Dancing On the Head of a Pin

CHAPTER NINE

The beast was in motion, turning from its fallen prey to attack Remy. With a powerful thrust, he plunged one of the Pitiless daggers into the bloodred flesh of its muscular hide as it descended. It tossed its skull-like head back in a bellow of pain and he slid the second blade into the soft tissue below its jaw.

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 then another. He delivered one to Remy on the sofa.

“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?”

“We can only hope that He’s still watching… seeing how easy it is for even His chosen creations—his beloved humans—to fall from grace… to forget Him and His holy word so easily when the opportunity presents itself,” Byleth said with a certain amount of pleasure.

The Denizens reveled in the weaknesses of humanity, taking immense pleasure in leading them down a path of corruption. Drugs, prostitution, gambling; if it could somehow stain the human spirit, they were likely part of the equation, pulling the strings from the shadows.

There wasn’t a nicer bunch of guys on the planet.

“It’s all we really have left,” Byleth offered. “And we take from it what we can.”

Remy took the Satan’s answer for what it was worth. “Fair enough,” he said. He noticed that Mulciber and Procell had stopped giving him the hairy eyeball and were now looking at the area near his feet, at the twin daggers that still lay there. Remy wondered if the knives were somehow attempting to communicate with them as they had with him, filling their heads with their greatest hits.

He leaned forward, picking the twin daggers up from the rug, and watching as all present physically reacted.

“So, what can you tell me about these?” Remy asked. The knives were trying to get into his head again, but he was ready this time, blocking the violent imagery and focusing on the here and now.

“Nothing much to tell, really,” Byleth said, uncrossing his legs, planting both feet upon the floor. He was staring at the Pitiless with hungry eyes. “I first learned of them just before my release from Tartarus,” the Satan said. “They were whispered about… their purpose a mystery.”

“That was quite some time ago,” Remy said, rubbing the flat of his thumb along the hilt of one of the knives. The weapon seemed to purr, enjoying his attention. “Why the sudden interest now?”

Byleth reclined in the chair and sighed, looking as though he was relaxing, but Remy knew that wasn’t the case. “They were supposed to be special, but as far as I knew they were lost, hidden away someplace waiting for somebody to discover them. I never gave them much thought beyond that, really, focusing my talents on building a power base amongst the Denizen community. It was a long, uphill battle, but one I relished, and eventually managed to win.”

“Do they give you a special decoder ring, or maybe even some decorative horns when you make Satan?” Remy asked. Obviously he’d been spending way too much time with Francis.

He could see Byleth’s men tensing, just waiting for the word to pummel him. But he doubted they’d do it, even if ordered. Remember, he still had the knives.

“You’re much funnier than I ever remember you being,” Byleth responded with a sickly grin. “Is it something you intentionally work at, or does it come as a result of living with them… living as one of them?”

“It was either this or in-line skating,” Remy explained. “I went with being funny; it’s something I can do all year-round.”

The onetime friends glared across the study at each other. Remy could tell that the window for friendly conversation would be closing soon, patience wearing thin, and he needed some answers.

“So what put them back on your radar?” Remy asked, holding the twin daggers up, points to the ceiling. All in the room were feeling it, the daggers’ power charging the air.

“Recently released parolees from Tartarus had heard some murmurings from within the prison walls; something big was about to happen and the weaponry was somehow involved.”

Remy slid to the edge of the couch. “That was it? Some parolees talking shit? There had to be more than that.”

“They said that there was a change coming,” Byleth said, the intensity growing in his gaze.

“And let me guess, you don’t like change… especially if it involves you. You like things just the way they are.”

The Satan smiled, a pale imitation of the beatific appearance he once had when still loved by God. “Exactly,” he said. “So I put the word out, that it could be quite profitable to anybody who could find these weapons for me. I figured if they were in my possession, they couldn’t do me any harm, and if they were as special as people said, nobody would dare try and fuck with me.”

Remy gazed at the knives, stifling the violent urges that attempted to force their way to the forefront of his thoughts.

“They’re special all right,” he said. He tore his eyes from the sleek, deadly weapons to stare intensely at Byleth sitting across from him. “Do you have any idea what they actually are, or who they were created for?”

The Morningstar’s face briefly flashed before his eyes, a surge of rage bubbling up from his center. The Seraphim roared its anger, bucking against the confines placed around it.

“Do you have any idea?” Remy growled, surging up from his seat, letting his arms snap forward, the Pitiless blades spinning through the air before dropping to stick in the hardwood floor before the Satan’s feet.

He was glad to be rid of them, the chatter inside his head starting to clear. Byleth’s men launched themselves immediately at him, the bald fallen pulling back a fist in order to strike him for what he’d done.

“Don’t,” their employer commanded, his voice no louder than a whisper.

They stopped midattack, turning to see if their boss was serious.

Byleth had slid from his chair, kneeling in front of the daggers.

“Leave him alone,” he ordered, his eyes held to the knives. “He’s only given me what I wanted.”

Mulciber roughly pushed Remy back onto the couch. Byleth leaned one of his ears down to the weapons. “I can hear them… They’re talking to me.” He laughed, reaching out tentatively to one of the blades. “They… they want me to hold them.”

Remy as well as the two bodyguards watched with curious eyes. He had no idea how the weapons would affect the Satan, if one who had fallen from Heaven would be privy to the visions that had been shared with him.

Byleth’s hands wrapped around the hilt of one of the knives, and then the other, tugging them both from the floor. It looked as if the fallen angel had suddenly received a massive electrical shock, his legs sliding out from beneath him as he twitched upon the floor.

The goons made a nervous move toward their employer.

“He’s fine,” Remy called after them. They turned, staring nervously, unsure if they should trust his word.

“They’re just talking.”

Byleth thrashed as he rolled onto his back. He held the daggers out before him, a look of absolute shock and surprise etched upon his face. With a sudden groan of exertion, he opened his hands arthritically, the knives falling from his clutches.

His men rushed to his aid, helping him up, returning him to his seat.

“For him,” Byleth groaned. “The daggers were made for him.”

Remy got up from the couch and went to the liquor cabinet. Helping himself, he picked up the crystal decanter and poured another drink. Byleth looked as though he could use it.

“Weapons of the Morningstar,” Remy said, handing the fallen angel the glass. Byleth took it from him, slurping loudly at the alcohol. “Weapons crafted for Lucifer’s hands.”

“It must have been just before the war,” Byleth gasped, out of breath from the experience of touching the Pitiless. The effects of the weaponry on the fallen appeared even more severe than they had been on Remy. “Some sort of secret weapons, perhaps.”

Remy thought about what Byleth had just said, the idea of weapons as some sort of last-ditch effort rattling around inside his head.

“Secret weapons that were never used.”

But if that was the case, why did they end up here… on Earth? Remy wondered, not even close to answering the questions that continued to float to the surface of his brain.

“How did you know about my case? How did you know I’d been hired to find what you had been searching for?”

Byleth clung to his glass of booze like it was a security blanket. “Your friend Francis made a few calls for you, asking around. And in turn, those he reached out to got in touch with us. It sounded like we just might be looking for the same thing.”

Byleth held out his empty glass. “More,” he commanded.

Remy took the glass and poured more Scotch from the decanter.

“Before your involvement, we had been contacted,” Byleth said, taking the glass. “Somebody who had heard about my offer to make them rich if they could deliver the Pitiless.”

Remy watched the fallen angel drink.

“So you made a deal with this person?” Remy asked.

Byleth nodded. “Arranged for an exchange, but it never happened.”

The fallen angel seemed to become even more nervous, getting out of his chair to fix his own drink. His movements were awkward, a shaking hand dropping the crystal stopper from the bottle, good Scotch splashing over the rim of the glass to be wasted as he filled it to the brim.

“I’m guessing that something besides your seller standing you up happened.”

“You could say that.” Byleth laughed nervously, pouring the contents of the glass down an insatiably thirsty gullet.

Remy urged the Satan to go on with a stare.

“We were attacked,” he said. Remy could see that his hands were shaking, and wasn’t sure if it was still the effect of connecting with the powerful weapons, or this recent memory. The fallen leader appeared unnerved.

“Rival host, maybe even a Hellion of your very own? What attacked you, Byleth?” Remy urged.

The fallen angel’s eyes got suddenly glassy as he gazed into the past. Slowly he made his way back to his seat, swatting away the helpful attentions of his bodyguards. He lowered himself into the folds of the wingback.

“He dropped out of the sky like a falling star,” the Satan said. “He was beautiful… as we all were once.”

Byleth looked at Remy, smiling sadly.

“An angel attacked you?”

He nodded. “Something wasn’t right about him. He was enraged, filled with a violent anger, going on and on about a sin that he couldn’t bear anymore.”

A sudden twinge of recognition stabbed at Remy, like a jab from one of the powerful blades.

“Was he a Nomad, Byleth?” Images of the poor creature that he and Francis had rescued from a dissecting chamber flashed before his eyes.

Remy reached down to grip the fallen’s shoulder, to urge him to answer.

Mulciber immediately grabbed hold of Remy’s wrist, attempting to pull it away. The Seraphim did not take kindly to being touched by one of them, and Remy allowed it to emerge, taking hold of the large man’s arm and twisting it violently to one side. Pulling the big man closer, Remy drove his forehead into the Denizen’s face.

The fallen grunted, blood exploding from his nose as he dropped to his knees moaning. The other Denizen made his move, but Remy froze him with a stare.

The Seraphim liked this, wanting to make the foolish creatures suffer, but Remy restrained it. This wasn’t the time for games.

“Byleth?” he said firmly.

“Yes, yes, he was a Nomad.” He tried to have some more to drink, but his glass was empty. “I didn’t think of it at the time…” Byleth stopped, remembering the details. “But I think he was trying to warn us.”

Remy felt his anger flare, the Seraphim right there, eager to be set loose, but he held its leash tight. “But you didn’t listen.”

Byleth turned in the chair, anger burning in his eyes. “Of course we didn’t listen; even though a Nomad, he was still one of them… still of Heaven. And he wanted the weapons that we didn’t have.”

“What did you do?” Remy asked, already knowing the answer.

Byleth laughed, slumping in the chair. “We saw it as an opportunity,” he explained.

Mulciber was still moaning, attempting to stifle the flow of blood that poured from his damaged nose.

“We captured him,” the Satan continued with a certain amount of pride. “It wasn’t easy—he was strong—but at the same time, I don’t think he had all his faculties. It was almost as if something… some knowledge that he had locked away inside his head had driven him mad.”

It took everything that Remy had not to grab Byleth and beat him senseless. “You captured him and you cut him up,” he said through gritted teeth.

Byleth smiled weakly, knowing that what he had done was wrong, but still taking pleasure from it. “Normally I wouldn’t have had anything to do with it, but with this one… I cut out his eyes.”

Remy’s true nature fought harder than he could ever remember, and he could feel his skin begin to itch—to heat—as the warrior angel rose to the surface, ready to emerge and destroy these abominations in their nest. And Remy doubted that the unleashed Seraphim would have stopped there, flying into the night, hunting every Denizen it could find and destroying them one after the other.

This might have happened—if there hadn’t been a knock at the door.

It was just enough of a distraction to avert disaster.

“Yes,” Byleth called.

The door opened and another of his men stood there. He was holding a cell phone.

“It’s somebody named Mason,” the fallen angel said.

“He says that he’s out back and to tell you that he’s found what you’ve been looking for.”