Dancing on the Head of a Pin by Thomas E. Sniegoski
The animal panicked, its powerful form recoiling from the attack. The beast was not accustomed to its prey biting back, and Remy managed to jump backward, taking the bloodstained blades with him as he avoided the monster’s slashing black claws.
The Seraphim rejoiced in its freedom, Remy barely maintaining enough control to prevent its power from fully manifesting. He battled not only the wild monstrosity crouched and growling before him, but the fury of the angel within.
It begged to be released, demanded to be fully free, but Remy ignored the commands, desperate to hold on to his humanity. Yes, it had become wounded over the last few months with the death of his one true love, but it was not yet dead, and he had no intention of allowing it to be eclipsed by the ancient power fighting to emerge.
Distracted momentarily by his inner struggle, Remy reacted too slowly as the monster pounced again. He managed to get only one of the daggers up as the full weight of his bestial attacker fell upon him. He pushed up on the dagger as he was driven back to the ground by the behemoth’s full weight, the animal’s tough, leathery hide resisting the piercing point of the Pitiless blade.
He hit the ground with tremendous force, his head striking the ground with equal intensity, and his world exploded into a reality of flashing colors and overwhelming nausea.
Fighting to remain conscious, he looked up into the eyes of the behemoth, laser points of yellow like the final moments of a dying star as it burned its last in the thick velvet tapestry of the night sky.
Its breath stank of blood and something else.
Brimstone.
And he then knew where the creature had originated, but he did not have the slightest clue as to how it had come to hunt upon the streets of Boston.
It was a question that nagged at him as the weight of the beast crushed him against the unyielding street, the darkness exploding inside his head, making it difficult to focus, making it difficult for him to remain conscious.
He watched through a spreading black haze as the beast drew back its bony face, its jaws opening wide before its jagged bite descended toward his throat.
Explosions of thunder crashed in the heavens as a curtain of darkness fell, sparing him the moment of his unpleasant demise.
The Pitiless blades chattered.
Even deep beneath the crushing waves of unconsciousness he could still see the moments of their existence. Death after death; he thought he would drown in the blood spilled by their being.
Eventually the visions of death ran thin, and he was shown the sight of their conception and birth, materials mined from the earth, nothing but raw matter to be melted down to liquid and poured into molds to be crafted into the objects of death they would become.
But the special knives wanted him to see more, wanted him to know all their secrets. They took him deeper into their memories, showing him what they were before they had fallen from the sky to the world of man.
What they were before they were dropped from Heaven.
Heaven?
The darkness was suddenly ablaze with a vision of one of the Lord’s chosen—the angel Azazel, weapons master of the angel hosts, working his artistry within the hallowed confines of his workshop within Heaven’s armory. Rows upon rows of beautiful armament lay waiting for the day that they would be called upon in battle.
Remy knew—sensed—that this was a time before the war, before the fall.
Azazel’s wings fanned the flames of a fire that burned hotter than the center of a sun. The armorer worked the stuff of Heaven, manipulating the divine material, shaping it into a thing of the utmost beauty, as well as a tool of devastation.
Remy could now see what it was that angel armorer worked upon, what he toiled so diligently to produce.
One had already been birthed, lying there patiently, waiting for its sister to be completed.
The Pitiless daggers.
The sight of them in such a holy place filled Remy with a dire sense of foreboding. He was tempted to call out, to ask the angel why it was that he had produced the twin daggers, when the angel turned to speak—but not to him.
There was another present—another who hung close to the shadows, watching the birth of the deadly armaments.
Having completed the second of the pair, the angel weaponeer turned, holding the glowing daggers in hand, presenting them to the figure cloaked in shadows. The light shining from the still-white-hot metal dispelled the pockets of darkness within the workshop, revealing the figure that stood there in wait.
As beautiful as Remy remembered him to be, he was adorned in armor the color of the sun’s rays, his sharp, noble features looking as though they had been sculpted by a master’s hand . . . which they had.
He was the first of the angels, and favorite to the Almighty.
He was the son of the dawn . . . the Morningstar.
He was Lucifer.
And the Pitiless belonged to him.
Remy awoke with the warmth of the Morningstar’s radiance still upon his face.
He was lying on his back upon a plush leather sofa, arms draped across his chest, a Pitiless dagger still clutched tightly in each hand. They were still whispering to him, attempting to pull him back into the visions of their violent glory, but he’d had just about enough of that.
Rising to a sitting position, he forced his cramped fingers open, allowing the twin blades to fall to the Oriental rug on the floor beneath him.
A fire burned cozily in the large marble fireplace across from where he sat, and he looked around the room at the beautiful floor-to-ceiling bookcases that covered three of the walls.
He was in somebody’s study; he could at least figure that out. But whose was the million-dollar question.
The back of his head throbbed, and his body ached in places where he didn’t think it was possible to ache. The animal . . . he’d been fighting the animal when he’d been knocked cold. Remy touched the back of his head, wincing from the tenderness there.
The door into the study opened, and a large, bald-headed man, who Remy could sense was a Denizen, peered in at him.
“Hey,” Remy said, having never seen the man before. He was hoping for some answers.
The man didn’t respond. Instead he turned to somebody outside the room. “He’s awake, sir,” the fallen angel said as he stepped back into the hallway.
Remy rubbed gently at the back of his head, trying to make the throbbing pain go away. It wasn’t doing much, but the continuous ache was helping to clear away the fog that had settled over his brain.
The bald man appeared in the doorway again, opening the door wider for another to enter, a tall, handsome figure with long blond hair that came down to his broad shoulders. And Remy then knew where he had ended up, but not how he had gotten there. Another heaping portion of mystery, on an already overflowing plate.
Yum.
“Hello, Byleth,” Remy said from the couch, eyeing the daggers to make sure they were within reach.
Byleth smiled as he strolled into the study, dressed in dark slacks and sports coat. The bald man came in as well, as did another Denizen lackey. They eyed him with distaste, which Remy could understand. He doubted they had much opportunity to mingle with Seraphim since their fall from grace, and imagined that his presence would likely remind them of things they’d rather remain forgotten.
“It’s good to see you, Remiel,” Byleth said, using his angelic name. “Or would you prefer that I call you Remy?” he asked with a chuckle.
Remy shrugged. “It’s been a long time since the old name actually meant something to me,” he said. “You can call me what you like.”
Byleth brought a long-fingered hand to his chest. He wore a red silk shirt, the top buttons undone to reveal part of a pale, muscular chest. There were gold chains around his neck. “I actually go by William these days,” he said, turning to approach a wooden cabinet in the corner.
“Drink?”
He opened the doors, removed a cut-crystal decanter, poured one glass, and th
“William,” Remy said, taking the offered drink. “I wouldn’t figure you for a William.”
“No?” Byleth asked, taking a sip from his own glass.
Remy drank as well. It was Scotch, a really good Scotch—better than the stuff he’d drunk the other night with Mulvehill.
But would a Satan of the Denizen underworld serve anything less? Remy doubted it.
He’d heard through the grapevine that Byleth had taken the title but had preferred not to give it much thought.
The Denizen crime lord took a seat in the chocolate brown leather wingback chair across from Remy, beside the fireplace. He crossed his legs, resting the glass of fine Scotch on his knee.
“First I want to thank you,” he said with the slightest of nods.
“For?” Remy asked.
“You tried to keep my men from getting killed,” he explained. “I appreciate the gesture.”
“I was mainly looking out for myself,” Remy said, taking a small sip from his glass. “Knew that whatever the hell it was would be coming for me eventually, and I wasn’t wrong. You wouldn’t happen to know how I survived the encounter, would you? Last thing I remember I was about to have my face bitten off.”
“One of my people; he managed to empty a gun into the back of the animal’s head.”
“Kill it?” Remy asked.
Byleth shook his head. “But it seemed to take enough of the fight out of it so that he could bring you here,” he said.
“I’m pretty sure it was looking for these.”
Remy prodded the knives lying on the rug with the toe of his shoe.
“I think you’re right,” Byleth agreed, eyes momentarily fixed on the weapons at Remy’s feet.
“Any idea what that thing was exactly?” Remy asked. “It smelled like Hell.”
“From the description my man gave me, I’m not surprised that it did.” The Satan smiled slyly, drinking more of his Scotch.
“No, it smelled like the place,” Remy corrected. “It smelled like the place where God sent you and your lackeys when you decided to follow another leader.”
Byleth chuckled. “I know what you meant.”
Remy wasn’t laughing, waiting to see if the fallen angel would give him any more.
“The inmates of Tartarus call them Hellions,” Byleth went on, “a form of life especially created by our loving Lord God to hunt down any who might have the good fortune of escaping Tartarus to the wastelands.”
The Satan went eerily quiet, his eyes glazing over as he enjoyed more of his drink.
“What’s a creature of Hell doing on the streets of Boston?” Remy asked with a snarl, feeling his patience being seriously tested.
“You said it yourself,” Byleth commented, and pointed to the twin objects at Remy’s feet. “It probably has something to do with them.”
“Great,” Remy scoffed, taking a large gulp of Scotch to fortify himself.
Byleth laughed out loud. “It’s good to see you again, Remiel,” the fallen angel said. “It really is.”
Remy did not answer, swallowing the alcohol, allowing himself to feel its warmth spread through his chest. And as much as he cared not to, he remembered the last time he had seen Byleth.
When they were still brothers in service to God.
Before Byleth’s fall.
Eden, Before the War
“There you are, Byleth,” Remiel of the Heavenly host Seraphim said, dropping from the rich, blue sky, his magnificent wingspan spread wide as he slowed his descent to touch down in the lush Garden below him.
“Shh,” the angel of the host Virtues hissed as he peered through the thick underbrush at something Remiel could not yet see.
“What is it?” he asked, moving aside the thick vegetation to see what it was that so captivated Byleth.
There were two creatures; the female appeared to be bathing, while the other—the male—lay in a patch of warmth, one of the animal residents of the Garden, a large cat, its orange body adorned in black vertical stripes, lounging beside him.
All appeared at peace in their surroundings.
“A fascinating addition to His growing menagerie,” Remiel commented on the bipedal creatures the Lord had named “human.” From what he understood, they had been made in His image and designed so that they could replicate, a talent that only the Lord of Lords had been able to perform—until now.
These creatures had been given the gift of creation.
“Fascinating,” Byleth commented, his eyes never leaving the Almighty’s latest works. “Not exactly the word I would use in describing them.”
Remiel looked to his friend for further clarification.
“Dangerous would be more appropriate, from what I hear,” Byleth whispered.
The female waded from the tranquil green waters to lie with her counterpart upon the shore. They truly were fascinating. Remiel saw so much of their own angelic design in their creation, but at the same time they were very different.
“Don’t be foolish,” he scoffed. “Dangerous to whom? To us? To the All-Father? That’s ridiculous.”
“I didn’t believe it either,” Byleth said, “but Lucifer was so insistent.”
“What did Lucifer say?” Remiel asked, curious as to what God’s most favored had to say about these newest creations.
“He says that these . . . these humans will replace us in His eyes.”
Remiel watched as the female cuddled beside her partner. He placed his arm around her in a loving embrace, and they held each other by the cool emerald waters of the lake, in the blessed Garden, two separate pieces that together formed one.
The Lord had outdone Himself in their conception.
“Lucifer says that there will come a time when He will love them best,” Byleth said.
There was something in the angel’s eyes, something Remiel had never seen in their kind.
Envy.
And like the most virulent disease, it would soon begin to spread.
To contaminate.
“It’s been a long time,” Remy said, the memory of that moment in the Garden fading into the background of his past. He had more of his drink, watching as Byleth . . . William slowly nodded. Remy imagined that he was remembering as well.
“Being Satan of your little family of misfits must agree with you,” Remy added. The two thugs that had accompanied their boss into the study visibly tensed, looking toward their employer to see his reaction.
Byleth chuckled, letting one of his expensive Italian loafers dangle from his foot. “It’s only a title for those who wish to recognize it,” the fallen angel said. “There are many Denizens out there who see me only as one of their own, another of those who lost their way doing penance for their sins.”
“And some who look at you as the big boss,” Remy added. “A leader to guide them in their often illegal pursuits.”
Byleth looked at him intensely over the rim of his crystal glass tumbler. “I twist no arms, Remiel,” Byleth said, holding the glass to his mouth but not drinking. “They come to me of their own free will. Isn’t that right, Mulciber . . . Procell?” He looked to his men, one, then the other. They just smiled smugly.
“There are those words again . . . free will,” Remy said, swirling the golden liquid around in his glass. “We were so jealous of humanity when He chose to give it to them first.” He paused, remembering all the strife that it caused in Heaven, and the tumultuous aftereffects when God at last bequeathed it to them. “But once we had it, we didn’t handle it too well. And from the looks of your nasty little family, you’re not doing too well with it now either.”
Byleth held his glass out, and the large, bald fallen took it from him. “Thank you, Mulciber,” he said. His man took the empty glass over to the liquor cabinet and set it down. He then returned to his position on one side of his employer’s chair, the second of Byleth’s goons on the other. They continued to glare at Remy, genuine hate leaking from their eyes
“Who’s to say?” Byleth responded to Remy’s last comment. “It’s their choice, and they do with it what they wish. Some choose to live out the remainder of their existence amongst His greatest and habitually flawed creations, waiting for the slim chance that they might be forgiven and allowed back through the pearly gates, while others choose a different path.”
Remy polished off his drink, smacking his lips as he placed the empty glass down on the leather couch cushion beside him. “I’ve always wanted to ask this question: Do you guys actually get some kind of enjoyment out of being bad, or is it all about pissing Him off? Do you think He even cares at this point? I mean, He’s already tossed you out; I’d say it’s likely that He’s written you off by now, wouldn’t you think?”