, or you might never see it again. I forgave you long ago for what you did to me. It wasn't easy, and it took me long, but I managed to forgive you. But if you stand before me again, Raphael... if you try to oppose me once more... I will do what I could not do then."

Raphael stayed where he stood. He pulled his flask from his belt, uncorked it, and sipped. Sadness filled those brown eyes. "Beelzebub, you are my brother. I never wished you harm. But when you rebelled against God, I had no choice. You asked me to choose between brother and God. You ask me that again today. I wish I could give you a different answer this time, Beelzebub. Truly I do. But I serve Heaven, and always have. I fought against you in your rebellion, it's true. And I stand here now. I won't leave."

Beelzebub shut his eyes for a moment. What did he feel more, rage or grief? He did not know. Damn Raphael. Damn him. Beelzebub could hardly believe the two shared blood. He clenched his teeth, remembering that day, thousands of years ago, when Raphael had betrayed him. I came to you then, brother, he thought. Thousands of years ago, I spoke to you of my hatred of God, of my plan to usurp him. And you turned me in. Because of you, I was banished.

He opened his eyes and stared at his brother, and seeing Raphael's sad eyes, rage exploded within Beelzebub. He stepped forward, sword drawn, and grabbed Raphael's shoulder. "Don't make me kill you."

Raphael yanked himself free, and Beelzebub—blinded with anger—shoved his brother. He did not know how, but they were fighting; shoves became fists, and fists turned to staff and blade. The fires burned around him. The fires burned within him. The old pain resurfaced, filling him, bringing tears to Beelzebub's eyes, tears of blood.

"You betrayed me," he said, his voice half a snarl, half a sob. "Do you know what it feels like to be banished, brother? To be outcast from Heaven, cursed, stripped of my halo and wings?" His tears covered his cheeks. He could not remember the last time he had wept; it must have been centuries ago. "I wanted you to join me, Raphael. You and Michael. But you two joined against me. You two always did, even in the games we played as kids, you two joined against me. You always hated me. But I'm strong, Raphael, stronger than you or Michael, stronger than God. Heaven will be mine, and your precious God, your tyrant, will bow before me."

He kept shaking his brother, slashing at him with claws, until he realized that blood soaked his sleeves, covered his hands, splashed against him. He stared, horrified, at his bloody claws and let his brother go. Raphael slumped to the floor, soaked in blood, dead.

Beelzebub stared in shock. Terror filled him. Glancing around, he knelt by Raphael's body, clutched it, shook it.

"Raphael," he whispered. He tasted tears of blood on his lips. "Baby brother. I didn't mean it. Are you okay? I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

Yet Raphael would not move. He was dead, Beelzebub knew, and that enraged him again. How dare his brother do this to him? Hurt him like this? I'm glad he died. I'm glad I killed him. He always opposed me, him and Michael. The two of them always hated me.

The rage blinded Beelzebub. He howled and splintered Raphael's staff between his claws. He slammed at the alley wall, crushing it, stones cascading. Flapping his wings, he rose from the alley, besmeared in blood, wreathed in flame, howling in rage.

"Michael!" he shouted. "Where are you, Michael? You're next! You're next, brother. This world will be mine. Heaven will be mine!"

He flew over Jerusalem, mad with rage and horror, blasts of godlight flowing around him, columns of fire blazing, shells exploding. As he flew, he kept shouting Michael's name. Raphael's blood stained his clothes and hands.

Godlight burst ahead, and Michael rose in a pillar of sunrays, swan wings glinting, halo alight. He shone with more light than the seraphs, light that would normally burn Beelzebub's eyes, but today he felt no pain. Michael, archangel, Lord of God's Hosts, raised his lance and stared at Beelzebub above the battlefield.

"Beelzebub!" Michael cried over the din, voice stern, echoing, accusing.

"I am here," he replied.

"What have you done, brother?"

Beelzebub laughed, holding out his hands, stained with Raphael's blood. "Do you recognize this? It is archangel blood. I did what I should have done five thousand years ago. I've come to kill those who oppose me, who betrayed me, who banished me. Yes, Michael. I killed Raphael. I killed our baby brother. And now I'll kill you."

His tears painted the world in blood, and his rage burned more than the fire and light. He lunged toward Michael, swinging his sword.

Chapter Sixteen

Laila marched at the head of her army, bat wings unfurled, halo flaming, staring up from under her eyebrows, her blade slung over her back. Dust rose from under her boots, staining her pants, and the wind moaned through her hair. She held a handgun stuffed into each boot, just in case, and a string of grenades along her belt. Michael might not believe in guns, but Michael isn't here now.

Behind Laila snaked her troops, tens of thousands of angels moving over the fields, dust clouding around them. Clouds veiled the sun and ash blew in the cold wind, dulling the gleam of angel wings and armor. Only their eyes glinted like beaten gold, almost demonic as they marched to war. Here were no angels of harps and psalms; these were angels of wrath and retribution, a hammer of God. These bastards are as mean as demons. Laila let a crooked smile find her lips, peeling back from her fangs. She couldn't wait to meet Moloch again. I bring some friends this time.

They could have flown, but Laila ordered all troops remain aground until the invasion, to make their movements harder to track. Beelzebub would soon learn of this invasion, if he hadn't already. This one will be a race against the clock, she knew. We'll have to take the place, and fortify it, before Beelzebub crashes the party. A drizzle began to fall, softening the earth and dousing the dust, pattering against armor. The army seemed strangely silent as it marched. Their banners blew, thudding in the wind, their colors deep in the veiled light.

Soon they reached the lake, or what was left of it. The last of the water was draining into Angor's tunnel, leaving a muddy bowl like a damp crater. Briefly, Laila wondered about Kayleigh. Would the girl stay by her tree, even with the water gone? I'll block Angor's tunnel once we're done, Laila decided, and let rainwater refill the lake. When this war ends, and I hand the world over to Michael, I might never be able to visit here again, but I'd like Kayleigh to keep her lake. The girl was like her, like Volkfair, a lone wolf. Laila would look after her.

The army surrounded the emptied lake, an endless flock of swan wings. They polished their blades, drank wine for fortification, and banged spears against shields. Laila flapped her wings and rose into the sky, wreathed in flame, tendrils of fire licking her feet.

"We take Limbo today!" she shouted, so loud the whole army could hear. Her halo crackled and she snarled. "Today we kill Moloch."

Puddles, aquatic plants, sunken boats, and bodies of fish covered the muddy lakebed. The last of the water soon disappeared, flowing down a tunnel in the center of the bowl, flowing into Hell. Laila swooped, encased in fire, and shot into the tunnel. With a cry that shook the world, her army took flight, swooped down, and flowed into the tunnel behind her.

The tunnel was dark, muddy, stinking of demon. Laila saw the marks of Angor's claws, like great drills, etched into the walls. The tunnel was unsteady, Laila knew. It could collapse any moment, trapping her here between Earth and Hell, ending her quest, destroying Heaven's army and probably letting Hell win this war. If that happens, so be it. It's not a bad place to die, here underground. No one would have to worry about burying me, and no jackals would tug at my bones.

Yet as Laila moved down the tunnel, her army snaking behind, the walls stood. Angor was good at what he did. The archdemon lived to dig, and he had made them a worthy passage to Limbo. The tunnel coiled down like a screw, muddy, fish flapping across its floor. Water weeds tangled around Laila's boots.

"Cozy down here," spoke a voice behind her, and Laila looked over her shoulder to see Nathaniel. The light of her halo reflected in his chain mail.

"Stinks of fish," she said.

"Limbo's gonna stink worse." Nathaniel fingered the blade of his spear. "Gonna stink of demon blood and guts."

And some of angels too, Laila thought, remembering her time in Limbo twelve years ago. She would recognize Moloch's fortress when she saw it again, she knew, and she had never forgotten Moloch's face. She caressed her own blade. Remember what Michael taught you. You can use this blade. Michael forged it in Heaven to kill demons. You are strong, Laila. Soon Moloch will know this too.

Laila lost track of time as she led her army down the tunnel. In the darkness, her thoughts found no distraction to banish them, and she wondered about Bat El. Laila's parents were dead, and Bat El was her only family. If she died here underground, Laila would only regret not seeing Bat El again. That realization made her snort. Are you getting soft, Laila? she asked herself. Why are you suddenly loving your sister? You grew up on Earth, Laila. Bat El grew up in Heaven. You barely know her.

Laila sighed. Things were different since she returned from exile. Bat El no longer lived pampered in Heaven, but was captive to Beelzebub. Is it jealousy I feel? Laila wondered. Do I still love Beelzebub? No, that was not it, at least not the sum of it. Laila lowered her head. Bat El used to care for me when I was a child, sending me letters from Heaven, toys I never played with, clothes she sewed for me, her younger, freakish sister. You've always looked out for me, Bat El, loved me when nobody else would. I'm going to look after you now. I'm going to save you from Beelzebub. That is, she thought, if Bat El even wanted to be saved. Beelzebub could be the charmer. Laila knew that all too well.

So lost in her thoughts was Laila, she barely noticed that the tunnel had become hotter, the air steamy. Soon the steam curled around her boots and matted her hair against her brow. "We're close," she said to Nathaniel. The wingless lieutenant nodded, spear in hand.

As she kept walking, a distant ruckus came from below. Laila focused her hearing. She thought she made out hammers, demon shouts, chanting. Hell. The sound grew louder, and soon all her troops heard. "Get to the tar!" came a high-pitched scream from below. "Light the fire, I don't care how wet you are, scum." Boom. Crackle. Thud. "Demons, man your posts! Where's my fire, damn it?" The shrieks were loud and shrill enough to shatter glass, and Laila fought the urge to cover her ears.

She drew her blade. Haloflame glimmered red in the light of her flaming halo. She looked over her shoulder, fangs bared. "Angels!" she shouted at the top of her lungs. "We go to Hell!"

They shouted back, and Laila ran down the tunnel, sword drawn, eyes aflame, screaming. She burst out of the tunnel into Hell, wreathed in flame and light.

* * * * *

Bat El paced the fort's main hall, demons surrounding her. The shades had orders not to harm her, but they gave her hungry stares, maws drooling, lusting after her. Whether they fantasized of raping her or eating her, Bat El did not know. Perhaps both. She tried to ignore them. Beelzebub will be back soon.

Or would he? Bat El had seen Michael fight and knew that the archangel could harm Beelzebub, perhaps the only one who could, aside from Laila. Why am I so worried about Beelzebub? I should want Michael to kill the devil. We came to this world to kill the devil, after all.

Bat El sighed. She did not know. So many things were different now than when this war began. Twenty-seven years ago, when the armies of Heaven and Hell first met on the mountain of Megido, Bat El had been just a girl. Things had been so simple then. God was good, Lucifer was bad. Angels were righteous, demons—monstrous. Yet it was Beelzebub now who ruled Hell, not Lucifer, and Laila—her younger sister whom she loved—was filled with demon blood. Bat El was older now. She had talked to angels who destroyed sinners, who burned the world, who cursed and drank and whored the way only demons should. I wish I could be a girl again. I wish I never met Beelzebub. Only she did not truly mean that, and it filled her with guilt.

A growl tore through her thoughts. A great black wolf burst through the windows, and Bat El screamed.

Volkfair!

The wolf she had healed leapt from demon to demon, biting. The shades shrieked and clawed, but Volkfair tore them apart like rag dolls.

"Don't hurt him!" Bat El said, grabbed a spear from the wall, and began lashing at the demons. Soon the bodies of her captors littered the floor, blood dripping. Volkfair stood before her, panting, eyes pleading. He tugged at her tunic with bloody teeth.

More demons were clacking downstairs into the hall. Bat El leapt out the window, Volkfair at her side.

"You remembered me," she said, tears in her eyes. Demons were flowing out of the fort behind. Bat El ran, Laila's wolf at her side.

* * * * *

"Return to your banishment," Michael demanded, voice booming. His swan wings spread wide under the veiled sky, and his lance blazed. The battle for Jerusalem raged below, shells bursting, walls tumbling, demons and angels cutting one another down. "Don't make me kill you like you killed our brother."

Beelzebub smiled, his wings flapping, Raphael's blood staining his hands. "We end things today," he called over the booming battle below. "I killed one brother today, and now I kill the other. This war ends."

He shot forward, drawing his sword, swiping the blade at Michael. Floating over the crumbling city, Michael raised his lance, blocking Beelzebub's blow. Sword and lance shot out again, clanging, raising sparks. Hellfire and godlight burst and clashed, sizzling red and gold.

Beelzebub laughed as he fought, drunk on blood and rage and horror, heart still pounding with guilt. Michael fought with narrowed eyes, face stern.

"I bedded that girl of yours, that Bat El," Beelzebub called out, half smirking, half snarling. He saw the pain in Michael's eyes, just a hint, and his smirk grew. Michael loves the girl, he knew. He could see it. "She's mine now, Michael. Gabriel's daughter is with Hell's camp. Your war is over."

"Not while Laila is—"

Beelzebub's sword sliced into Michael's wing, cutting off his voice. Three white feathers fell from the sky, and Michael winced. Beelzebub barked a laugh. Michael's lance thrust, banging into Beelzebub's breastplate, denting it, knocking the breath out of him. His smile gone now, Beelzebub swung his sword again. He had never dueled with his brother before. The archangel was good. Beelzebub had never fought his better. He snarled, baring his fangs, and let his blade sing.

Sword and lance danced for a long time over the city. The devil and the archangel seemed to fight in a fireball of godlight and hellfire, ablaze over the ruins, and they kept fighting into darkness. The demons and angels watched below, cheering for their masters, brandishing their spears and claws.

Beelzebub was tired. He knew Michael was tired too. They'd been slugging it out for too long, for twenty-seven years here on this burned world. Yet Beelzebub would not lower his blade. Not until I slice off Michael's head, or until he does the same to me. He growled, summoning all the fire within him for strength. You and God banished me from Heaven. I'm going to take that world from you, and then God will be the banished one.

A flash of godlight below caught his eye. Beelzebub faltered for a split second. Bat El! Bat El stood below, watching him duel, godlight glinting in her golden hair.

"Bat El," Beelzebub whispered. He had to get her out of here. His demons would be killing every angel they found, they—

Michael's lance slammed into his shoulder, cutting through Beelzebub's armor to pierce his flesh. Beelzebub screamed, blood filling his shirt. Damn it, forget about Bat El now, concentrate—

Michael's lance flew again, hitting the same spot, knocking Beelzebub into a spin. He tumbled through the sky, gritted his teeth, spread his wings, swung his sword. Yet he had lost his momentum, was a second behind the dance now. Michael's fist slammed into Beelzebub's face, and the fallen angel saw blinding light, and he fell from the sky.

The wind rushed around him, and he hit a cobbled street, cracking the stones. Pain burst. Michael swooped down upon him before Beelzebub could find his breath, and the lance tore into his thigh.

"Damn you, Michael!" Beelzebub screamed.

Michael placed his foot upon Beelzebub's chest, pinning him down. The wind ruffled Michael's burgundy cape and his swan wings spread wide. His halo and golden hair glowed. "You said we end this war today," Michael said, eyes red, moist. "So be it, brother. I never wanted to fight you. I wanted to stop you from your mad war against my lord, but you would not listen. I love you, my brother, but you leave me no choice."

As Beelzebub lay bloodied below, Michael raised his lance above Beelzebub's neck. So it ends now, Beelzebub thought. Goodbye, Bat El. I love you.

"No!" came a sob from behind. Swan wings fluttered, and the hands of an angel grabbed Michael's lance, staying his blow. Weeping, Bat El, daughter of Gabriel, half-sister of Laila, spread herself over Beelzebub, protecting him with her body.

"Please, Michael," she wept, "don't kill him. I love him."

Michael reached down to pull her away, but Bat El had given the demons time enough to arrive. Shades swarmed over Michael, covering him with claws and leathery wings. As Michael hacked at them, Bat El helped Beelzebub up, and they took flight. He held onto her as they flew, leaving the city behind for the angels. His blood flowed and he felt close to death by the time they reached the fort. His head spun, and Bat El lay him in bed, and kissed him, weeping. Darkness overcame Beelzebub, lord of Hell, and he slept.

* * * * *

Bat El lay on the bed by Beelzebub, running her hand through his dark curls as he slept. She had changed his clothes and bandaged his wounds, and fed him water and honey. Michael's lance had driven deep into his shoulder and thigh, and his lip was bloody and swollen. As he slept, Bat El watched his wounds heal, smaller by the hour. A fallen angel was he, and no wounds would slow him down for long. Soon he would be up and back to his wars. Bat El found herself wishing he could sleep as long as possible, if only for the silence in this room, the brief respite from violence.

She sighed. I might as well look into getting my swan wings replaced with bat ones, she thought. How could she have done this?

"I came down to this world full of godlight and holy conviction," she whispered to the sleeping Beelzebub. "Look what you did to me."

Will God banish her from Heaven now? Could she ever return home? More than she cared about going home, Bat El worried for her own heart, worried whether evil was consuming her goodness, whether she had any goodness left within her at all. In this war, she had taken a stand against Heaven, had defended the devil. Armageddon could have ended in that battlefield. Michael could have slain his brother and ended the war, ushering in an era of peace, bringing light and godliness to the world. Yet now... what would happen now? To Earth, to her own soul?

Is this how Laila feels? she wondered. Is this how it feels to have both Heaven and Hell warring within you? For the first time, Bat El thought she could understand her sister, and knew why Laila had fled this war for so long. The true war between Heaven and Hell had always been fought within Laila's heart, as it was now being fought within Bat El.

She stepped toward the window and looked out into the night. Through a clearing between the ash in the sky, she glimpsed a single star, soon veiled. Heaven was up there, she knew, and tears ran down Bat El's face. She missed Heaven. She missed the old days, playing with her friends with rag balls, praying in the temples, wearing white dresses and placing ribbons in her hair. Those days would never return, she knew with a chill and lowered her head. She hated that she had ever come to Earth, ever thought she could do good here. This world instilled nothing but sin within her, and if her father ever saw her again, she knew the archangel would not recognize her.

"I'm sorry, dad," she whispered. "I'm sorry, Michael. I'm sorry, God. I know I don't deserve forgiveness, and I don't ask for any. I'm just sorry."

Beelzebub's voice came from the bed, weak. "I forgive you."

She turned and looked down upon him. He still seemed pale, but slowly color was returning to him. "I never needed your forgiveness," she said to him. "I don't need forgiveness from the devil."

He smiled up at her. "And yet you love this devil. I heard you."

"I was confused. The battle scared me. That's all."

He propped himself up on his elbows, and she sat beside him and hugged him. "I love you too," he whispered into her ear, holding her.

"You say that to all the girls. I know." She pushed him back against the pillow.

He stretched his arm, then winced and lay it still. "Don't worry so much, Bat El. Don't worry about Michael, about God. Forget all that. Heaven is a bore, trust me. I lived there, I know it. Come with me to Hell. We'll have fun there, parties, drinking.... We'll make love every morning and every night, with no worries other than planning what we'll eat for dinner."

She sighed. It did not sound all that bad, she had to admit. "The hellfire would burn me."

He raised an eyebrow. "After what happened at the battle, I wouldn't worry about that. You might become a fallen angel soon too."

"I will not." She shuddered. She couldn't imagine herself without her halo, fangs and claws growing from her.

He caressed her hair and kissed her cheek. "You have nothing to worry about so long as you're with me." He lay back down, and she lay beside him. He played with her hair. "And Bat El... thank you. For what you did."

She rolled away from him, facing the wall, ignoring his fingers running along her back. "I should have let Michael kill you," she said. She didn't mean it, and Beelzebub would know. She closed her eyes, a tear running down her cheek.

Chapter Seventeen

Water drenched Limbo.

The smallest of Hell's nine circles, Limbo was still large enough to house millions of demons, a teeming metropolis of jet towers, canals of lava, and armies of shades. The last time Laila saw the place, columns of hellfire had risen from its surface, a forest of them. Today water flooded the surface of Limbo, deep enough that only the roofs of demon homes showed. Instead of ten thousand towers of hellfire, Laila saw only a few scattered bonfires, guttering. Smoke, steam, and ash filled this craggy underground world.

Soon angels filled it too. Laila and her troops swooped down from the tunnel in the ceiling of Limbo, a torrent of blades like the torrent of water they followed. Demons met them in midair, the roofs of towers distant below, peeking from the muddy floodwater.

The cavernous space above Limbo was a whirlwind of angels, demons, seraphs, archdemons, claws and feathers, fire and light. Since her first visit to Hell, Laila had never seen so many demons in one place. They flowed around her, clawing at her, biting, ripping her clothes. She swung her blade, halo alight. When I fight on Earth, I am a creature of flame and malice; here, let me be angelic. Her blade of Heaven spun so fast, it appeared as a disk of light. Since I was born, none could hold me down, none could stop me. Let the angels and the devils, in ages to come, speak of seeing Laila the half-demon fight today. Let them speak of it in awe.

The booming of demonic war drums came from every direction. The armies of Hell chanted as they fought, distorted sounds that overpowered even the clash of weapons. Laila could see nothing but endless flows of demons, like rivers of scales through the air. The sounds deafened her, and she had never seen so much light and blood.

"Don't let them ignite the fires!" she shouted. Groups of demons were filling jugs of tar upon the tower tops, fuel for hellfire. Laila swooped toward one tower, hacking through a sea of demons, and crashed against a sizzling pot of tar. The heat scorched her, and she screamed. The tar fell down the tower, burning away several demons, then crashed into the water with clouds of steam.

"Knock over the tar!" Laila said, shooting up into the air, then down toward another pot upon another tower. She heard a crackle like the creaking joints of a giant, and from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a column of hellfire shoot up. Angels surrounding it screamed and blistered, their wings catching flame. Fangs bared, Laila shot toward the hellfire, wings pulled close against her, flying like a bullet, leaving a wake of flame. She gritted her teeth as the hellfire burned her, spun around, and kicked the pot over. The hellfire crashed, burning over demons and angels. Laila shot up, droplets sizzling against her.

For a moment the steam and smoke parted, and Laila glimpsed the battle across Limbo. More pots of hellfire had been raised, and angels were swooping toward them, knocking them over, wings catching flame. Bodies of angels and demons fell like rain, crashing into the water. Angor was nowhere to be seen, but Laila spotted several other archdemons, just as large and mean, tearing into platoons of angels, consuming them. Her seraphs flew like balls of golden light, tearing into the archdemons, knocking over towers of jet and flame.

"Moloch!" Laila shouted. "Come out and meet me."

She saw his fortress ahead. The gates were flooded, but the towers emerged from the water, flickering with torchlight. She knew the place at once. It was there that the demons brought her at age fifteen. It was there that Moloch stared down upon her sizzling body, his pale lips snarling. The memory pounded through her. She could feel the pain of hellfire again, the claws of demons, and most vivid of all, she remembered Moloch's eyes, dead and cruel as they watched her burn.

Blade held high, dripping demon blood, Laila swooped toward the fortress. Her halo crackled, and flames rose in her wake, a trail of fire. Remember what Michael taught you. You can do this.

Moloch's fortress was close now, rising from the blackened water, carved of polished jet. Three archdemons took flight from its battlements, shooting up to meet her. They were each like a fireball, demons of claws and fangs. Each was thrice her size, staring with eyes that dripped lava. Laila's blade flew, and the head of one archdemon crashed into the water. The other two surrounded her, and Laila shot up toward the ceiling. She clutched her blade in her mouth, pulled out her handguns, and fired down, a gun in each hand. The bullets slammed into the archdemons, blinding them, and they howled. Before they could recover, Laila swooped down, blade flashing left and right, and two more archdemon heads flew, tumbling through the air before they crashed into the water.

A hundred shades mobbed Laila, but two grenades scattered them, and Laila crashed through a stained glass window of the fort, tumbling inside with shards of light, guns blazing. Her bullets knocked aside a dozen shades, and when another archdemon leapt her way, her blade cut him down. For a moment, Laila found respite from battle, and she knelt on the bloody floor, panting, covered in demon blood.

Looking around, she saw a chamber of black marble, torches in the walls. Demon chanting, fires crackling, and blades ringing rose in a cacophony outside the window, and from deeper in the fortress, Laila heard demons hissing and scuttling. With a wince, Laila examined her arm, where she had crashed into the pot of tar. Welts rose across her skin, and demon claws ran along her thigh, bleeding. She couldn't even remember when a demon had cut her; her adrenaline drowned the pain.

Still catching her breath, heart pounding, Laila reloaded her handguns, shook blood off her blade, and pulled bandages from her pockets. She bound her wounds, wiped blood off her brow, and snarled. No sooner did she rise to her feet than a dozen shades burst into the chamber. Once she had cut them down, Laila stepped out the door into the hallway, halo crackling.

"Thought you could kill Moloch without me?" came a voice behind, and Laila turned to see Nathaniel following her into the hallway. A bandage covered his brow, bloody. Demon blood dripped down his spear.

"Now how did you even get here without wings?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Two shades flew down the hallway, and Nathaniel speared them and tossed the bodies aside. "I leapt from the tunnel, fell through the sky for a while, then caught a ride on the back of some demon. When you hold a knife to a demon's throat, he'll fly you wherever you like."

Laila shook her head with a sigh. "You're crazy, aren't you?"

"I'd have to be, to come and join you. Remember what I said. I'm watching your back."

Laila gestured with her head down the hallway. "Let's go then. I hate to keep Moloch waiting."

The two moved down the hallway, Laila's guns firing, Nathaniel's spear flying. They left a trail of dead shades as they walked, their boots squelching through blood. Outside the windows, they glimpsed bodies of angels and demons raining, crashing into the water. They climbed staircases, moving higher and higher up the fortress. Endless demons flowed outside, emerging from every crack and tower, and Laila winced. I'm going to run out of angels before they run out of demons. Thousands of angel bodies floated in the water, and hundreds more rained dead as she watched. Archdemons flowed between her battalions, knocking angels aside like so many rag dolls.

For a moment, doubt—cold and painful—shot through Laila. She bit her lip. Can I really do this? Can I really take Limbo, or will this go down as the most spectacular failure in military history? The idea of conquering Limbo seemed so preposterous to her then, that she wanted to flee, to run to her forests and dunes, to hide and never more emerge from exile. Then Laila saw a statue she recognized, a jet bust of Moloch set into the wall, its eyes made of rubies, and memories pounded through her. She had been fifteen, skin red and blistering, hair aflame. The demons had carried her by this statue, and its ruby eyes seemed to mock her, and she wanted to smash it, to let it fall upon her and kill her, ending her pain. Walking up the staircase, bloody blade dripping, Laila clenched her jaw, still feeling the pain of hellfire. Moloch wanted to let me burn away. He would have too, had Beelzebub not stopped him. I'm going to kill you now, Moloch.

As she moved across the fort, the memories filled her, running through her veins like lava. She knew this place. She had seen it a million times in her nightmares. Soon she found the doorways that led to Moloch's hall, towering doorways of stone, encrusted with gems.

"He's in there," she whispered to Nathaniel. "Be careful. He's a mean one."

Nathaniel nodded, spear in hand, the bandage across his brow soaked with sweat and blood. Demon blood covered his spear and chain mail. He spat, then reached out his hand for Laila to shake. She shook it; it was rough and strong.

"Nice fighting with you, girl," the angel said. "If we don't talk again, good luck with the whole usurping Beelzebub thing."

She nodded. "Ready?"

He nodded too, and they kicked the doors open and burst into the hall of Moloch, lord of Limbo.

* * * * *

The demons were fleeing or dying over Jerusalem. With Beelzebub gone, their ranks crumbled, and the angels were retaking their positions, securing the city, healing the wounded, dragging the dead into communal graves. There was no cheering over this victory, only stern faces, tears. Some angels wept on their knees, armor splashed with blood, tears drawing lines down ashy, bloody cheeks. Crows circled over the ruins, pecking at bodies.

Michael moved through the city as a ghost, seeing nobody, eyes dead. Blood covered his armor, his wings, his hair, thick with dust. None dared approach him as he moved, and for the first time, angels saw him without his lance. He had tossed the weapon aside, the first time he had abandoned it since Lucifer raised the kingdom of Hell. Michael no longer cared for this war. He had won this battle, but to him, the war was over, and he had lost it.

When he found the body of Raphael, a handful of corporals and privates were already there, standing shocked before it, not daring to approach. When they saw Michael, they stepped aside, saluting, eyes haunted. Michael did not bother returning the salute. He walked toward the body of his youngest brother and stood above it, gazing down.

Raphael lay in blood, his white robes now red. His hair spread out around him, and his eyes were open, glassy, sad even in death. His flask was open, and its spirits mixed with the blood. His staff was shattered, and Beelzebub's claws had torn into his neck.

"What have you done, Beelzebub?" Michael whispered, and then shouted at the sky in rage. The city trembled. He tore off his breastplate and tossed it aside, rent his tunic, and fell to his knees by his brother.

"You never wanted a part in this war," Michael said to his brother, embracing the body. "You were never a soldier, only a healer." Yet now you lie dead here, while I, the soldier, live on.

He turned to the angels who stood at the mouth of the alley, armor and hair dusty and bloody. "Get me a litter," Michael said to them, staring from under his brows. "We're going to take him out of here."

They buried Raphael that day outside the city. Michael chose a hill where several olive trees still stood, and one could see the sunset and ruins. Michael allowed no weapons at the funeral, no armor, no cannons. This would not be a military funeral. He buried his brother quickly, simply—shades mustered in these hills for new attacks—and placed a boulder upon the grave, where he carved Raphael's name.

"You always said God was in everything," he spoke over the grave, lines of angels covering the hill. "In flowers, trees, clouds above, waves in the sea. Become part of God, brother. Become part of the grass that grows here, of the breeze that rustles the trees, of the waves that whisper." He had no flowers, but he placed pebbles upon the grave, like humans in this land would do before Armageddon.

That night, Michael sat in his tent, alone with his grief. Why do they all betray us? Is God such a tyrant, and Heaven such a horror, that they leave? Once Michael had believed that goodness still remained in Beelzebub, but he had become a demon worse than Lucifer, a killer of his own blood.

And now, Bat El, you strive against me too. You too have fallen from grace. As the wind howled through the night outside, Michael lowered his head in despair.

* * * * *

As soon as she stormed into the room, Laila fired one of her guns, her sword drawn in the other hand. Moloch stood there, as she had expected. The bullets slammed into him, then fell to the ground, shattered. The fallen angel examined the holes the bullets had punched into his black, scaled armor, then raised his eyes and stared at Laila.

For a moment Laila froze, blade drawn, fangs bared. Moloch's eyes sent ice into her chest. She had never seen such cold eyes, a gray like death. His black hair hung around his pale face, slick. He wore a black cape encrusted with rubies, his stone, and carried a blade on his belt. His armor was made of steel scales, like the scales of an archdemon. The hall was wide, the floor black marble with red veins. Between stone columns, Laila could see the landscapes of Limbo, alight with war.

"My, my. Little Laila—all grown up," Moloch said, his icy eyes belying the hint of amusement in his voice. He unfurled his bat wings to their full span, ten feet across, their tips glinting with claws. Laila couldn't help but remember the stories she had heard of him. Thousands of years ago, Moloch would demand the humans sacrifice their children to him. They would place the child in a bronze statue of Moloch, and burn fires below it, so that the metal heated and cooked the child within. How many children had this fallen god burned? However many it was, it won't happen again, Laila told herself.

"So you remember me," she said. "I must have left an impression. I'm grown up now, it's true. And I brought a friend." She raised her blade.

Moloch raised an eyebrow. "A friend? You mean this wingless angel?" So swiftly she barely saw him move, Moloch drew his sword, leapt over Laila, and shoved his blade through Nathaniel's armor into his heart. Before he collapsed, the wingless angel managed to slam his spear into Moloch's chest; the spear shattered against the demon, doing him no harm. Moloch stared down at Nathaniel's body in disgust. "So much for friends."

Laila bit her lip, curbing the sudden horror that filled her. She pointed her blade at Moloch. "Actually, I mean this sword. Do you recognize the steel, Moloch? It is Heaven steel, forged with one purpose: to kill demons."

Moloch laughed, a sound like crackling ice. His face became monstrous as he laughed, his fangs glinting like the rubies strewn through his clothes. "So you have joined Heaven, little Laila, though demon blood flows through you." He took a goblet of bloodwine from a table and drank, staining his fangs and lips with red. "Of course, godlight would still burn you. Michael is using you, Laila of Hell. Any kingdom of Heaven he builds on Earth would burn your demon blood."

Laila shook her head, trying to ignore Nathaniel's blood which pooled around her boots. "I don't care about Earth. I am Lucifer's daughter, and Hell is my domain. Your reign here ends today, Moloch. I've killed two fallen angels before, and Moloch... three is my lucky number."

With a snarl, he rushed toward her, blade flashing. Laila ducked, raising her sword in parry. The blades raised sparks across the hall, and Laila growled, her arm aching with the strength of his blow. Moloch was strong. When his blade came down again, parrying seemed almost to dislocate Laila's arm. She bit her lip, ignoring the fear. Remember what Michael taught you. You have Heaven blood in you, Laila; that gives you strength that can defeat him. I am Laila, of the night, of sins and piety. I can do this.

The blades rang across the hall, sparks flying. They moved as in a dance, just her and Moloch. The entire world seemed to disappear around Laila. She barely saw the hall, barely saw the angels and demons who watched from the windows, barely saw Moloch. She was back on Earth, in the dust of Caesarea's Roman amphitheatre, dueling with Michael. Haloflame was as a part of her, checking Moloch's blows.

When his first blow passed her defense, etching a red line along her shoulder, she grunted. She kept parrying, but Moloch was relentless in his attack, his blade shooting toward her like endless vipers, so fast she barely saw him move. Laila had no chance to attack. She snarled, her halo burning, and flapped her wings. She swooped toward him, but he blocked her blow and struck again. His blade etched a line across her cheek, she tasted blood on her lips, and she flew back. He came after her, blade whirring, and she barely checked the blow.

"Is this all you've got, girl?" Moloch asked, laughing. "You came all this way just to die here now, didn't you?"

He lashed another attack, and Laila barely parried. Damn. Moloch was good. Did I bite off more than I can chew? His blade kept lashing, her blood trickled, and Laila let rage overpower her fear. I am Laila, of the night, of hellfire and godlight. I won't die today. She had to move from defense to attack. When his next blow lashed, Laila didn't bother parrying, but leapt forward, blade flashing down. Moloch's sword dug into her shoulder, and she screamed, bringing down her sword.

Moloch checked the blow and punched Laila's face. She flew back against a column, shattering it, and slumped to the floor, mouth full of blood.

As her head spun, Moloch walked toward her, blade drawn. Laila dared not move, but stared at him through the circles of light that danced before her eyes. Blood drenched her shirt.

"So sad...," Moloch said, tsking. "Michael sent you here to your death, didn't he?"

"I didn't come for Michael," she grunted, blood in her mouth. It was hard to speak. She sat slumped against the column, unable to rise, Moloch's blade held above her. "I came for Hell. It's mine."

"Is that so, Laila? Listen to that sound outside, the crackling and hissing. Those are my pits of hellfire, reignited. Soon they will blaze again over Limbo, destroying the last of your army. You won't live to see it, Laila, but I want you to die knowing it."

"And you, Moloch," Laila said, "you can die knowing that, frankly, only sissies wear rubies in their clothes." She drew a gun from her belt and pointed it at him.

He laughed. "A handgun? You think human weapons can hurt me?"

Hand trembling with weakness, Laila fired. Michael's holy water squirted onto Moloch's face, burning him, raising blisters. He screamed.

"Well, a water gun, to be accurate," Laila said, rising to her feet. With a swipe of her blade, she sliced off Moloch's screaming, blistering head.

She leaned against a column, clutching her wound, wincing. Angels rushed into the hall, catching her before she fell. They lay her on the ground, bound her wounds, let her drink honeyed milk. She did not rest long.

"Let all know who rules in Limbo today," she said, struggling to her feet. She took Moloch's severed head, flew out the window, and stuck the head upon the highest steeple of the palace. She looked over Limbo, a land of flame, water, and blood. The armies blustered around her.

"I am Laila!" she shouted from the tower, so loud she thought all of Limbo could hear. She spread out her bat wings, and her halo crackled with flame. "I am Lucifer's daughter and new ruler of Hell. I rule now in Limbo. See the head of Moloch! It is I who rule in his stead. Demons, return to your caves and homes, and leave the fires dead. Obey me, and I will let you live."

Her voice rang across Limbo, and the demons who saw Moloch's head shrieked, bowed before Laila, and scrambled about, spreading the news. Soon demons were bowing around her, kissing her feet, bringing her gifts. The last pits of fire were doused, and the last demons loyal to Moloch slain.

"Seal the gateways into the lower levels of Hell," Laila told the archdemons who came to swear fealty to their new mistress. "None now may pass between Limbo and Hell's other circles."

The scaly beasts bowed and flew to do her bidding. Battalions of demons spread around the fortress, chanting for her, rolling into the distance. Laila stood upon the steeple, overlooking Limbo, tears on her cheeks.

I am Laila, of the night. I am Queen of Limbo. This is my new home.

Chapter Eighteen

Bat El sat in the dungeon, ankles shackled.

Only a bar of light shone above, peeking beneath the dungeon door atop the stairs. Bat El could see dust flying, but no more. The air was icy down here, and she could feel ants racing along her legs. A bowl of brackish water lay before her, untouched alongside a loaf of dry bread.

Zarel had returned to the fort, so now Bat El sat chained here, entombed, alone with her anguish. "It's only until Zarel leaves for her next battle," Beelzebub had promised. "Once she leaves the fort, I'll let you out."

Yet how long could she keep this up? For how many more months or years could she live this way, spending her days shackled underground, loving Beelzebub when Zarel was away? Bat El lowered her head, her hair covering her face, tears in her eyes. "I chose this," she whispered, tasting the saltiness of her tears mixed with ash. "I chose to stay here, I chose captivity."

She could have let Michael kill Beelzebub. She could have escaped then, returned to Heaven's camp, yet she had sided with Hell. No. Not with Hell. I sided with Beelzebub. Because I love him. Even here, chained underground, the thought of Beelzebub sent shivers of love through her, made her heart leap with light. His eyes, wise yet forever slightly mocking; his smile, knowing; his lips, his hands, the goodness she saw in him, the angelic side she knew still pulsed through him. All these things she had discovered. All these things made her love grow every day.

"He will come for me soon," she told herself. "He will free me from this dungeon. Someday he'll leave his wife, he'll leave Zarel, and he'll be mine. It's me he loves. I know it."

The thoughts of a young girl, she knew, lovesick. Yet still they filled her. The ants raced over her, and Bat El shivered. For Beelzebub she would endure this pain. She would endure the dungeon, the chains, the damage to her soul. She had never kissed a man but him, never loved anyone but him. "I give all this to you, Beelzebub; you have broken my will, you have shattered my righteousness, made me a slave to your love, mindless, powerless. I stood against Michael for you, I betrayed Heaven and my god for you. This is what you've done to me. And still I cannot hate you, only wish for your love. You have destroyed me, Beelzebub."

Her tears hit her legs, and she shivered until the light under the door died, and night fell, like night had fallen over her soul.

* * * * *

It was Zarel who first told him about Limbo.

He had stepped out of bed for the first time in three days, and had made his way down to the fort's main hall, still weak and sore, but healing fast. Beelzebub wore his breastplate and blade, and he was beginning to feel more like himself, strong, coolheaded, in control again. He stood by the statue of himself which he had carved, the same statue he completed that day Laila returned from exile into Jerusalem. He was gazing at his artwork when Zarel fluttered into the fort, hair aflame.

"She took Limbo," was all his wife said. "The bitch took over the first circle of Hell."

This Beelzebub had not expected. He had known for two days now that Laila had invaded Hell with an army—demons and angels spoke of it across the world—but he had expected Moloch to do his job and defend the place. Beelzebub stood facing his wife, hand on the hilt of his sword, and took a slow, measured breath.

"And Moloch?"

Zarel spat a glob of lava onto the floor. It sizzled. "She stuck his head upon his tower. As far as I know, it still rots there."

Beelzebub tapped his fingers against his statue. Well, well, little Lailoosh; you've done well for yourself, haven't you? "This is not good," he said. "I'm not liking this, Zarel."

"Beelzebub, this is all your fault. I could have killed her before, but—"

"Hush, Zarel. Let me think."

"Less thinking, more killing. Come with me now to Hell, we'll—"

"Zarel, be quiet!" he roared, and at once regretted it. Demons stared from all corners of the hall, and Beelzebub cursed under his breath. He had sworn to show control, yet everything seemed to aggravate him lately. Beelzebub missed lying in bed by Bat El, missed her kisses. He walked over to a table the shades had set up with wine and food, chose a bottle, and drank. He paced the hall, bottle in hand.

"What is Michael thinking he can accomplish here?" he wondered aloud. "To take Hell? He must know he can't keep it. He wants Earth, not Hell."

Zarel shook her head with an exasperated sigh. "Would you quit thinking about Michael? Michael this, Michael that. Don't you realize that it's not Michael you're fighting now? It's Laila we must kill." Tongues of flame ran across the Demon Queen's body, and her eyes crackled. "Michael might want Earth, but it's Laila who's after your throne."

He stared at her. "Laila is a girl. A pup. She can't take Hell. Eight more circles of Hell lie below Limbo, and there's not enough water on earth to douse their hellfire. She took Limbo? Let her keep it."

Zarel barked a laugh. "You're a madman, Beelzebub. You're so obsessed with Earth, you're going to let Hell slip from your grasp. And then what will you do?" Bloody tears filled her eyes, bubbling in the heat of her flaming hair. "She enlisted Angor. She has my father fighting with her. It's Angor who dug a tunnel to Limbo, who doused the hellfire. Forget about the war on Earth, and look upon the rebellion against you in Hell."

Beelzebub tossed his bottle against the wall. It shattered, sending wine and shards of glass across the room. "Damn it, Zarel, will you stop being so overdramatic? What is Limbo? A city. That's all. In size, it's less than one percent of Hell. A rebellion against me? Like hell. Your dad is nobody. Worthless. I only kept him around because he's my father-in-law, and I'll gladly kill the beast next time I see him." He stepped toward Zarel and grabbed her shoulders, pulling her close to him, and whispered into her ear with clenched teeth. "What will you have me do, Zarel? March into Hell with my armies, leaving Earth unguarded for Michael to take? Will you have me start yet another front? Let Laila remain in Limbo. She's more a threat to me on Earth than underground. Let her stay there and play her little games of dominion. It'll keep her out of my hair."

Zarel glared at him. "You still think you can take Earth. You couldn't even take Jerusalem."

Beelzebub shoved her aside. She fell, rolled across the floor, and glared up at him, crackling with flame. "I killed Raphael in Jerusalem," he said, voice strained. "I killed an archangel, and several seraphim to boot. You want to call that a defeat? Go ahead. I destroyed most of Michael's garrison and killed my brother, Zarel. I killed my baby brother, doesn't that make you happy, my sweet wife?" His voice was maniacal, and he struggled to keep his fists from destroying the room. "With Laila underground, with Raphael dead, with Michael's army beaten and bloody, I will take this world. It won't be a month, and this place will be ours. And then, Zarel... then the hellfire will burn below Laila, and above her. So why do you worry, my dear?"

She looked up at him from the floor. "Because Michael almost killed you, Beelzebub, and I was scared."

He turned his back to her. "You don't need to fear for me." He stared at the wall, where the portrait of Michael used to hang, showing the archangel alight, lance in hand, slaying the devil. Beelzebub could still see the lines on the wall where the portrait once hung.

Zarel stepped up to him and placed her hand on his shoulder. He could feel the heat from her body. She leaned her head against him, pressing her body against his. "How did this happen, Beelzebub?"

"Laila taking Limbo? Because Moloch was useless."

Zarel embraced him from behind. "I don't mean that, Beelzebub. How did this happen between us? How did we grow apart?"

He turned to face her. She looked up at him, her hands on his shoulders. "We are not grown apart, Zarel," he said.

"We are. You spend all your time with the angel girl, I know it, and with your human whores by the lake. Why can't you love me, Beelzebub? Have you ever loved me?" For once, her voice was not mad or accusing, but pleading, tragic.

He stood impassively. "Of course I love you."

Zarel snorted, though it sounded like half a sob. "Gee, your sweet words make me melt, Casanova."

He sighed. "What do you want me to do, Zarel? Bring you flowers? Take you out for a candlelit dinner and a moonlit stroll? I didn't know archdemons went for those kinds of things."

With a snarl, she slammed her fist against his armor, raising sparks. "Damn it, Beelzebub! Show me that you love me every once in a while." Bloody tears stained her cheeks, and she trembled. "I've always loved you, since I was a girl. I was happy when you killed Lucifer, do you know? I was promised to him. For centuries, my dad raised me to be a bride to Lucifer, and when you killed him, I laughed. I laughed because I loved you, not Lucifer. But you only wanted Laila, didn't you? And now you want Bat El." Sobs muffled Zarel's words, and her face twisted in bitterness. "Who was I ever kidding? You were born an angel. You've never forgotten your angel side, and that's all you want—Laila with her mixed blood, her sister with her godlight and unscaled flesh. You never wanted to marry me. You only married me because I'm Angor's daughter, because I'm strong, because Laila wouldn't have you." She slapped his face. "I hate you, Beelzebub."

He stood, watching her sob, arms crossed against his chest. He waited silently until her sobs died, the flames of her hair fading to dull embers. She lay on the floor, claws digging into the stone.

"Are you done?" he finally asked.

She glared up at him, spent. She nodded.

"Come with me." He grabbed her arm and pulled her across the hall, down a corridor, and into his bedroom. In this bedroom, he had made love to Bat El countless times, but of course Bat El was gone now. With Zarel returned, Beelzebub had locked the angel in the dungeon, though it tore at his heart. Beelzebub forced his thoughts away from Bat El. Today, let me think only of my wife.

He took Zarel there on his bed, the same bed where he would make love with Bat El. He took her violently, loudly, leaving the sheets in tattered, burned shreds. They left the room in ruins, the walls chipped and the desk shattered. He thought they could almost topple the fort.

"Beelzie," Zarel whispered as they lay in what remained of the bed, "why don't you just nuke Limbo?"

He ran his fingers through her hair of flame. "That is not a demon's way. Those are human weapons, crude and heartless."

Zarel nestled against him, running her claws across his chest, raising steam. "Crude, yes, but effective. You kept the humans' nukes for a reason. Use them now. Blow Limbo away."

Beelzebub left the bed and stared out the window. Past boulders and some burned palms, the sea whispered. He spoke softly. "Limbo is part of my domain. I would not destroy it, even if Laila now rules there."

Zarel snorted, smoke rising from her nostrils. "It's no longer part of your domain. Laila doused the hellfire and named herself queen there. She blocked the way to the deeper circles of Hell, cutting herself off completely. Nuke the girl. Or do you still love her, and dare not?"

Beelzebub frowned. "Your jealousy is talking, not your brain. If I nuke Limbo, it's lost to me forever. We can recapture it."

"With what army?" Zarel came to stand by him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and looked out at the sea with him. Her hair crackled, raising sparks. "Would you attack Laila with armies you could use against Michael? If you open a second front, Beelzebub, you will lose this war; you yourself said so." She tightened her grip on his shoulder and stared at him, eyes blazing, fangs and scales glittering. "You could never nuke Michael; he'd just nuke us back with his own stash, and we'd end up destroying this world. But Laila has no nukes. Armies, yes. Archdemons, yes. Pluck and some strength, I do admit it. A way to survive a nuclear assault and retaliate? The answer to that, my dear husband, is no. Who needs Limbo, after all? It's the smallest circle of the nine, and in time, we could rebuild it, even if it takes centuries. Blow it out of Hell, Beelzebub. Finish off this second front and destroy Michael's greatest ally. Do that, and Earth will fall into our hands like a ripe pear."

Beelzebub said nothing, staring at the waves, the swaying ash in the wind. She makes sense. Beelzebub hated to admit it, but Zarel was right; this was what he should do. It was just that.... Beelzebub shut his eyes, remembering a time long ago. He had loved Laila then, a decade ago. He had asked her to marry him, even killed Lucifer—his best friend—for disapproving of the marriage. Who would have thought Laila would grow to be this enemy? Could he kill her now, roll the nukes down to explode in Limbo? He could imagine the blasts of light tearing through Laila, turning her to ash.

"I'm going out for a fly," he said and opened his eyes. Without waiting for Zarel to reply, he flew out the window and was soon gliding under the cloudy sky, the drizzle wetting his hair.

Did Zarel truly care about this war, or did she merely want Laila dead? Beelzebub wasn't sure. He loved his Demon Queen, but the past decade of marriage had strained his nerves. So much jealousy, mistrust, fighting.... So what if he sought distraction with other women? He was King of Hell, too great for any one love. Could Zarel not understand this? He found himself flying north over burned fields, heading toward the Sea of Galilee. Perhaps the thought of other women's comfort drove him there. He had found the prostitute—Kayleigh, she said her name was—a year or two ago, and she had become his favorite. She was not the prettiest woman Beelzebub had seen, what with her squat face and jutting chin, but her green eyes sparkled bright, and her curves seemed to perfectly fit the shape of his hands. I'll go see her, he decided, and why not? Zarel would never know, and prostitutes never beg you to nuke anyone. With a woman in his hands, he could forget this war, forget Raphael's blood on his hands, forget Laila taking Limbo from him.

He descended into a field on the way, caught a lamb, and picked some dandelions. Kayleigh worked for little more than a good meal and some sweet words, he remembered. The lake was still empty when Beelzebub arrived, its floor muddy. The rain had died, leaving the world wet and glistening, erasing the footsteps of armies. Flowers and grass grew around the lake's banks, unaware of this war.

He found Kayleigh by her usual tree, dressed in her tattered smallclothes, flowers in her knotty blond hair. She seemed agitated, pacing to and fro, and when she saw Beelzebub, she rushed toward him and embraced him. "Thank God you're here," she said, her cheek against his chest.

He kissed her head. "God has nothing to do with it."

She looked up at him with those bright green eyes, so large in her squished, bulldoggish face. "Angels were here," she said, "many thousands, maybe a million. Not angels like in the stories, all beautiful and kind. These ones were angry and terrible to see. They scared me. Heaven thinks I'm a sinner, and I thought they would hurt me."

It hadn't been long since he had made love with Zarel, but a trembling Kayleigh pressed against him was enough to make Beelzebub's blood boil again.

"You're safe now," he said, and couldn't wait any longer. He took her there on the grass by the lake, crushing beneath them the flowers he had picked. Kayleigh was everything Zarel was not—instead of scales and flame, she was all eager softness.

"Tell me of your troubles," she whispered as they moved in the grass. "Tell me all that bothers you."

The smell of her flowers in his nostrils, Beelzebub spoke, telling her everything as she kissed him.

* * * * *

How did you change, brother?

Is it because God scolded you then, was wroth for the Nephilim you placed into the wombs of human women? Is it for his wrath that you declared war against him?

Michael remembered those days, thousands of years ago, when mankind was young. Swan wings had grown from Beelzebub's back then, and a halo of godlight crowned his head. White robes he would wear, an angelic being. Among the brightest stars of Heaven was he, among the fairest and greatest of its angels.

"Come on, Michael," he would say so often. "Lucifer and I are going down to the world. Raphael's coming too. Join us."

"I'm busy," Michael would always respond, smiling inwardly, knowing that Beelzebub would convince him sooner or later.

"Busy with what, composing for the harp? Praying? Watching over humans and being pious?" Beelzebub would invariably snort. "Forget those, brother. Come with us, we'll drink some human spirits, hunt some game, meet some comely human women. I know a village where the girls are ripe and sweet as the grapes they grow."

And invariably, Michael would feign a sigh, struggling to hide his smile. "Well, I guess I better go, to watch over you and Raphael, to make sure you two don't get into too much trouble."

And so the three brothers would sneak down to the world, with Lucifer, sometimes with Gabriel, with whoever else would join them. Young angels, they would hunt in the forests, and drink in wine houses, and sing until their voices were hoarse. Raphael always knew where to find the best ale, and could out-drink them all. They would woo human girls at the wells of villages and know them under the trees. Beelzebub and Lucifer were never careful; in their passion, they would place the seed of Heaven in human wombs, and nine months later, the women would give birth to deformed babes. The creatures would grow to be ten feet tall, wicked and rambling, Nephilim who terrorized the villages.

God would scold Beelzebub and Lucifer, Michael remembered. His spirit would seek them like a shadow, booming with anger, sending them fleeing. Once the spirit chased them into a cave, where the entrance collapsed, and for a year, Beelzebub and Lucifer ate worms and moss, living in darkness. Yet when their sentence ended, and they were freed, Beelzebub would return to the world again, and soon more Nephilim roamed.

Michael sighed. Is it my fault, brother? Was I never stern enough with you? Michael too had created one or two Nephilim in his day, though he would hide it, shameful, fearing God's wrath. Yet Beelzebub never feared God, but would rile against him, curse him, disobey him for spite. Lucifer too.

"God is nothing to me," Beelzebub said one day. "I spit upon him. One day I will kill him."

Beelzebub grew sick that day, and for a month he lay pale and trembling, unable to eat. "God is punishing me," he whispered from his sickbed to Michael. Was it then, brother, that you plotted your revenge?

Michael would never forget the day the rebellion began. Every detail of that day was branded into him. Shouts, angel blood upon Heaven's meadows, civil war in Heaven. Brother fought against brother, and bodies of angels littered Heaven. God triumphed that day and cast out the angels who rebelled against him. When Beelzebub's halo fell off, he screamed in agony. When his swan wings were torn from his body, his blood seeped down his back, and he howled. Fallen the rebels became then, cursed, banished.

Michael lowered his head. "You never forgot your vow to kill God, brother. You never ended your war. But we are going to end it soon, here on this world."

Raphael was gone, dead before seeing Heaven win or mankind saved. Michael looked at his brother's flask, holding it in his hands, cherishing it, a last relic. Goodbye.

* * * * *

He walked through the darkness, covered in cloak and hood, like one of the shadows. His boots were silent in the tunnel, his hands hidden in the folds of his cloak. A ghost, he moved down into the pits of Hell.

When he neared Limbo, demon guards appeared, charging at him. He waved his arms, spraying flame, tossing the shades against the walls. No shades could harm one such as him. In the shadows of his hood, he smiled.

When he entered Limbo, leaving dead shades in his wake, he disappeared into shadows, moving over craggy mountains, through alleys, around towers, until he found what he sought. Upon a hill of bones, flicking his tail, lay Angor.

"Hello, Angor," he said, pulling back his hood.

Angor looked up, and fear filled his red eyes. The archdemon scurried back, flames rising from his nostrils. "Beelzebub," he said. "How did you get here?"

Beelzebub walked toward his father-in-law, his old servant, this great archdemon who had once served Lucifer. He tsked. "Angor, Angor... did you really think you could betray me and hide?"

The hill of bones, which served as Angor's bed, was dry and bleached. It had been years since blood had covered those bones. Today blood washed them.

When he was done, Beelzebub pulled the hood back over his head, his hands stained with Angor's blood. Still smiling, he walked away, back to the tunnel, back to the world where his war waited.

Nukes are such coarse things, he thought. Barbaric. Angor would never know what hit him. Angor needed to know who killed him, to feel the fear before death. Laila might be guarded by a host of archdemons, high in her tower, unreachable to him now... but soon she too would die. Beelzebub nodded, the blood staining his hands. Now, with Angor dead, we can go ahead and blow this place away.

* * * * *

Upon the highest steeple of Moloch's fort she stood, her halo of flame crackling, her fangs bared. Ashy winds howled across Limbo, streaming her hair, thudding her black cape behind her. The water had mostly been drained, leaving only scattered pools. The hellfire was gone, and the countless steeples of Limbo glittered with torches, rising from the surface like blades of jet. Battalions of shades flew across the great cavern, drilling and hissing.

Limbo. My home.

Below Laila, across the craggy landscapes of black boulders and towers, countless shades glistened, eyes burning red as they gazed up upon her. They sprawled into the distance, a sea of diablerie.

"I am Laila!" she shouted at the top of her lungs, voice echoing over Limbo. She drew Haloflame and held it high. It shone as a beacon. "I am Queen of Limbo. I am soon to be Queen of all Hell. I am Lucifer's daughter! Hell's throne is mine. Soon, my friends, we will take Beelzebub's throne. Soon we will be the ruling circle of Hell."

Leaving the demons to cheer, she flapped her wings and entered the tower, sheathing her sword. They must see me, hear me, know that I'm real, know that I rule them. Laila nodded, walking down the stairs to her hall. Here was the heart of her kingdom. Once she killed Beelzebub, she would rule all of Hell from this place, from Limbo.

She entered her towering hall of black marble, whence Moloch once ruled. Torches lined the walls, their light glittering over jet columns and crystal statues of a hundred fallen angels. Between the columns, Laila could see the landscapes of Limbo, her glittering black towers rising as a forest.

Thirteen archdemons sat around a table in the hall, rising as Laila entered, bowing their heads. Laila nodded to them and sat at the head of the table. A feast covered the table in golden dishes, steaming.

"Gentlemen," she said, "thank you for joining me at my table. Please enjoy this dinner."

The thirteen nodded, all glittering scales and horns. Five were white as snow, five were blacker than darkness, and three glittered blood-red. These were the greatest archdemons in Limbo, once servants of Moloch. There had been thirty once; seventeen had refused to join Laila and now their heads rotted upon her towers.

Laila reached across the table for a steak, still bloody, and ate slowly, sipping her cabernet. It had been years since Laila had enjoyed such a meal; upon her table lay fine aged meat, caviar, cheeses, fried mushrooms, shrimps, endless wines. A decade ago, when she was Beelzebub's paramour, he would pamper her with fine foods. Today none need pamper me. This hall is mine, and all that's in this fort I've earned. In Limbo does Laila the half-demon reign as queen.

"Give me news of the front-lines," she said, and the archdemons spoke, each in turn. The white archdemons guarded the tunnels that ran deeper into Hell, the black archdemons guarded the passageways to the human world, while the reds maintained order within Limbo. Beelzebub's troops kept harrying them on all fronts, slamming at her guards from all borders. Assassinating Angor had been his most brazen attack. But if Beelzebub planned a major assault, Laila saw no sign of it; for now, her rule was safe.

"You will reign forever as Queen of Limbo," hissed Belial, chief of her archdemons. He crunched a lamb's bone between his teeth and chewed, grease dripping down his white scales.

Laila nodded and bit into her steak. Queen of Limbo. She had a home now, for the first time in her life. Since I was born, I've been a freak, outcast from Heaven, banished from Hell, hunted on Earth. Could it truly be that she belonged somewhere now? Might I even find some peace for this war within my heart? She would make this land a place for all outcasts, she decided. For the Nephilim, those misshapen spawn of angels and the humans they knew. For Volkfair. For sinners. For anyone seeking asylum from Hell or Heaven. Here, instead of an outcast, fleeing and hurting, she would be a great ruler.

Laila shut her eyes, the old pain resurfacing inside her, now mingled with fear and hope, tingling through her. I don't know what will happen next, but if happiness is in my future, I won't fear it, no matter how much it might hurt.

She had drunk four glasses of wine, and was filling her fifth, when a knock came at the door. Two shades entered, holding between them a human girl.

Laila rose to her feet, frowning. Kayleigh. Mud covered the girl, and her hair was knotty, but Laila recognized her at once.

"The girl says she knows you," said one of the shades who held Kayleigh. "She came from aboveground to find you. She was unarmed, so we let her through."

Laila stepped toward the shades. "Let her be."

The shades released Kayleigh, who fell to the floor, scraping her knees against the tiles. Laila knelt by the girl and examined her for wounds, but Kayleigh seemed healthy, if muddy and trembling.

Laila turned toward her table of archdemons. "Dinner's over," she said, and the archdemons nodded. They rose to their hooves, bowed before Laila, and left the room, scales creaking. When they were gone, Laila helped Kayleigh to her feet and led her to the table.

"Sit down," Laila said. "Have something to eat and drink. You look famished."

Kayleigh nodded and sat down, glancing around as if searching for more demons. When none appeared, she gingerly reached toward a turkey leg and began to eat. She drank from a goblet of wine, and slowly her trembling faded.

"It's tasty," she said to Laila.

"I'll get you new clothes, too, after you eat, and a hot bath." Laila herself had found new garments here. Instead of her old tattered cloak, she now wore a cape of black velvet, clasped around her with a ruby fibula. She wore leather pants tucked into heavy boots, and sported silver vambraces on her forearms. Across her chest, she had strapped a breastplate of black iron, molded to fit the curves of her body. She had polished her great bat wings with oil; usually dusty, they now gleamed a deep black, sucking in all light. If I am a ruler in Hell, I must look the part.

"We might not have time for that," Kayleigh said, placing down the wine goblet. She looked up at Laila, fear in her eyes. "I had to come see you, Laila. I walked into the empty lake until I found the tunnel. It didn't take long, and I found myself here." Kayleigh took a deep drink of wine, hands shaking. "Beelzebub came to see me yesterday. I had to come give you the news."

Laila pulled lake weeds out of Kayleigh's hair. "What did he say that's so important?"

"He plans to nuke you, Laila." Kayleigh shivered. "In his passion, he was. I know how to make him mad with his desire. He will say anything then. It was his wife's idea, he said. They have some nukes, great weapons we humans made before you demons and angels came. He says they can destroy Limbo and everyone in it." Kayleigh finished her wine. "You are my friend, Laila. I know you meant it when you said we'd be friends, that you understand me. I wanted to help you, to save you. You can still run from here, back into the forests."

Laila turned away from the table, walked toward the jet columns that lined her hall, and stood between two columns, gazing upon Limbo. The craggy towers glistened in the light of a million torches, while armies of demons swooped to and fro through the air like schools of piranhas. The cavernous Limbo stretched miles across, so large Laila could not see the ends of it. This had been her home for only a week, and now Beelzebub would destroy it?

Laila ran her fingers along one of her silver vambraces, tracing the delicate engravings of demon chants. Her fiery halo crackling, she gazed upon her new kingdom, and refused to lose it.

I have no nukes of my own. Zarel knows that. She knows they can nuke me without fear of retaliation. But I am Laila, of the night. I have run for too long, hidden for too many years. She let her hand rest upon the hilt of Haloflame, which hung at her waist. I won't give up this place, not so easily, not without a fight. This place is mine now. In Limbo does Laila the half-demon rule, and that will not change.

Her halo crackling with fire, she turned back to face Kayleigh.

"I will rise to the world and meet her. I will meet Zarel in duel." She once swore to Angor that, while he lived, she would grant clemency to Zarel. But Angor is dead now, like so many others in this war. Everything is changing.

Kayleigh joined Laila by the columns and stood, muddy, watching the craggy horizons of Hell. "Would she agree to fight you?"

Laila nodded, caressing the pommel of her sword. "She will. If she refuses, she'd think herself a coward. So would everyone else. She will agree to duel me. She would prefer to kill me herself, with her own claws, rather than nuking this place. If she kills me, she'd even get Limbo back whole." Laila closed her eyes. "It's the only way. Beelzebub would agree to it too. If Zarel kills me, he loses me as an enemy, and can go ahead and conquer the world. And if I kill Zarel, well... he'll be equally happy, free to pursue my sister in peace. It's a win-win situation for him." The air suddenly seemed hot to Laila, too heavy in her lungs. She forced herself to take deep breaths.

Kayleigh took Laila's hand and squeezed it. "Can you beat Zarel?"

"I don't know. But I have to try." Laila opened her eyes and looked upon the human girl. "It's in my destiny to face her. It has been this way since I returned to Jerusalem. She knows it and has been waiting. I can't escape this fate."

Kayleigh bit her lip. "But Laila... even if you do kill Zarel... what's to stop Beelzebub from nuking Limbo anyway?"

Laila squeezed Kayleigh's hand back and forced herself to smile. "I'll take care of that. I know what to do."

That is, if I survive, she added silently. The armies of demons swarmed outside, shrieking through the darkness. The two girls stood between the columns, watching the landscapes of Hell, silent.

Chapter Nineteen

The earth was still fresh over Raphael's grave when Michael began mustering a force to reclaim Beelzebub's fort.

He moved grimly between the troops, silent, gripping his lance. His officers dared not approach him, and his glower, they whispered, could cause baby angels' wings to fall off. Michael did not care if troops whispered, did not care that Laila had abandoned him and ruled, silent and still, in Limbo. He cared for only one thing.

Bat El.

"I will get her back," he swore over Raphael's grave that evening. "I will make her one of Heaven again. I won't let her become a fallen angel, turned dark and cursed."

The grave was silent, covered with stones and flower petals, but Michael seemed to hear his baby brother's voice in his mind. Is it for her sake that you want Bat El back, or for your own? Michael shut his eyes, kneeling over the grave, lance in hand. He was a soldier. He had no emotions, certainly not love. Why would he love Bat El? The girl was thousands of years younger than him, infinitely less experienced and wise. If I do feel love toward her, I'll bury that feeling. I'll feel no love now, only hatred toward Hell. I am a soldier. That's all I've been for thousands of years. You, Raphael, were the one who loved and healed. I came to this world to kill.

And yet the thought of Bat El's eyes and pink lips still filled his mind.

A month since Laila claimed Limbo as her domain, Michael stood upon a steeple, staring down at rows of angels among Jerusalem's ruins. Tens of thousands of troops stood there, wings spread, gilded armor dusty, swords drawn. Their banners flapped feebly in the ashy wind, white and gold. Standing above them, Michael raised his lance, and they shouted, a battle cry that rattled the city, sending birds into flight.

I'm going to get you back, like it or not, Bat El, he thought, taking flight. His troops followed in formation, tens of thousands darkening the sky. Michael felt blood pounding in his ears, as if a fever claimed him, or perhaps bloodlust. The thudding of angel wings was like thunder. Glints of dawn broke through the clouds, kindling their thousands of blades. They burned red, as if already bloodied.

Soon he saw the sea. The waves rose high, blue-gray tipped with foam, the clouds veiling them. The Crusader castle rose above boulders and stones, a sentinel over the beach, fluttering with demons. Did the men who built this fort ever imagine that, a thousand years later, demons and angels would fight over it? Michael narrowed his eyes and flew down toward this ancient pile of stones.

Beelzebub's demons met them head on, thousands shooting upward, claws drawn. Angel swords flew, demon fangs bit, and blood rained upon the beach below.

"Zarel!" Michael shouted as the battle raged in midair, demons and angels swirling and killing, countless wings flapping. He thrust his lance in every direction, clad in light, spearing endless shades, their blood splashing against his arms. He remembered how Laila would fly into battle, guns blazing, grenades flying, fighting like a human. Michael clenched his jaw. Would Laila emerge to fight with Heaven, or would she remain in Limbo without fulfilling her end of the bargain? You swore you'd kill Beelzebub for me, Laila. You better get your butt back up here soon.

"Zarel, Demon Queen of Hell!" he shouted, voice hoarse. "Come out and meet me."

Hellfire blazed, and with a crackle and smoke, Zarel the Demon Queen shot out from the citadel, a fireball. Screeching, she launched into battle, tossing aside angel bodies. Michael narrowed his eyes and flew toward her.

"Get her, now!" he shouted, and ten seraphs doffed their cloaks behind him, bursting into blinding light. The light fell upon Zarel, and she screamed, burning. Michael shouted at the top of his lungs. "Now, while she's blinded!"

They crashed into the Demon Queen, Michael and ten seraphs, stabbing with blades and lance, blinding her with godlight. The archdemon screamed, wreathed in flames, clawing and biting. Her hellfire burned bright, singing Michael's hair, burning his eyes. Still he fought on, slamming his lance into her scales as she screamed. Zarel's claws lashed in all direction. One seraph fell dead, soon another, then a third. Michael grunted and kept stabbing, and the seraphs hacked at Zarel with blades that dented her scales. Her screams were so loud, Michael thought they would break his eardrums. Two more seraphs fell dead to thud against the distant ground.

Three seraphs grabbed her from behind. She spun to claw at them, and Michael swooped forward and drove his gauntlet into Zarel's head. Blood flew, and Zarel's eyes closed. She growled, and Michael slammed his fist again. He felt her nose crush under his blow, and he grunted. His gauntlet broke, and he thought he might have broken his knuckle.

"Tie her up," he grunted. The surviving seraphs grabbed Zarel's unconscious body. "Use heavy chains, lots of them. Quick, before she wakes."

They descended to the ground, demons and angels battling above, blood raining. Between mossy boulders, Michael and his seraphs wrapped the unconscious Zarel with chains. They bound her legs together, her arms behind her back, her wings to her body. They placed an iron muzzle over her mouth, and finally shoved her into a cage.

Michael surveyed their handiwork and nodded with satisfaction. "Good job, boys," he said to his seraphs.

Zarel was waking up, moaning. Blood dripped down her muzzle. She blinked weakly, shook her head, and her gaze found Michael. Smoke rose from the muzzle as she snarled.

"Let me go, angel," she hissed.

Michael stared at her, lance in hand, the battle still raging above. "In good time."

Spreading his wings, he grabbed her cage and lifted it, flying with it over the beach. The fort's tower rose before him, mossy and craggy, bleak under the veiled sky. Demons and angels battled around it, feathers and scales flying, blood splashing. Zarel's cage was so heavy, Michael could barely lift it, but he ignored the pain in his muscles. The pain of Raphael's death, of Bat El's betrayal, of Laila's disappearance all eclipsed any physical pain Michael could feel this day.

"Beelzebub!" Michael shouted hoarsely, Zarel dangling beneath him in her cage. Rain began to fall, pattering against the cage, soaking Michael's hair and feathers. Zarel's flames raised steam that flowed across him, and he tasted ash running down his face. "Brother!" His shouts were hoarse, like the cries of a dying beast. "I have your wife! If you want her, show yourself."

The rain pattered, crashing against the fort, the armies, the sea and sand. For a moment the battle seemed to die, all angels and demons staring at Michael and the captured Demon Queen. For a moment the only sound was the rain and thunder.

Then, with a thud of wings and crackle of flame, Beelzebub, demon lord of Hell, emerged from the fort's front gates, flying into the sky. The fallen angel's bat wings spread wide and black, and the rain pattered against his blackened armor. He stared at Michael with eyes of flame.

"Hello, big brother," he said. "You have taken a liking to my wife, I see. I never knew you were into romance, but if you like her so much, keep her. She's all yours."

Zarel hissed in her cage. "Beelzebub, damn you."

Beelzebub shrugged. "My brother has always had trouble meeting women. The only way he can get a lady is to chain her up. So I'll humor him."

Holding the cage with one hand, Michael pointed his lance at Zarel's neck. "Enough of this." He grunted. "Beelzebub, shut up, or watch me kill her now."

Beelzebub sighed. "You won't kill her, Michael, we both know that. She's worthless to you dead, so cut the games, cut the threats, and in God's name get a shave and a haircut, you look like you're the hostage here." The fallen angel flapped his wings, sending droplets of rain flying, and rubbed his neck. "I was just in the middle of a nap, so please, make this short. What do you want, Michael? What do you want for her? This fort? A few barrels of bloodwine? Me to do your laundry? Name your price and let's be done with."

Michael stared at him through the wet strands of hair that hung over his eyes. His voice was so hoarse, it sounded more like a grunt than words. "You know what I want. Bring her out."

Beelzebub snorted. "Bat El? The girl's on my side now, brother. She's no longer my hostage, but my willing accomplice. She's useless to you."

"Damn it, Beelzebub!" Michael shouted, hating that he let his temper claim him. He pushed the spearhead against Zarel's neck. "Bring her out now."

Beelzebub stared back, eyes flaming, for a moment all amusement gone from his face, leaving only sternness. The fallen angel then spun around, flapped his wings, and disappeared back into his fort.

Michael descended to the ground and dropped the cage with a groan. Zarel struggled against her bonds, the rain steaming over her, but could not free herself. Michael's entire body ached. Rubbing his arm, he shoved his lance into the ground and sat on a boulder. The battle was dying around them, each army retreating to its ranks, glaring at the other side.

"What now?" asked one of Michael's seraphs.

"We wait," Michael said, the rain running down his face.

* * * * *

Laila sat in darkness, curtains drawn. She had found this bedchamber in Moloch's fort, high upon a tower, a simple room where she could live with her thoughts, alone, in silence.

I have slain demons and angels. I am strong. I am a legend. But can I kill Zarel?

She remembered the first angel she had killed. She had been sixteen, living in the forests as an animal, never speaking, running with wolves. Rain poured that evening, washing across the forest, and thunder rolled. The smells of mud, water, and wet leaves filled the air, thick. Laila sat in a small cave, a mere burrow not much larger than her body, cloak pulled over her shoulders. Little light remained, and Laila sat, chewing on dried boar meat, watching the rain fall outside. The sounds of raindrops and thunder placed a calmness within her, and she chewed slowly, staring outside.

It is good this way, she thought. Among angels, demons, humans, she felt the war of demon and angel blood within her, the sizzle of good and evil. Here, light fading, the sounds of a storm around her, the smell of rain in her nostrils, she could sense some peace. It was good to be alone, an animal living in a cave, chewing dried meat, watching the rain, no worries within her, nobody to love, nobody to hurt.

Someday, she knew, one of the brothers would win this war. Beelzebub, field commander of Hell's armies, might kill his brother Michael and fill this land with hellfire. If Michael was the victor, godlight would wash over the world. In either case, she, Laila, would die. Godlight would burn her demon blood, hellfire her angelic blood. Sometimes Laila found herself yearning for that day. Her own war was fought within her heart and veins; would death free her of its pain? Laila did not know. Should she die, would her soul still wander the world, banished from both Heaven and Hell, or might she finally find the respite of nothingness?

Lightning flashed, thunder rolled, and the trees shuddered under the sheets of rain. Rivulets ran between stones, sweeping over the hills. The light was almost gone when Laila saw the figure moving among the pines, cloaked in gray, a hood pulled over its face. She put her food aside and sat watching the figure roam, a staff in hand. When it looked toward her, she saw that it glowed softly. An angel. The angel seemed to sniff, then came walking in her direction, balancing over slippery stones. Laila considered running, but only briefly. This was her cave, her forest, her time of rest. She would not run from some angel.

"Laila," he said to her, smiling, walking up to her cave. "I have searched for you for many days. Mind if I squeeze into your cave?"

She bared her fangs at him, a wolf disturbed in her den. "Come one step closer, and it'll be your last."

His smile only widened, and he reached out his hands toward her. The rain pattered against him. "You will return with me, Laila. Michael demands it. You turned sixteen this month, didn't you? You are old enough now. I am drafting you into Heaven's army. You will fight with us against Hell."

With a crackle, her halo ignited, and she flexed her claws. "I see that you've still not taken a step closer. Do you dare not?"

With a shrug, he took another step toward her.

She leapt upon him then, claws drawn, sixteen years old and cornered, defending her den like a beast. He was an old angel, strong and smart, and he fought well. They fought upon the mountains until the breaking of the day, through rivulets and trees, over stones and carpets of pine needles. With dawn's light, she finally slew him, biting into his chest, ripping out his flesh. She raised her head to the dawn and howled, blood on her mouth, a howl which sent birds fleeing and shook the trees.

"I am Laila!" she shouted, voice hoarse, tears on her cheeks. "I killed an angel." Thunder boomed and lightning rent the sky.

In her chamber in Limbo, Laila lowered her head, her hair falling around her face. That had been a dozen years ago, and she had slain many angels and demons since. And soon... soon I will face Zarel, my greatest battle. Laila reached out and caressed Haloflame, running her fingers over the wolf's head pommel.

* * * * *

Beelzebub walked across the hall, rainwater dripping down his armor, his wings, his sword. Shades watched him from the shadows.

"Hmm," he said to himself. This was an interesting development. Michael was showing some brazenness, unusual for the tired old warrior. Beelzebub couldn't help but smirk. Did Bat El ignite some fire in the old dog? Did Michael miss the sight of her pink lips, or maybe the way her body moved beneath her tunic? Beelzebub sighed, his own thoughts of Bat El making him pensive. He didn't want to give up the girl. Well, Michael, you do have me in a bind, I admit that much. Well done, brother.

At the end of the hall, he stepped down the stairwell into the dungeon. He took a torch from the wall, unlocked the heavy door, and stepped into the darkness. Bat El looked up at him from the shadows, chained to the wall, as always when Zarel was around. Her hair was knotty, her skin ashy, her face gaunt.

"Hello, Bat El," he said softly.

She sighed and lowered her head, eyes moist. "What do you want, Beelzebub? Leave me alone."

He knelt by her and touched her hair. "I'm sorry I had to lock you down here again. It was for your own safety, you know that. If I treated you as a mistress, Zarel would kill you. The only way I could keep her claws away is to lock you here."

She glared at him, though her eyes seemed so weary, there was little fire to them. "So why visit me now? Is it sex you want? Do Zarel's scales grow old, and you crave some angel flesh?"

Ouch. Beelzebub had not expected that. Then again, did you expect she'd welcome you with love and kisses? He unlocked her chains, and she moved slowly, wincing and rubbing her muscles.

"Zarel is gone now," he said. "Michael captured her in battle. He wants a swap. You for her."

The torchlight danced in Bat El's blue eyes. "And what will you do?"

Beelzebub sat down with a sigh. Bat El sat beside him, and Beelzebub caressed her knotty, ashy hair. He put an arm around her. "I don't want to let you go," he whispered. "But I'm going to make the trade."

Bat El lowered her head, suddenly crying. Tears ran down her cheeks, leaving white lines through the ash that covered her. "I don't want to leave you, Beelzebub. Zarel is gone now. Let her stay with Heaven. Let her stay in Michael's camp. We can be together now, Beelzebub." She took his hand and kissed him, sobbing. "Please. I love you. Don't send me away."

Beelzebub winced, her words grabbing his heart and squeezing. "I love you too," he whispered, holding her. "More than I ever loved anyone." He meant it, he realized. He had not realized it until now, but looking at Bat El, he knew it was true. "I wish I could make you my wife, make you a throne, a crown, a great queen. I'd give up all other women, all other lusts, for you, Bat El, if only I could. But I can't."

A sob fled her lips, and she leaned her head against his shoulder, her arms around him. "Why not? If you love me, make me your queen. I would leave Heaven for you, Beelzebub. I would become a fallen angel for your love, let bat wings replace my swan ones, let fangs grow from my mouth and claws from my fingers, let my halo fall off, all for your love, Beelzebub. For you I would do this, I would give up God's grace for you." Her tears wet his chest.

Beelzebub put a finger under her chin, moving her face up toward his, and kissed her, a kiss that tasted of ash and her tears. "I know that, sweetness. I know. But I can't let that happen to you."

She cried. "Why not? I want it."

Beelzebub shook his head, tears stinging at his own eyes. He felt his fingers tremble and he ran them across Bat El's cheek. "You cannot imagine the pain of banishment, of this curse, of being cast away from Heaven. It would destroy you, Bat El, it would kill all joy and goodness within you. You are good, Bat El, and blessed, and loved by God. I won't let you give that up."

She trembled. "I would give it up for you. Take me with you to Hell, and make me your bride there. Let's forget about Zarel, forget about this war. Let's just be together."

He shook his head, both their tears mingling, his hands in her hair. He kissed her cheek. "I won't let hellfire make you evil. I love you, more than anything, and that is why I let you go. I return you to Heaven, to God's love. And if ever I will claim this world, if ever I invade Heaven and launch war upon God, I promise to leave you a place there. To leave a part of Heaven where you can remain an angel."

She sobbed, her body shaking. "Heaven and all of its light would be dark to me, if I must live without you."

"And Hell will feel cold and empty without you with me, but it must be done. We are demon and angel, Bat El. We were not meant to be."

Beelzebub shut his eyes. I am half-angel, Beelzebub, Laila had said to him years ago. It can never be between us. She had left him then to his rage and anguish, and Beelzebub shook his head, here in this dungeon, crying with Bat El. He finally understood. He knew that Laila still loved him, had left him because it was best for them both. He knew now what it was like, to give up one you love because you love them.

Bat El was, perhaps, the only woman he truly loved, fully. For no other woman would Beelzebub grant clemency to Heaven. For millennia he had striven to destroy God's realm in the sky. For you, Bat El, I disavow this quest. "Live in Heaven," he whispered to her. "Live there as an angel, full of light and goodness and godliness. This is what I grant you."

He led Bat El up the stairs, out of the dungeon, into the hall. She leaned against him as she walked, hair tousled, tears on her cheeks. She moved wearily, trembling, holding his hand. Beelzebub and Michael made the swap upon the fort walls, the rain falling against them, the waves crashing against the boulders, the armies of demons and angels watching.

"No," Bat El wept when Michael took her arm, pulling her toward him. She looked back at Beelzebub, weeping, and her eyes told him of her love. Then she buried her face against Michael's breastplate, and he stroked her hair, looking over her head at Beelzebub, his eyes cold.

Zarel, freed from her cage and chains, stood by Beelzebub, looking at her husband, at Michael, at Bat El. For once the Demon Queen was speechless. The rain sizzled against her hair of flame, and her eyes carried a haunted, perplexed look.

Beelzebub took Zarel's hand—clawed and scaled, yet delicate.

"Come, Zarel," he said and kissed her cheek. "Let's go home."

Chapter Twenty

A knock came at her door. Standing in her hall, hands resting upon the pommel of her sheathed sword, Laila nodded. The demon doormen creaked open the doors, revealing a sparkling archdemon, resplendent in his snowy scales, his insect wings fluttering.

"Belial," Laila said. "Welcome back." She removed her hands from the pommel of her sword, the torchlight glimmering in her vambraces. As she moved toward the archdemon, her velvet black cloak murmured. Between the towering columns of her hall, she could see ash swirling and demons fluttering.

Belial bowed his horned head before her, drool dripping down his fangs to sizzle against the marble tiles. "I spoke to Beelzebub, and he accepts. You will duel Zarel, as you asked. They will meet you a week from today, at dawn in the desert."

Laila nodded. "Good."

Kayleigh sat on the floor between the columns, sketching portraits of Limbo on a sketchpad. Hearing the exchange, she stood up and walked toward Laila. The girl wore a burgundy dress, and her hair was cleaner than it had ever looked. She eyed Haloflame, which hung at Laila's waist. "Are you sure, Laila?" she asked. "We can still run away."

Laila closed her eyes, sudden doubt filling her. Was she sure? Was she ready? The answer was "no" to both, she knew. Yet what choice did she have? I spent my life running and hiding. I can't escape my fate, this battle I was destined to fight.

"No, I'm not sure," she said, more to herself than to Kayleigh. "But I will face her nonetheless, and if she kills me, then so things were meant to play out." She opened her eyes. "Belial, prepare a thousand shades. No, five thousand. And a couple archdemons. Carve the shades new shields, and forge them new swords. Put a black wolf's head on them; it will be Limbo's sigil. In seven days, we rise to the world."

"Yes, my queen," said the archdemon, bowing. He left the chamber, scales glinting in the torchlight.

With Belial gone, the hall seemed dark, too silent despite the sounds of demon armies outside. Laila stood between the columns, watching the countless fluttering shades, the towers spreading into the distance, the bonfires like stars. The sounds of Limbo—hissing demons, creaking beasts, gurgling rivers of lava—played endlessly, and the smells of sulfur and smoke filled her nostrils.

Kayleigh stepped up to her. "What now?" the girl whispered.

Laila looked at her. "Now," she said and drew her sword, "I train."

She locked the doors to her hall that day, keeping everyone outside, even Kayleigh. Only Volkfair remained with her upon the dark marble tiles, growling as Laila drilled with her blade. For a week she drilled, halo flaming, sword spinning. She somersaulted between the columns, blade glimmering, imagining that blade digging into Zarel. Remember what Michael taught you, she told herself, over and over like a mantra. I can do this. She slept on the floor of her hall during the nights, holding her sword like a lover, imagining that she slept in the desert where she once lived. Things had been simpler then. She missed those times so badly, it ached more than her muscles after a day of drilling.

The last night, after six nights on the floor in her cloak, Laila left her hall. She stepped into her bedchamber, high in one of the fort's towers, commanding a view of Limbo's craggy landscapes, a million steeples and canyons. Tomorrow morning I might die, she thought, sitting on her canopy bed. Just when I finally found a home, they want to take it from me. Just as I find happiness, they want to kill me.

Volkfair lay on a rug by the fireplace. Sensing his mistress's fear, he climbed onto the bed and licked her cheek. Laila hugged him.

"Dearest Volkfair. You've always been my best friend, my fiercest sidekick, my wisest companion. Should I do this, Volkfair? Should I face her again, or should I run? She almost killed me the two times we fought. The third time, she might finish the job."

Volkfair showed his fangs, as if he understood her words.

Laila lowered her head. "Yes, Volkfair, I know. A wolf does not run from a fight, and I am a wolf maiden. I'll face her, Volkfair. I know you'll be there with me."

She stripped off her clothes and examined herself in her tall, gilded mirror. Scars covered her body, from all her battles. Some of these scars Zarel had given her. But her body was still lithe, strong, young and fast. She flexed her claws. Remember what Michael taught you. You can do this. You are Laila, of the night.

She lay on her bed, Volkfair's fur warming her, but could not sleep. She kept seeing Zarel's flaming figure in the darkness, claws outstretched, maw drooling. It was past midnight, and Laila still lay awake, when a small voice whispered behind her door.

"Laila, are you awake? It's me, Kayleigh."

Laila opened the door, revealing Kayleigh in her night tunic, hair mussed. "I couldn't sleep," the girl said. "I'm scared."

The girls climbed into Laila's great canopy bed and lay together, Volkfair by their feet. Thus they could finally sleep, comforted by each other's presence, until horns blew outside, signaling a new day.

"It's time we go," Laila said softly, touching Kayleigh's arm. The girl moaned and opened her eyes, which filled with fear.

Laila dressed with care that morning. The world will see me for the first time as Queen of Limbo, future queen of all Hell. I must look the part. She wore leather boots sporting stylized steel claws, leather pants, and a black iron breastplate shaped as her body. Around each forearm she strapped a steel vambrace, spiked and glittering, and pinned her velvet black cape with its ruby clasp. Her bat wings gleamed, and when she snarled, her halo burst into flame. At her waist she wore Haloflame, forged in Heaven to kill demons, and Volkfair growled at her side.

All of Hell will be mine, she swore, standing in front of her mirror. I will take your throne, Beelzebub. I am done running.

Her entourage waited outside her fort upon the plains of Limbo, three archdemons and five thousand shades. They carried their new shields, emblazoned with the black wolf's head, her sigil. I will arise to the world in splendor that poets will sing of. Standing before her army, Laila drew her sword. The blade hissed, and she gave it a whistling swing, then held it aloft.

"Let's go."

They flew down tunnels, moving through darkness toward the surface of the world. Two shades carried Volkfair. Two others carried Kayleigh. Soon they emerged into the desert, ash and sand veiling the sky.

Here was a mountainous land south of Jerusalem, beige and golden and dead, a rolling landscape of dunes, mountains, canyons. Biblical prophets would wander this dry land, and upon a mountain rose one of the humans' ancient forts. Masada was its name, built thousands of years ago. Here did the Jews fight the Romans in the last battle of their tragic rebellion. Here, in the court of this crumbled fort atop the mountain, would Laila make her own last stand.

The armies of Heaven and Hell were already there, sandy in the desert landscape. Heaven's troops lined up north of Masada's cruel, towering mount. The forces of Hell stood to the south, scales glinting, breath burning. They came to watch the duel, Laila knew. Flying over the mountain, Laila could descry Michael standing at the head of his troops, Bat El by his side. Beelzebub stood among his own camp, but Zarel was nowhere to be seen. Not yet. But she'll emerge soon.

Laila and her troops bivouacked to the east of the mountain. They raised tents to protect them should the clouds release the sun. Heaven, Hell, Limbo. The three armies stood still under the ashy desert sky, strangely silent. Sand blew in the wind, tangy against Laila's lips, filling her hair.

"Prepare my tent," she told one of her sergeants, hand on the pommel of her sword, her cape flapping in the sandy wind. "We set camp." Soon she and Zarel would fight. First she must rest, meditate, pray to whoever might listen.

The shades raised her tent, its walls thick leather. Laila sat inside, cross-legged, her drawn blade on the ground before her. In the shadows, she lowered her head, letting her hair fall over her eyes. She licked her dry lips, suddenly hesitant, then spoke in a soft voice.

"God," she said, paused, and licked her lips again. "It's me, Laila. I haven't prayed to you often. I know that I am an outcast to you, demon spawn, forever banished from your kingdom, forever cast aside from your family, your love." She stared at the gleam of her heavenly blade, then raised her eyes. "Half a demon I am, evil and monstrous. I've killed and I've sinned, but I've done goodness too. Angel blood flows through these veins, forever burning against my demon blood. If that counts for anything, even for you to listen to my words today, please, God, lend me strength. Lend me strength to kill the Demon Queen. Lend me strength to usurp Beelzebub. I'm not one of your flock, God, and I never will be. In time, if I rule Hell, I might even become an enemy to you, maybe even your greatest enemy. But for now, please God... fight with me today."

No one answered. No booming voice from heaven, no sparkling godlight. A good thing, I suppose, Laila thought with a sigh. Godlight would only burn me. I've always been alone, I've always counted on myself, nobody else. I don't need God. I don't need anyone to help me. I have Volkfair, that's enough. She reached over and ruffled the wolf's black fur.

"We've always been alone, you and I," she said to her companion. "Two lone wolves. But not for much longer. If I can do this today, Volkfair, we'll have our home in Limbo. We'll make it a good home, for both of us." Tears stung at her eyes. The wolf licked her fingers, and she kissed him. "I promise you that, Volkfair. I'll build you a park in Limbo, full of trees and game, and you will be king there."

She rose to her feet, blade in hand, and stepped out of her tent. Belial stood there, her burly archdemon, his white scales glinting in the desert, his horns long and sharp. "I want to speak to my sister," she said to him. "I must see Bat El before I go to this duel. Please, Belial. Talk to Michael. See if Bat El will meet me here, in my tent, before the fight." She put a hand on Belial's shoulder. Her hand seemed so small against him, delicate, fingers short. "Belial, do not bring her with violence. See if she will see me in peace."

Belial nodded his scaly head. "I will speak with them, Laila, my queen." He took flight, insect wings fluttering.

Laila returned to her tent and waited in the shadows, sword drawn, trying to push away her fear, her doubt, her pain. She hated the chill that ran through her. I finally found a reason to live, and I will face death again.

Soon she heard a voice outside. "Laila. I'm here."

Laila opened the tent flaps. Bat El stood there in the sand, dressed in white, a cowl drawn over her head. A golden broach, shaped as a flower, was pinned to her breast. She had always loved flowers, Laila remembered.

Bat El seemed timid, eyes lowered. The last few times Laila had seen her sister, she had seemed overbearing, brimming with idealism, love, pious self-righteousness. Today Bat El wore diffidence like her cloak, her hands clasped, her eyes peeking from her cowl. What happened to her in captivity? Laila wondered, deciding not to ask. It no longer mattered. Her captivity had ended. Perhaps this whole war would end today.

"Come in, Bat El," Laila said softly, putting her arm around Bat El, guiding her into the tent. The sisters sat on the ground. Bat El—white in her woolen tunic and hood, her hair blond and glowing, eyes blue, swan wings pure, a creature of light. Laila—dark, scarred, clad in black, her eyes aflame. Yet which one of us is truly more aligned with Hell? Laila wondered, remembering the stories she had heard of Bat El's love for Beelzebub.

Bat El raised her eyes. "Laila. How are you? Are you okay?"

She nodded. "Doin' great. You?"

Suddenly smiling, Bat El lowered her head. "Small talk, huh?"

"Yeah," Laila said, licked her lips, and shifted. "Bat El, I... I guess you're wondering why I wanted to see you. I'm not really sure what to say now. I guess, well... you know, I might die today. Wait, don't... don't try to contradict me, don't try to comfort me. Today is something I must do, something I can't run from. But Bat El... in case I die today, I wanted to see you first."

Bat El shifted close to Laila, leaned against her, and embraced her. She smelled of honey and flowers. She kissed Laila's cheek, like she would when they were girls. "I love you, sis."

Laila leaned her head against Bat El, her older sister's arms warm around her. The godlight that glowed from Bat El's hair and skin didn't even burn her today, and Laila closed her eyes, feeling safe. "I love you too, Bat El," she whispered, and was surprised to find that tears filled her eyes, flowing down to her lips. Made of blood were her tears; the tears of fallen angels, cursed, banished from heaven. "I'm so sorry, Bat El," she said, voice trembling, shocked that she should be crying so. She never wept like this. "I'm sorry."

Bat El caressed her hair. "Sorry for what, Laila?"

Laila held her sister. "I'm sorry that I'm like this. That I'm... deformed, to you at least. That I'm half demon, and evil, with these tears of blood that stain your clothes, with these bat wings that don't glow. I'm sorry I could never love you properly, like a real angel would. I'm so sorry."

"Laila!" Bat El said, still embracing Laila. "Don't say that. How could you say that? I couldn't love you any more, even if your wings were those of goslings and your halo of glowing good light. You know that."

Laila wiped her eyes, trembling. It felt good to cry like this. She had not cried this well in many days, not since her days in exile, running through the forests with Volkfair. She looked into her sister's eyes. "You were always good to me, even when I was monstrous. When I was little, and living with the angels on Earth, you brought me toys when you visited from Heaven. I remember. I always looked forward to your visits, and when I ran from the angels, ran into the wilderness, my only regret was that I wouldn't see you again." She held Bat El's hand. "You've been a good sister. I'm sorry I was always such a little devil, in more ways than one. I'm sorry I never got the chance to spend more time with you, to get to know you better. You're the only family I have. I'm scared, Bat El. If I die today, I want you to know that I love you. You and Volkfair are the only ones I love."

Bat El seemed ready to reply, when a demon scream came from outside, ruffling the walls of the tent. "Where is she? Bring her out."

Zarel.

Bat El paled, and Laila tightened her lips and took a deep breath through her nostrils. She took the hilt of her sword. "It's time," she whispered.

* * * * *

Bat El flew from the tent, the desert sprawling below, a land of endless dunes and canyons and mountains, lifeless but for the armies of angels and demons. The fortress of Masada rose upon the mount, beaten and crumbled. Bat El landed by the courtyard of the fortress ruins. Not much remained of Masada these days, two thousand years after the Romans destroyed it. Crumbled walls, chipped staircases, vestiges of columns and doorways, a dusty courtyard. Not much more. The bricks and cellars seemed like living things to Bat El, almost as ancient as fallen angels. Sand blew in the wind, and ash swirled in the sky. From here upon the mountain, Bat El could see the dunes and stones undulating for miles, as far as she could see. A dead, beaten fort in a dead, beaten land.

With the thud of swan wings, Michael landed beside her. Twenty seraphs soon joined them, followed by countless angel soldiers in iron breastplates. They stood on the outskirts of the ruins, looking in upon the barren, dusty courtyard. The duel would be fought there.

Demons too were fluttering down, landing across the other side of the fort. When she saw Beelzebub, Bat El's heart missed a beat. He stood among scaly shades, arms crossed over his breastplate, his cape fluttering in the wind. The flying sand seemed to touch neither his garb nor hair; they remained black as night. She sought his eyes, but he did not look in her direction. It's better this way, Bat El knew, turning her own gaze away. The sight of him hurt too much.

A crackle like fire rose, and Bat El saw sparks ahead, as from a bonfire. Tail swishing behind her, Zarel walked into the courtyard, moving with a haughty sway. Tongues of fire ran along her scaly body and haloed her brow. In her hand, she held a sword whose blade seemed made of fire. She snarled at the crowd of angels watching, smoke rising from her nostrils.

Bat El winced and looked away. The Demon Queen was powerful, she knew, and terrible to behold. Michael had needed twenty seraphs and an army of angels to encage her. Now it would be just Laila facing the archdemon. Bat El could still feel Laila's embrace and smell her hair, and a tear ran down her cheek.

"How is she?" Michael asked softly.

"She's scared," Bat El said. "And she's angelic today, on the day she needs to be most demonic. But she's determined. And she's tough. Will that be enough, Michael?" She looked up at the archangel, her tear still on her cheek. "You've trained her. Can she do this?"

Michael folded his wings against his back. He stared at the courtyard, eyes emotionless. Zarel saw him, gave him a wink, and snarled. The Demon Queen swung her sword; it raised sparks and left trails of flame in its wake. The tendrils of fire danced like demons, hissing.

"There is a certain chance," Michael finally said, sighing.

Zarel growled from the dusty courtyard. Drool ran down her fangs. "Well, Michael. Where is your little half-breed? Is she cowering in her tent? Let the pup come here, and we'll see how long she lasts."

Run away, Bat El found herself thinking, clenching her fists. Run from here, Laila. Run and live in the forests, in the deserts, just leave this place.

Her mental pleading bore no fruit. A hush fell over the crowd as Laila, daughter of Lucifer, Princess of Hell, stepped toward the courtyard.

Laila walked between the demons of Limbo, who moved aside to let her pass. At her sides walked two towering archdemons, their scales and horns brilliant white, their eyes like saucers, glistening. Behind her walked a train of demon troops, clad in breastplates bearing a black wolf's head. Volkfair, the black wolf himself, walked there too, fangs bared, growling. Laila wore a cloak of black velvet, clasped with a ruby fibula, and her halo of flame crackled. Her breastplate was black iron, filigreed, shaped to mimic the curve of her body. The angels and demons stared, silent, as she stepped into the courtyard.

Laila paused, looking around at the crowd, at the dunes that rolled beneath the mountain. Her face was expressionless, almost stoic, and her black hair flowed in the wind. Two shades stepped forward and took her cloak, then backed away, bowing. Laila stood in her breastplate, her leather pants and boots, her sword in her hand. With her entourage retreated, her cloak gone, Laila seemed so small to Bat El—a slight girl, young, with small hands. A girl, that is all. Just a girl. Please, Laila. Please run.

Zarel grinned and snarled, drool dripping, foam gathering at the corner of her maw. Her flames burned, and her sword hummed. The Demon Queen scratched the ground with her claws, long claws, sharper than anything in this world, claws that couldn't wait to dig into Laila's flesh.

The wind blew, raising swirls of sand. Bat El shivered and closed her eyes.

* * * * *

Beelzebub stood among the ruins of Masada, looking upon the sandy courtyard where stood Laila, the woman he'd almost married, and Zarel, the woman he married instead. Lucifer's daughter and the Demon Queen stood facing each other, blades drawn. Soon one would die.

Here upon the mountain, the Holy Land seemed dead. Beelzebub could see only dunes rolling into the distance, endless sand and rocks here south of Jerusalem. Is this what we're here for? he wondered. Is this what we're fighting for? Rocks and grains of sand? He looked across the courtyard where stood Michael, his older brother, and Bat El, the woman he most loved. All these people from his life—the most important people in his life now—stood here today. Beelzebub didn't know how to feel. He tried to block all feelings, to shield them in his armor, to kill them like Laila and Zarel would try to kill each other.

He didn't want Laila to die, if only for the love he had felt toward her, perhaps still felt. But you will die today, Laila. Zarel is going to kill you, as she must. You fought against me. You tried to usurp me. You have to die. Yet when you do die, Laila, I will bury you well. I promise you that.

Keeping his face stern as his insides roiled, Beelzebub stepped forward, boots silent over the pebbles and sand. He stood between Laila and Zarel, the demon drooling on one side, the half-breed standing still at the other, hair blowing in the wind.

"All right," he said, "you know the rules. No help from demons, angels, humans, or wolves. No hellfire." He looked at Laila. "No holy water. Just blades, claws, and fangs. If you change your mind in the battle, call out your yield, and you walk away."

"There will be no yielding," Zarel said, eyes narrowed and flaming, staring at Laila, smoke rising from her nostrils. "Nor mercy given to any who yield."

Laila's face remained expressionless, unreadable. Sand kissed her cheeks and her blade gleamed a dull red. "There will be no yielding," she agreed, voice soft. "Nor mercy."

Beelzebub nodded and paused, words failing him. Stop this now! a voice whispered inside him, desperate, horrified. This is madness. This has gone too far. Too far. Stop it. Put an end to this. Cancel this now.

He clenched his jaw, feeling almost close to tears, to panic. No. I'll show no weakness here. He backed away, nodding.

"You may begin."

Chapter Twenty-One

In her dreams, Laila would run through fields of grass, the sky huge above her, a bow in her hand, hunting game. The sunlight shone bright and did not burn her. She was an angel of full blood, running through the fields of Heaven, a creature with no war inside her heart, no pain in her blood, no fear. Volkfair would run by her side, and they would live for nothing but the race, the hunt, the sunlight that did not burn, the power of freedom from horror. Thus did Laila imagine death; a world of light and grass, endless fields, dulled feeling, rolling light and silence.

Is that world out there? Does it await me today? Do not abandon me, Lord of Hosts, God of Abraham, of Isaac and Jacob. If I am still your child, Lord, be with me today in my life, or in my death. Let me run and hunt in your fields, and drink wine from your horn.

Standing in the crumbled fort on the peak of the mountain, the desert rolling below, Laila flapped her wings, rose two feet into the air, and swiped her blade. Zarel shot toward her, her own sword blazing, its blade made of fire.

It began.

The blades clashed, raising sparks. Zarel howled, her hair crackling, drool flying from her maw, spraying against Laila. Laila grunted, the sparks sizzling against her. The blades drew apart, then clashed again, screaming.

Remember what Michael taught you. Concentrate. You are Laila. You are Laila, of the night. Remember what Michael taught you.

She thrust her blade. Zarel parried and sparks showered, blinding Laila. Zarel's blade shot out, a viper of fire, and Laila parried, parried again, kept blocking rapid blows. Damn. Laila had not known Zarel was a swordswoman, but the demon could wield a blade. Zarel moved even faster than Moloch, evincing years of training, maybe centuries. As Laila parried, panic tickled her. She had needed holy water to defeat Moloch; she had none now. How would she win this?

Her boots hit the ground, raising dust. Zarel swooped toward her, and Laila spun aside, raising her sword. The blades clanged. Sparks flew. Laila snarled, thrust her blade. Zarel parried. The blades sang. Around them, upon the crumbling ruins of the citadel, the armies of Hell and Heaven watched them duel.

Laila fell back a step, then three steps more. Demons scuttled aside to make room, and Zarel snarled, hair wild. Laila's boot hit a piece of wall, and she fell onto her back.

The crowd gasped. Zarel swooped down. Laila raised her blade, thrusting aside Zarel's sword. Zarel's blade of flame hit the ground by Laila's shoulder, the heat singing her cheek.

Zarel leaned in, fangs bared, and Laila raised her arm to defend her face. Zarel's fangs dug into her vambrace, pushing through the metal, biting into Laila's flesh. A shout fled Laila's lips. Instead of pulling her arm back, she pushed it forward, hard, slamming her broken vambrace into Zarel's face.

Zarel backed off for just a second, and Laila leapt to her feet, swinging her sword. Zarel parried. They moved across the fort, of steel and flame, cutting and slashing, slamming into ancient walls, flying into the desert sky, swooping down toward the mountain, flapping wings, snapping fangs. They fought as demons and angels watched, as the desert sand flew, as the world rose in flame. They fought, Laila, Zarel, blade to blade.

For all my life of pain, Laila thought as her sword flew. For twenty-seven years of running, of haunting, for finally finding my home, for me—for me. For once, for Laila, the half-demon, the outcast girl. When I am Queen of Hell, it won't matter that I'm twisted. It won't matter that loneliness has forever torn at me, for I will be great.

When she slipped, she cried out. Zarel's drool had pooled upon cobbles, and though Laila's boot slid for only an inch, it was enough. Zarel's blade of fire shot out, knocking aside Laila's parry. The flaming blade lashed into Laila's left arm, her flesh sizzled, and Laila screamed. She flapped her wings, pulling back, but was too slow. Zarel's sword struck again, biting into her shoulder, burning through her breastplate. Pain shocked her, and for a moment Laila saw only blinding white horror. A cry escaped her lips, and it sounded so young to Laila, the cry of a frightened girl, not a legend, not a warrior who could kill archdemons. A girl, that was all. Young and scared and hurting.

Then—a growl.

A flash of black fur.

Wolf fangs glistened, and Volkfair leapt onto Zarel, biting.

Zarel snarled and laughed. She waved her arm, tossing Volkfair through the air. The black wolf flew, his fur kindled, and crashed into a wall.

The blind horror turned within Laila to rage, hot and blood-red.

"Damn you!" she screamed and flew thirty feet into the air, halo burning, flames licking her feet. She tossed aside her sword and pulled a gun from each boot.

"Don't use human weapons," Michael shouted somewhere in the distance, but Laila could barely hear him, barely hear the shouting crowd, barely see anything but Zarel. Laila swooped, screaming, guns blazing. The bullets slammed into Zarel's face, ricocheting across the fort, and Laila flipped back, driving her boots into Zarel's maw. She felt scales crush beneath her feet.

"To hell with swords," she grunted and punched Zarel in the face, ignoring the pain in her knuckles. She kept landing punches, as rapid as her bullets, blood flying from her fists and Zarel's face. "This is how I fight, bitch."

Zarel growled, blood in her mouth, scales cracking across her face. Laila pulled back for just a moment, drawing a grenade. Zarel lashed toward her, maw gaping, fangs bloody. Laila shoved her grenade forward, slamming it into Zarel's mouth. Blood flew, and Laila turned her face away, closing her eyes. The grenade burst in her hand.

Pain exploded. Shrapnel drove through Laila's armor, sizzling against her flesh. Her hand fell, limp, numb, useless. She slammed her other hand forward, driving her claws into Zarel's eyes.

Zarel screamed, face bloody, blinded. Laila slammed into her, driving her into a wall. Ancient bricks tumbled, crashing against Zarel, and Laila kept clawing, biting, tearing off Zarel's scales, digging into the soft demon flesh beneath. Zarel screamed, writhing, clawing uselessly, and Laila kept slashing until the Demon Queen lay still.

The bloodlust pulsing through her, Laila dug into Zarel's chest and found her demon heart. She ripped it out, stood up, and held the heart aloft, blood covering her, flames wreathing her.

"I am Laila!" she shouted at the top of her lungs, voice hoarse. The armies of demons and angels swirled around her, blurry. "I am Laila, of the night. I am Laila, of the shadows. I have walked through godlight and through darkness. I am the slayer of Moloch, defeater of Angor, killer of Zarel." Her voice echoed across the desert. "I am Laila, of sins and of piety, of flame and of light. I am fallen. I rise again."

Her voice died, and she stood panting, flaming.

Silence.

Silence filled the world.

Laila stood upon the mountain, Zarel's heart in her good hand, her other hand shredded, her armor broken. A wind blew. The desert rolled beneath the mountain. Laila passed her eyes over the frozen crowd, over Michael, Bat El, Volkfair who lay bleeding beneath a wall, blinking weakly.

Be strong, Volkfair. Soon I'll come to you. There is something I must do first—for you, for me, for all us outcasts and lone wolves.

She let her gaze rest upon Beelzebub.

Beelzebub. King of Hell. Usurper of Lucifer. Fallen angel. Her former lover.

She took a step toward him. At once, demons rushed forward to stand between them, but Laila flashed them murderous looks, fangs bared. "Stand back," she hissed. Beelzebub nodded, and the demons retreated.

Laila took another step toward Beelzebub. "Beelzebub," she said, and suddenly her voice cracked. A bloody tear ran down her cheek. "Beelzebub," she said again, voice like a sob.

He stepped toward her. Demons and angels rushed to come between them, and Laila screamed, "Stand back!" She waved her good arm in a circle, and a canopy of fire burst around her and Beelzebub, shielding them inside a flaming dome. She and Beelzebub stood alone, two feet apart, ringed in flame.

"Come, Laila," Beelzebub said softly. "You're hurt. We'll get you help." He looked pale, his eyes haunted, sunken. Laila had never seen him look like this—confused, grieving.

"Wait," she said, dropping Zarel's heart into the dust. "I love you, Beelzebub. Please, whatever happens now, I want you to know that. You're the only man whose known me, the only man I've loved. I'm so sorry, Beelzebub. I'm sorry for running from you ten years ago, for all that's happened since, for today. I love you."

He embraced her, and she lay her head on his breastplate, the fire burning around them, shielding them from the world. Beelzebub's hand smoothed her hair. "Why do you do this to yourself, Laila?" he whispered. "Why do you keep fighting, hurting? You broke my heart, Laila, when you ran from me. You broke my heart. I wanted you for my wife, my queen, my love. I never wanted any of this, none of what happened. How can I make things right, Laila? How can I heal a half-demon, a world on fire, these stupid games we play with one another—your sister, my brother, you, me. We could have been husband and wife, Laila... not what we are now."

She trembled against him. She was bleeding, she was weak. Tears ran down her cheeks, and every breath hurt. She shook her head. "Sweet Beelzebub, do you still not know? Do you really not see?" She put her hand in his raven curls and gently kissed his lips, smearing him with blood. "I would have been a prisoner in your palace, confined to iced rooms where no hellfire could burn me, my angel blood forever sizzling from the devilry surrounding me. Don't you see, Beelzebub? Are you truly blind to me? Lucifer was my father. I'm so sorry, Beelzebub." She ran her hands through his hair and kissed him again. "I love you so much."

He opened his lips to answer, but only a gasp left them. His eyes widened. Blood flowed from his neck, where Laila had thrust her claws.

He fell to his knees before her, Laila's claws still buried in his throat. He stared up at her, unable to breathe, unable to move, his blood washing Laila's hand. She leaned down and kissed his head. The fires blazed around them.

"I'm taking Hell from you, Beelzebub," she said, tears on her cheeks, "like you took it from my father, like you took my love from me. I'm going to make my home there, without hellfire or godlight to burn me. Goodbye, sweet fallen angel. I'll—"

Pain burst in her.

She gasped.

Beelzebub's claws had pierced her chest, driving through her breastplate into her flesh, without her seeing him move. As he knelt before her, gazing up with glassy eyes, his claws stayed in her chest, her blood flowing down his arm. Laila couldn't breathe, and she only stood still, eyes wide in shock.

Over a field of grass we ran, endless....

Beelzebub fell to his side, his claws leaving her chest, her own claws leaving his throat, gushing with blood. Beelzebub hit the ground and lay upon ancient cobblestones, blood pooling, the shell of fire burning around them.

We ran, Volkfair and I, a great hunt...

She fell to her knees, then to her side, her head upon the bloody cobblestones, blood pouring from her chest. Beelzebub lay by her, gazing toward her, eyes glassy, perhaps dead already. Trembling, Laila reached her hand toward him, touched his hair.

I love you, Volkfair. I love you, Bat El. I am Laila, a girl, alone.

"Beelzebub," she whispered. She moved toward him, lay her head upon his chest, her arm around him. She curled up against him, trembling, as she would all those years ago, when they were lovers. She gave him a bloody kiss. "Thank you, Beelzebub," she whispered, crying. "I'm going on a hunt now, to run through fields where sunlight won't hurt me, where evil won't fill me. Thank you. I love you. Thank you."

Above her, Laila could already see a clear sky, and the sun did not burn her. Beelzebub touched her hair, and she thought he smiled, and then his hand fell back. Her head on his chest, her hand in his hand, Laila the half-demon closed her eyes.

* * * * *

"Put out the fire!" Bat El shouted, tears on her cheeks. "Put it out!"

She began tossing sand onto the flames that shielded Beelzebub and Laila. Her angel troops helped, but could do little to stifle those flames. Horror burned inside Bat El, for she knew now that Laila had not come here for Zarel. It was not the Demon Queen she had emerged to face. Why couldn't you run, Laila? Why couldn't you just flee to the forest? She kept tossing sand into the fire.

With a crackle and burst of smoke, the fires suddenly guttered, flickered, and died. Bat El blinked, the smoke and heat blinding her. When she could see again, she froze, unable to move. The crowds too froze, gasped, and stood staring. Beelzebub, King of Hell, and Laila, daughter of Lucifer, lay in a pool of blood. Beelzebub lay on his back, eyes staring toward the sky, unblinking, lifeless. Laila lay against him, as if they were lovers in sleep, embraced. Blood flowed from Laila's chest.

A sob fled Bat El's lips. For a moment it seemed that Laila too was dead, but then Bat El saw the half-breed's lips moving, whispering. Her halo of fire guttered like a dying candle. She's still alive.

The angels and demons stared from a distance, not daring to approach. Bat El alone rushed to Laila's side. She knelt by her half-sister, weeping. Blood covered Laila's breast, soaking her clothes. More blood stained her pale, ashy face, and her black hair clung to her brow with sweat.

"Laila," Bat El said, "I'm here."

Laila tried to whisper, but her words were silent. Bat El placed her arm under Laila and cradled her, holding cloth against her wounds. The cloth turned red.

"My baby sister," she said, "you're going to be okay. I'm going to heal you."

Laila lay in Bat El's arms, her skin so pale, her eyes unfocused, her hair damp with sweat and blood. The half-demon blinked weakly and struggled to raise her hand, to place it in Bat El's palm. She opened her lips and tried to talk, but no sound came out. She coughed, then managed to whisper. "Is Volkfair okay?"

Bat El turned her head and looked. The great black wolf was dead, pierced with shrapnel and demon claws, burned with fire. She nodded. "Volkfair is fine," she said to Laila. "We healed him."

"But you cannot heal me," Laila said, skin white, lips colorless, eyes glassy. "I am banished from Heaven. Demon blood flows through my veins and out of my wounds. Forever has God's grace passed over me, and forever would the healing godlight be forbidden to me."

Bat El wept. She could say nothing. Bat El had always been able to heal her brethren, to wash away the wounds of this war with godlight and piousness, but Laila spoke truth. Here lay one whom God's love would not heal. She kept her hands pressed against Laila's wounds, the blood trickling between her fingers, mingling with her tears.

Laila turned her head weakly, staring toward Michael with blurred eyes. "Michael," she whispered. "Come to me, please."

The archangel stood between the ancient ruins, arms crossed, gazing upon the scene. He hesitated a moment, then stepped forward and knelt by Laila, the fire of her guttering halo reflecting in his armor. He clasped Laila's hand. Her clawed, pale hand seemed so small in his large, calloused one.

"Laila," he said softly.

She licked her lips. "Take Earth," she said to him. "I give it to you. Make it a good place for Volkfair to live. Give him a forest, where he can run and hunt and be as a king. Michael—"

But Laila said no more. Her breath died, her eyes stilled, and it seemed to Bat El that, for the first time, peace flowed over her sister.

Bat El let her chin fall to her chest, and she wept, her hair covering her face, Laila in her arms.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Upon the Mount of Olives they stood, rows of angels, thousands of them, the sunlight glinting against their iron armor and spearheads. Around them flowed the ruins of Jerusalem, biblical ruins kindled with sunlight, weedy, fluttering with birds. The city was quiet today, and even the birds seemed subdued, as if they too knew to grieve. For thousands of years had the living buried the dead upon this hill, from ancient days when olive trees grew here, to this war of Heaven and Hell. We bury this war here today too, Bat El thought, among the countless bodies.

They carried Laila's body upon a wooden litter, wrapped in white shrouds. A soldier's funeral. Dressed in unadorned white, her hair hidden in a cowl, Bat El carried one end of the litter, staring forward blankly, feet silent upon the pebbly path that led to the grave. Michael carried the other end of the litter, dressed in his ancient armor, a white rose pinned to his breast, Heaven's flower of mourning. They bore the litter between the rows of angels, the sunlight on them.

They reached the grave, dug by an olive sprig. Once olive trees had covered these hills, burned away in war. They will grow again, Bat El thought. She and Michael lifted Laila to place her underground, by the body of her wolf. She felt so light in Bat El's arms. As they tossed soil into the grave, Bat El stared down with dry eyes, watching the earth cover Laila's shroud. She had no tears left.

"Let a soul torn in half, outcast among the living, rest now in the silence of peace," she whispered. "May angel wings and godlight, forbidden in your life, carry you to your endless sleep. Goodbye, Laila, princess of the night."

A tear then did run down her cheek, and Bat El lowered her head and closed her eyes. You won't feel torn anymore, Laila. You'll never feel pain or fear again.

Bat El walked alone that afternoon through the silent, still streets of Jerusalem. No more demons filled this city, and no more ash covered the sky. Flowers grew between cracked cobblestones, birds sang, and weeds grew from the walls. She had the city to herself, and Bat El wandered the ancient streets, the biblical walls, these old hills. She remembered her first days in this city, seeking Laila through streets where demons roamed, troops of angels at her sides. Most of those angels were dead now. Nathaniel was gone, so was Raphael. The demons had taken Beelzebub underground, to bury him in Hell.

So many gone.

Bat El lowered her head. "Goodbye, Beelzebub," she whispered. "Goodbye, Laila." The two loves of her life, taken from her in one day. Bat El sat down on a fallen wall, looking up at the sunlight, the birds who flew from ruins to ruins, pecking for seeds.

That night, she stood with Michael on the wall of the Crusader fort, staring to the sea. The demons were gone from the fort, but to Bat El, it would forever be the place where Beelzebub imprisoned her, then loved her. The waves rolled against the beach, whispering in the darkness. The wind from the sea blew salt against Bat El's lips, brought a chill to her bones, and ruffled her hair. She wrapped her swan wings around her for warmth. Michael stood by her, for once not wearing his armor, his lance gone. The flames had washed away from the world. The forces of Hell had retreated into their pits to mourn their master. Heaven had won its war, but to Bat El, the world seemed more horrible than ever, more frightening and cold. For a long time, she stood silently by Michael, watching the waves.

"So what now?" she finally asked. "We usher in an era of peace and beauty and holiness to Earth? An era with no demons or evil?"

Michael sighed. He stared into the sea, and was silent for so long, that Bat El thought he would not respond. He looked so much like his brother to her. When he finally spoke, his voice was so low, she had to lean toward him to hear. "Do you really believe that, Bat El?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Of course I do. That's what we always fought for, for twenty-seven years here on Earth, for thousands of years since Lucifer's rebellion, for thousands of years since the first sins of mankind. Now is our time to bring in truth and light and build the kingdom of God on Earth." Her eyes were moist. "What else have so many died for?"

Michael smiled, then sighed again, his smile gone as fast as it had come. He placed a hand on her shoulder and looked down at her. "Bat El, Laila was never Lucifer's daughter. I lied to you."

She stared at him. Her heart thumped, and a tremble took her knees. "What do you mean?"

He looked back toward the sea. The waves were almost invisible in the night; Bat El could see only crests of foam where starlight caught them. Michael placed his hands against the fort's crenellations, lowering his head. "I'm sorry, Bat El. I know my story hurt you and many people. Laila was your full sister, born of both your mother and father. She was purely of Heaven, and no demon blood ever flowed through her."

Bat El's head spun, and the fort seemed to sway beneath her. She too placed her hands against the battlements, for fear that she'd fall. She laughed mirthlessly. "You're crazy, Michael. Have you seen Laila? Bat wings grew from her back, like a demon's. Fire burned in her eyes and haloed her brow. Evil filled my sister, alongside her goodness. How could demon blood not have been in her?"

"Was there demon blood in Beelzebub? In Lucifer?" Michael shook his head. "Angels too, they were; angels who turned evil, fallen and banished. Laila was born with bat wings. She was born with fangs and claws, born different than other angels. The godlight burned her. So we made up a story, to protect our vision of what Heaven should be, to maintain our purity in the eyes of Earth and Hell. We lied. We said that it was Lucifer who fathered her when he raped your mother. It was easiest for everyone to believe. So we hid the truth."

Bat El was crying now, trembling, weeping like she could not when they buried her sister. She wrapped her arms around Michael and cried against his chest. "And what is the truth?" she said, tears on her cheeks and lips.

Michael took a long breath. "That there is evil inside all of us, inside of me, inside of you, inside all angels." He stroked her hair. "A kingdom of godlight and piousness? There is no good and evil, Bat El; only men, demons, and angels trying to make sense of a big mess."

The waves whispered over the sand and lapped the boulders below. The clouds moved in the wind, and Bat El saw the stars, their light gentle, glistening against the water. Suddenly the starlight seemed so bright to her, she ached. She did not think she could bear it.

She stared at the waves, haunted, numb. Michael took her hand. "Let's go back inside, Bat El," he said. "We'll have some brandy. Let's go back home."

* * * * *

It began to rain. Michael lit a fire in the fireplace, then poured himself and Bat El glasses of brandy. They sat at his oak desk, listening to the fire and rain. Bat El held her glass with both hands, looking at the golden spirits, not drinking.

This is where I first told Michael that my sister returned to Jerusalem, she remembered. Here is where this all started, and here it ends, in this room of lies and secrets.

"Michael," she said quietly, looking into her glass. She licked her lips.

"Yes, Bat El?" He sat looking into the flames.

Bat El ran her fingers around her glass, then placed them on her belly. "What would a real half-breed be like? A child born of an angel mother, whose father truly was the demon lord of Hell?"

He looked up at her, raising his eyebrows. He shrugged. "I don't know. I don't think I want to know. Why do you ask?"

She looked at him. "Michael... I'm pregnant."

Afterword

Dear reader,

Thank you for sharing this story with me. I hope that it entertained, excited, and maybe even moved you. I hope you feel that it was worth the money and time you spent on it.

If you do, please tell your friends—talk about Flaming Dove on Facebook, your blog, Amazon, or just over your backyard fence. Thank you!

If you're looking for something new to read, you can try my other fantasy novels:

Firefly Island tells the story of Aeolia, a slave girl with psychic powers.

The Gods of Dream tells of Dream, the world good dreams come from, and its war against the kingdom of Nightmare.

Eye of the Wizard is a fantasy adventure full of swords, spells, and skeletons.

Feel free to email me your thoughts. My email is Daniel@DanielArenson.com. I look forward to hearing from you. I'm glad we spent this time together, and I hope to meet you again between the pages of another book.

Daniel

Acknowledgements

I'd like to thank a few people for their help with Flaming Dove.

Thank you, Elvira Orlando, for reading the early draft, encouraging me to publish it, and helping with every step along the way.

Thank you, Janelle DeCelis, for your thoughts on the rough draft, and for long conversations about the characters.

Thank you, Timothy Lantz, for your beautiful cover art.

Thank you, Mark Prins, for your thorough edit of the manuscript.

Thank you, beta readers Jo-Anne Odell and Brenda Gath.

For help getting that first chapter just right, thank you Charlene, David, Kristin, Mike, Mindy, Ori, Rebecca, and Tullio.

A DANCE OF CLOAKS

by

David Dalglish

If you enjoyed Flaming Dove by Daniel Arenson, you'll enjoy A Dance of Cloaks, a new fantasy novel by David Dalglish.

Thren Felhorn is the greatest assassin of his time. Marshalling the guilds under his control, he declares war against an allegiance of powerful nobles. His son, Aaron, has been groomed since birth to be his heir. Sent to kill the daughter of a priest, Aaron instead risks his own life to protect her from the wrath of his guild. In doing so, he glimpses a world beyond the iron control of his father.

Here's a preview from A Dance of Cloaks:

For the past two weeks the simple building had been his safehouse, but now Thren Felhorn doubted its safety as he limped through the door. He clutched his right arm to his muscular body and fought to halt its trembling. Blood ran from his shoulder to his arm, cut by a blade poisoned with a potent toxin.

"Damn you, Leon," he said as he staggered across the wood floor, through a sparsely decorated room, and up to a wall made of plaster and oak. Even with his blurred vision he had little difficulty locating the slight groove with his fingers. He pressed inward, detaching an iron lock on the other side of the wall. A small door swung inward.

The powerful master of the Spider Guild collapsed in a chair and removed his gray hood and cloak. He sat in a much larger room painted silver and decorated with pictures of mountains and fields. Slowly he removed his shirt, being extra careful pulling it over his wounded arm. He felt lucky the toxin was meant only to paralyze him. Most likely Leon Connington had wanted him alive so he could sit in his padded chair and watch while his ‘gentle touchers' bled him drop by bloody drop. The fat man's treacherous words from their meeting ignited a fire in his gut that refused to fade.

"We will not cower to rats that live off our shit," Leon had said while brushing his thin mustache. "Do you really think you stand a chance against the wealth of the Trifect? We could buy your soul from the gods."

Thren had fought down his initial impulse to bury a shortsword in the fat man's throat. A terrible mistake in hindsight. They had met inside his extravagant mansion, another mistake. Thren vowed to correct his carelessness in the coming months. He had tried to stop the war from erupting, but it appeared everyone in Veldaren desired chaos.

If the city wants blood, it can have it, Thren thought. But it won't be mine.

"Are you in here, father?" he heard his elder son ask from an adjacent room. Thren held his anger in check.

"And if I was not?" he asked.

His son Randith entered from the other room. He looked much like his father, having the same sharp features, thin nose, and grim smile. His hair was brown like his mother's, and that alone endeared him to Thren. They both wore the gray trousers and cloaks of their guild. A long rapier hung from one side of his belt, a dagger from the other. Randith's blue eyes met his father's.

"Then I'd kill you," Randith said, a cocky grin pulling up the left side of his face.

"Where is the mage?" the guildmaster asked. "Connington's men cut me with a toxin, and its effect is troublesome."

Troublesome hardly described it, but Thren wouldn't let his son know that. His flight from the mansion was a blur in his memory. The toxin had numbed his arm and made his entire side sting with pain. His neck muscles had fired off at random, and one of his knees kept locking up during his run. He had felt like a cripple as he fled through the alleyways of Veldaren, but thankfully the moon was waning and the streets empty, so none had seen his pathetic stumbling.

"Cregon isn't here," Randith said as he leaned toward his father's exposed shoulder and examined the cut.

"Then go find him," Thren said. "And where is Senke? He was supposed to bring me word from Gemcroft."

"Maynard Gemcroft's men fired arrows from their windows as we approached," Randith said. He turned his back to his father and opened a few cupboards until he found a small black bottle. He popped the cork, but when he moved to pour it on his father's cut, Thren yanked the bottle out of his hand.

"Why isn't Senke here now?" Thren asked.

"I sent him away," Randith said. "With war brewing, I figured it best he help protect our warehouses."

Thren grunted as he dripped the brown liquid across the cut. When finished, he accepted some strips of cloth from his son and then tied them tight around the wound.

"You should have kept him here," Thren said when the pain subsided. "Where is Aaron? If you won't fetch the priest, at least he will."

"Lurking as always," Randith said, contempt in his voice. "Reading, too. I tell him mercenaries may soon storm in with orders to eradicate all thief guilds, and he looks at me like I'm a lowly fishmonger mumbling about the weather."

Thren held in a grimace. "There is a reason I am letting the priests have him. We will need their good graces whispering in the ears of the king. He must be nine, for whatever superstitious reason of theirs. It won't be long now."

He turned his head and raised his voice.

"Aaron! Your family needs you, now come in here."

A short child of eight stepped into the room, clutching a worn book to his chest.

A shame Marion never saw him grown, Thren thought. He is her son, not mine.

Aaron's features were soft and curved, and he would no doubt grow up to be a comely man. He had his father's hair, though, a reddish blond that curled around his ears and hung low to his deep blue eyes. He fell to one knee and bowed his head without saying a word, all while holding the book.

"Do you know where Cregon is?" Thren asked. Aaron nodded.

"Where?"

Aaron said nothing. Thren, tired and wounded, had no time for his younger son's nonsense. While other children grew up babbling nonstop, a good day for Aaron involved nine words, and rarely would they be used in one sentence.

"Tell me where he is, or you'll taste blood on your tongue," Randith said, sensing his father's exasperation.

"He went away," Aaron said, his voice barely above a whisper. "He's a fool."

"A fool or not, he's my fool, and damn good at keeping us alive," Thren said. "Go bring him here. If he argues, slash your finger across your neck. He'll understand."

Aaron bowed and did as he was told.

"I wonder if he is practicing for a vow of silence," Randith said as he watched his brother leave without any sense of hurry.

"Was he smart enough to shut the hidden door?" Thren asked. Randith checked.

"Shut and latched," he said. "At least he can do that much."

"We have bigger concerns," Thren said. "If Gemcroft is firing at our men, that means he knew what would happen tonight at Connington's. The Trifect have turned their backs on peace. They want blood, our blood, and unless we act fast they are going to get it."

"Perhaps if we up our offer?" Randith suggested.

Thren shook his head.

"They've tired of the game. We rob them until they are red with rage, then pay bribes with their own wealth. You've seen how much they've invested in mercenaries. They want us exterminated. No bribe, no offer, and no threat will change that. Their minds are set."

"Give me a few of your best men," Randith said as his fingers touched the hilt of his rapier. "When Leon Connington bleeds out in his giant bed, the rest will learn that accepting our bribes is far better than accepting our mercy."

"You are still a young man," Thren said. "You are not ready for what Connington has prepared."

"I am seventeen," Randith said. "A man grown, and I have more kills to my name than years."

"And I've more than you've drawn breaths," Thren said, a hard edge entering his voice. "But even I will not return to that mansion. They are eager for this. Entire guilds will be wiped out in days. Those who survive will inherit this city, and I will not have my heir run off and die in the opening hours."

Thren placed one of his shortswords on the table with his uninjured hand. Although old for a guildmaster, he was still full of strength and vitality, a fact proven by Aaron's birth so late in his marriage to Marion. He dared his son to meet his eyes and challenge him. For once, he was wrong about his elder son.

"I may leave the mansion be," Randith said. "But I will not cower and hide. You are right, father. These are the opening hours. Our actions here will decide the course of months of fighting. Let the merchants and nobles hide. We rule the night."

He pulled his gray cloak over his head and turned to the hidden door. Thren watched him go, his hands shaking, but not from the toxin.

"Be careful," Thren said.

"I'll get Senke," said Randith. "He'll watch over you until Aaron returns with the mage."

Then he was gone. Thren struck the table and swore. He thought of all the hours invested in Randith, all the training, teaching, and lecturing in an attempt to cultivate a worthy heir. Wasted, he thought. Wasted.

He heard the click of the latch, and then the door creaked open. Thren expected the mage, or perhaps his son returning to smooth over his abrupt exit, but instead a short man with a black cloth wrapped around his face stepped inside.

"Don't run," the intruder said. Thren snapped up his shortsword and blocked the first two blows from the man's dagger. He tried to counter, but his vision was blurred and his speed a pathetic remnant of his finely honed reflexes. A savage chop knocked the sword from his hand. Thren fell back, using his chair to force a stumble out of his pursuer. The best he could do was limp, however, and when a heel kicked his knee, he fell. He spun, refusing to die with a dagger in his back.

"Connington sends his greetings," the man said, his dagger aimed for a final, lethal blow.

He suddenly jerked forward. His eyes widened. The dagger fell from his limp hand as the would-be assassin collapsed. Behind him stood Aaron, holding a bloody shortsword. Thren's eyes widened as his younger son knelt, presenting the sword. The flat edge rested on his palms, blood running down his wrists.

"Your sword," Aaron said.

"How…why did you return?" he asked.

"The man was hiding," the boy said, his voice still quiet. He didn't sound the least bit upset. "Waiting for us to go. So I waited for him."

Thren felt the corner's of his mouth twitch. He took the sword from a boy who spent his days reading underneath his bed and skulking within closets. A boy who never threw a punch when forced into a fight. A boy who had killed a man at the age of eight.

"I know you're bright," Thren said. "But can you read a man's meaning from his words? Not from what he says, but what he doesn't say. Can you, my son?"

"I can," Aaron said.

"Good," said Thren. "Wait with me. Randith will return soon."

Ten minutes later the door crept open.

"Father?" Randith asked as he stepped inside. Senke was with him. He looked slightly older than Randith, with a trimmed blonde beard and a thick mace held in hand. They both startled at the bloody body lying on the floor, a gaping wound in its back.

"He waited until you left," Thren said from his chair facing the entrance.

"Where?" his son asked. He pointed to Aaron. "And why is he here?"

Thren shook his head. "You don't understand. One too many, Randith. One fatal mistake too many."

Then he waited. And hoped.

Aaron stepped toward his older brother. His blue eyes were calm, unworried. In a single smooth motion, he yanked Randith's dagger from his belt, flipped it around, and thrust it to the hilt in his brother's chest. Senke stepped back but wisely held his tongue. Aaron withdrew the dagger, spun around, and presented it as a gift to his father.

Thren's eyes twinkled as he rose from his seat and placed a hand on Aaron's shoulder.

"You did well, my son," he said. "My heir."

Aaron only smiled and bowed as the body of his brother bled out on the floor.

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