The Ninth circle

15th December

Christmas is here now. Shops, restaurants and streets are decorated in all their festive finery and the snow has come to the city, making it sparkle and glisten in the fresh, clear light from the winter sun. Large Christmas trees and strings of lights have been put up around the squares and in the streets, and the artists’ Christmas crafts markets have been set up outside.

For the first few days after Toby was taken away, Casey had been very down and, in an effort to cheer her up, I had taken her out to the three-storey Luxus Department Store in Mihaly Vorosmarty Square. The traditional huge bedecked Christmas tree had already been erected in the square, and the department store itself was lavishly laced and ribboned with festive decorations and displays.

In an effort to draw Casey’s thoughts from her parents and brother celebrating Christmas without her, I had tried to focus her mind on the fact that soon she would be starting a family of her own. A few years from now, she would be celebrating Christmas with her own little son or daughter, making the season magical for them and enjoying everything anew through their eyes. To my relief, this seemed to cheer her up.

When we got to the large department store, I said I wanted to buy baby things for her as an early Christmas present. At first she protested, saying that I was already doing more than enough for her. But I insisted. I said frankly that there was nothing I needed or wanted for myself, that I had no one else to buy presents for and that, for the moment, we were both as alone as each other. I wanted to love the baby as much as she did. If she agreed to let me be part of her life, she would be giving me far more than I could ever give her.

So for a while she had walked around tentatively picking up the cheapest baby things she could see. But I continued to take these off her and put them back, picking up better quality items, until she finally gave in and started choosing nice things. We had everything a child could possibly want by the end of it. We had a cot, little feeding bottles, plastic bowls with matching spoons, a musical mobile to hang above the cot, soft toys to put in the cot, baby bubble bath with the unmistakable powdery soft scent of tiny, perfect newborn babies, and a set of yellow rubber ducks and other bath toys. We also bought a baby monitor and a highchair, an array of toys and books, and, last of all, we must have spent a small fortune in the clothes department.

Casey didn’t know what sex the baby was going to be so we tried to stick to neutral colours and patterns on the baby-grows we picked out. We also purchased tiny, tiny socks and bibs and little knitted hats. I had never seen Casey so elated as she rushed round like an excited child, looking at the baby clothes on their tiny hangers, exclaiming in delight over some item or other. Perhaps it was just the first time that she had viewed her own pregnancy as anything other than an unmitigated disaster. She really was quite huge now, emphasised all the more by the fact that she had a small figure to begin with. It couldn’t be much longer now. I even wondered whether she was carrying twins, she seemed to be so big.

There was far too much to carry by the time we were done so I paid extra to have it sent back to the apartment the next day. Casey voiced concerns again about the cost of everything, but I waved them away. To my utter astonishment, I heard a slight tremor in her voice as she said quietly, ‘I’ll find some way to repay your kindness one day, Gabriel, I promise. I can’t tell you how much it’s meant to me.’

Kindness? How could this be kindness when I was simply making myself happy? She made me happy just by being near me. Already I loved her so much that it hurt. But perhaps I was kind. After all, I was doing kind deeds — that must surely make me a kind person? I am a good person, aren’t I? Look at all the good things I’ve done.

After the Luxus Department Store, we went to Gerbeaud’s, the famous patisserie on the northern side of the Mihaly Vorosmarty Square, and enjoyed coffee and pastries in the sumptuously rich interior made all the more splendid for the many Christmas angels and golden ribbons with which the patisserie was decorated for the holiday season.

It was the best day of my life. My time spent with Stephomi seemed to pale in comparison. Truly those days had been nothing to this one. To know that I had been responsible for the smile on Casey’s face; to know that I was the one responsible for lifting some of the sadness from her eyes… was utterly priceless to me. She would have been so miserable without me. She needed me. And I trusted her in a way I knew I would never be able to trust my more scholarly, evasive friend.

As we sat there in the warm, bright patisserie with golden chandeliers hanging from elaborate cream and gold ceilings, and alternating green and red velvet drapes sweeping to the floor from archways, I felt that even if my future was filled with one disaster after another, this day, this moment here with Casey, would provide me with enough happiness to last me until I died.

We were in the middle of a conversation and I had glanced down at my coffee cup for only a moment, but when I looked back up, the aura around her that had been soft with golden beauty only a second before had once again changed to thick, swirling clouds of black — the smell of burning flesh horribly pungent once again. Just the sight of it chafed horribly at my senses, instinctively warning of danger and the terrible potential for hissing evil…

‘What is it?’ Casey asked, gazing at me, clearly quite unaware of the malevolence that clung about her.

‘Oh, nothing,’ I said quickly, and tried to continue with the conversation.

But I hated to have to look at her when the aura was this colour. It seemed to freeze my eyeballs in their sockets. And the sight was a crushing and brutal reminder, shattering the illusion that I had been so enjoying up until that point. We were not safe at all. This was not a warm and happy place, as it appeared. And I had just spent the whole day buying baby supplies for Casey for a child who was the focal point in an ancient War; a child who might grow up to be the next Hitler and inflict unendurable suffering upon hundreds of thousands of people in a battle that would last almost thirty years. And I one of the few people — really one of the only two people who could do anything about it — I was sitting here eating pastries and doing nothing.

‘I, er… just have to go to the bathroom,’ I said, needing a moment to collect myself.

The bathroom was empty when I got there, so I ran the tap and splashed some cool water on my face. I had told Stephomi sharply that the child would belong to Casey once it was born. But now, in the face of the burning black aura that clung about the teenager’s body, I found myself beginning to doubt those words. What good would a demon child bring Casey? All day I had been telling her how happy she would be once the baby came, but what if that thing brought her nothing but further anguish? What if my decision was not being loyal to Casey at all? Suddenly, I wished I had not spent all day getting her so excited about her unborn child. Christ, what the hell was I doing here?

I looked up at the sound of the bathroom door opening. I expected the man who walked in to go over to the urinals, but instead he walked over to the sink next to mine and started washing his hands.

‘I always wash my hands before eating,’ he remarked conversationally.

I jumped severely at his voice, and fear shot through me when I looked at him. I recognised that American drawl and those heavy lidded eyes. It was the Judge. The Judge from the nightmare I had had several months ago in which I had been found guilty of witchcraft in Salem and been dragged outside at this man’s command to be burned at the stake by a bloodthirsty mob.

‘Hand me a towel there, would ya, fella?’ the man said, indicating the paper towels by my side.

Wordlessly, I handed him one. He showed no sign of recognising me whatsoever. ‘Do I know you from somewhere?’ I asked suddenly.

The Judge looked at me for a long moment before shaking his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said with a smile.

‘We never met in… Salem?’ I persisted.

The Judge laughed. ‘No, I’ve never been to Salem, son. My family’s from there, though.’

‘Oh.’ I looked at him doubtfully. He didn’t seem like he was lying, but it was definitely the same man. It was definitely him. If someone else walked into the bathroom right now, I wondered… would they even be able to see him? Or would it just look like I was stood here talking to myself?

‘We’ve never met before, then?’ I asked again.

The Judge smiled good-naturedly. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

Perhaps I was just getting myself wound up about nothing after all. With a puzzled frown, I turned to go and rejoin Casey, but as I did so, the Judge’s hand brushed my arm. And at his touch, flames shot up all around me, roaring with a frenzied heat. I could feel the stake at my back and the blisters around my wrists where the rope bound them together, and beyond the flames I could see the mob shrieking with pleasure as my clothes caught alight. I screamed, somehow managed to free one arm, and beat frantically at my clothes where they were smouldering, the acrid smoke stinging my eyes and making them water.

And then suddenly the fire was gone and I was in the bathroom of the patisserie again, panting, sweat running down my face. I wondered if I’d screamed aloud or just in my head. From the expression on the Judge’s face, I guessed I’d screamed aloud. But the strange thing was that now he barely looked like the Judge at all. Perhaps there was a very slight physical resemblance, but it most certainly wasn’t the same man.

‘Jesus Christ, Mister!’ the American exclaimed. ‘What the hell is your problem?’

And he backed away from me and out the door, clearly glad to escape. But this doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything at all. I felt in my pocket for the rosary beads Casey had given me, and quickly recited the Lord’s Prayer through once to make sure. I… I think I might just have… overreacted.

I hurried us out quite quickly after that, anxious to get back to the safety of my apartment. We walked back across the square through the traditional Budapest Christmas Fair that always sets up there — a gathering of Hungarian craftsmen and artists selling their wares. I’d been a few days before and found it very festive, with the food carts selling hot wine and sausages and a musical carousel for the children. This time I just wanted to get home. The sudden craving for solitude was such that people’s eyes seemed to burn into me like acid.

But as we walked back through the Christmas market set up in Vorosmarty Square, a young man hurried out towards us from behind one of the crafts stalls. He was slim and tall, although not as tall as me, with long blond hair tied back in a ponytail and a diamond earring sparkling in one ear. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved white top but no coat. I suppose he was good looking — he had high cheekbones and clear blue eyes, and he certainly had a nice manner — but… he gave the most extraordinary thing to Casey. We stopped when he approached us, one arm held behind his back.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ve just got to stop you for a minute.’

I stared at him in surprise, for he had spoken to us in English, although I couldn’t quite place his accent.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked Casey.

She told him before I could stop her. He smiled. ‘I’m Raphael. There’s something on my stall I think you might like.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry but I really can’t afford to-’ Casey began, but the young man cut her off.

‘I’m not asking you to buy anything,’ he assured her hurriedly. ‘It’s Christmas. Please consider it a gift.’

He brought his hand round from behind his back and for a moment I thought he would be holding a flower or something equally presumptuous. But when he uncurled his fist, it was to reveal a small Black Madonna. It was without doubt a beautiful piece, carved from onyx and embellished with rich gold and red in the robe. There was a golden crown on her head and in her arms she held a black child, also adorned in a lavish gold and red robe with the same tiny crown on its head. This was no trinket he was giving her — this was an expensive and exquisite work of art. But for all its beauty, I couldn’t prevent the grimace of distaste at the sight of the sinister looking thing.

Alongside Mary — the chaste, pure ‘official’ virgin, there exists an ‘unofficial’ virgin — black, mysterious and all-powerful — associated with beings that pre-dated Christianity… Pagan goddesses and Ebony Ladies of the Underworld… Of course, Black Madonnas are found in churches, but the Catholic Church does not officially afford them any special significance: black and white Madonnas alike are claimed to be the same. Black Madonnas are still depictions of the Virgin Mary; it’s just that the artist chose to craft her from smooth ebony or Lebanese cedar wood or cold black onyx.

But there are rumours that the Black Madonnas were never meant to represent the Virgin Mary — that they stand for someone else altogether. And, unofficially, the church has taken to painting over their Madonnas with whitewash, to discourage the pilgrims who insist on affording them such an undue and inappropriate significance. For the Black Madonnas are associated with sexuality, fertility and procreation rather than chastity, and are credited by their followers with having supernatural powers. If the Black Madonnas are supposed to represent the Virgin Mary in some form, it is quite clear they represent something else as well — something a little older and darker — and I was not at all comfortable with Casey accepting this gift from such a stranger. He seemed harmless enough, but this was hardly normal behaviour, was it? I hoped Casey would refuse the Madonna, but I could tell she was flattered as well as delighted with both the gift and the good looks of the man who was giving it to her.

‘Merry Christmas,’ Raphael said. ‘I wish you and your baby all the best.’

‘Is Budapest crawling with angels?’ Casey joked as we walked away, still beaming and examining the tiny Black Madonna in her hand as we walked.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Gabriel, Raphael…’ She laughed. ‘I half expect Michael and Uriel to turn up on my doorstep any day now and tell me I’ve won the lottery.’

I glanced sharply back at the young man behind his stall, but then shook my head impatiently. Angels don’t wear jeans and earrings. If every man with an angelic name really was an angel, then that would mean that Zadkiel Stephomi and I were not human either. I expect a feeling of Christmas spirit made that young man give Casey the gift. Or maybe he was hoping to get a date out of it. My eyes narrowed at the thought. If that was his intention, he could forget it — I was looking after Casey. She belonged to me now because I loved her the most. I am hers and I would do anything in the world she asked me to. But I expect my jealousy is unwarranted anyway. This Raphael guy was simply trying to be kind. I just wish that he could have picked a less inappropriate, less sinister thing to give her.

That night I had the dream that had so shaken me back in October. Once again, Casey and I were outside on the dome of St Stephen’s Basilica, and once again snow fell around us. Again Casey gave birth to a perfect baby boy, and again I turned to pick up a blanket to wrap him in. But this time when I turned back, there was no writhing black demon on the ground. The baby was still there, but now there was a tiny pair of delicate feathered wings on his back — rainbow coloured, from emerald green to yellow to pink to sapphire blue. And the child glowed with golden light where it lay surrounded by snow at the top of the cathedral. It’s said that it wouldn’t be possible for a human to look directly at the angels of the higher realms without blinding themselves with beauty, much in the same way that directly looking at the sun would blind the naked eye with its brilliance. And in that moment, kneeling there in the dream world, I felt I could understand that; for this newborn creature on the ground before me was so enthralling, so utterly breathtaking, that I struggled to breathe with the joy of it.

But then the wooden doors behind us banged open and Mephistopheles was standing there in the doorway, smiling coldly, a woman on his arm. I knew the woman too, for she had visited my dreams before. It was Lilith, in all her dark, seductive, twisted sensuality. Horror suddenly froze me as I realised what dreadful danger the winged newborn baby was in. I reached out to grasp the child but Lilith was too quick for me and had swooped down to pull the crying baby from the ground by its wings. I winced at the roughness with which she handled him and tried to get to my feet to get him back, but Mephistopheles was holding my arms, freezing me solid with his demonic touch, so that all I could do was watch in horror as Lilith devoured the baby before its screaming mother’s eyes.

‘ God will forgive me,’ Mephistopheles murmured in my ear with soft mockery. ‘ He’ll forgive us all eventually.’

And with the demon’s words still echoing in my mind, the dream scene tore away from me and I woke up sweating and shaking in my bed.