the avenging love
Paul liked to watch his wife sleep. Astarte was such a complicated being that sometimes it was difficult to see her clearly. But when she slept, all of those layers dropped away. Her perfect tan face smoothed out and almost seemed to radiate peace.
He brushed back a ringlet of her black hair and wondered if demons dreamed and, if so, what they dreamed of. He'd have to ask her later when she woke up. Let her sleep for now. They had been traveling hard for weeks.
He gently kissed her cheek, then slipped on pants, a sweater, and his overcoat. It probably wasn't wise for him to go out alone. But he was tired of being cooped up in the hotel. Back at the monastery, all those years ago, he had been able to stay in confined spaces for days on end. Now even the respectably sized hotel room pressed in on him. He couldn't decide if that was a sign of growth or something else.
"Paul?" Astarte whispered sleepily from the bed.
He paused at the door. "Yeah, hon?"
"Pick me up some breakfast while you're out."
"Sure," he said, and quietly slipped out.
Their hotel was just off Union Square. He wandered the park and square aimlessly for a little while, then down Broadway, no real purpose or destination in mind. The morning air had a nice brisk bite to it that kept him moving. There was something so comforting about the anonymity of New York City. He could be anyone from anywhere. It didn't really matter.
"Father Paul?"
He stopped, the hand in his overcoat pocket going to the little vial of holy water he always kept with him. Then he slowly turned, ready for fight or flight, whichever seemed more practical. But it was Father Poujean, an old friend from seminary. The dark-skinned Haitian priest sat at a small table outside a café, the only occupant on this chilly early morning. He flashed a bright smile, then took a demure sip of his espresso.
Paul walked over to him and they clasped hands. "It's just Paul now. Remember?"
"Yes, yes," Poujean said. "Still playing the same old game, eh?" He gestured to the other seat at the table. "Please."
"You think we should settle down?" asked Paul as he sat at the table. "Get real jobs and buy a house in the suburbs?"
Poujean stirred his espresso in silence for a moment. "You know, it doesn't matter how many rogue demons you destroy. It won't earn you a get-into-Heaven card. So why do you do it? Why do you risk your life like that?"
Paul shrugged. "We do it because somebody has to keep them in line, and we are uniquely qualified for the job."
"It can't pay well," he said.
"No," agreed Paul. "It doesn't. But we get by."
Poujean gave him a searching look. "How do you earn anything at all?"
"She handles the financial aspects of the business," said Paul with a wry smile. "I don't pester her for details."
Poujean sipped his espresso. Then he said, "Do you really think you're making a difference?"
Paul leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples. "I don't know. Sometimes I do. But…"
"There's more of them coming over," said Poujean.
"They're getting bolder," said Paul. "More confident."
"People aren't expecting demons at the supermarket, Paul. So they don't see them."
"Sometimes I think people would believe in aliens before they'd believe in demons."
"That's how it is now," said Poujean. "But what are they doing, these rogue demons? What are they playing at?"
"I don't know," admitted Paul. "They're changing tactics. It's not just possessing some poor mortal and terrorizing the locals for a bit of fun, like it used to be. All of a sudden they're turning up in financial institutions, in real estate, in politics. I think they've been working their way into the infrastructure for some time, but lately they've been getting bolder. They're changing the world from the inside, and it seems like they're being organized by someone in Hell with real authority."
"To what end?"
"Astarte has theories. She believes it's all coming to a head sometime soon. That everyone is digging in. Bracing for something big."
"What do you think?"
"I think it's been over a century since she's been in any sort of influential position in Hell. The few demons she still kept in touch with cut her off when she made our relationship known. Most demons think that falling in love with a mortal is blasphemy. The only one who still talks to her is her brother, Dagon. He's nice enough, but not real bright. So she doesn't really have any hard evidence on any of it. She's just taking shots in the dark."
They sat in silence for a little while. The waiter came over and asked if Paul wanted to order.
"Better not," said Paul. "I have to get going. I promised I'd bring back some breakfast before we head out."
Once the waiter had left, Poujean asked, "On a case, I assume?"
"We got the lead back in Tel Aviv and followed it to Moscow. Had a little tussle with some low-level imps there. Nothing too serious. Astarte was able to get some more out of them, though. Seems like whatever their game is, it's something with real estate and urban planning here in the city."
"I know a man who might be able to help with that particular area. Real estate and such," said Poujean.
"Is he… understanding?" asked Paul.
"Of ex-monk mages with demonic spouses?" asked Poujean. "I think he's flexible enough to handle it."
"Interesting," said Paul. "Mind introducing us?"
"Well, I did have plans today…."
"But there is that little matter of me saving your ass from that spider cult back in Paris a few years ago," said Paul.
Poujean nodded. "There is that. Although if memory serves, I believe it was actually your lovely wife who saved my ass."
"Yeah, yeah," said Paul. "We're a package deal. Not intended for individual sale."
"She does excel at saving people's asses, though," said Poujean.
"You're telling me," said Paul.
? ? ?
Astarte was waiting in the lobby when Paul and Poujean entered the hotel. Instead of her usual jeans and T-shirt, she wore a long, heavy skirt and a simple white blouse. Her usually wild black hair was pulled up into a tight ponytail. She smiled warmly at Poujean, her green cat eyes twinkling.
"Ah, Father Poujean," she said, extending her hand. "So good to see you again."
Poujean kissed the back of her hand and said, "The pleasure is all mine, as usual, Erzulie Freda."
Paul handed her a bunch of bananas and gave her a quick kiss. "Why are you dressed like that?" he asked.
"Don't you like it?" she asked with an impish grin.
He regarded her for a moment. The austere clothes made the fine angles of her face even more pronounced, and since her green eyes were the only splash of color, they seemed to sparkle even brighter than usual. He shrugged. "You're still beautiful."
She smiled and laid her hand gently on his cheek. "My husband, master of the artless compliment."
"Ah," said Poujean. "But you know he always tells the truth."
"Of course," she said. "One of the many reasons why I keep him around." She slipped her arm through Paul's in the strangely formal way that she always did when there were other mortals around. "The reason, my dearest, that I am wearing this drab attire is because we're going to Crown Heights and I thought it best to blend in somewhat."
"Crown Heights?" asked Paul. "Why would-"
"How did you know?!" asked Poujean, his eyes wide.
She grinned. "Magic," she said, and winked.
Poujean looked imploringly at Paul.
"That's the best explanation you're going to get out of her," Paul said. "So I take it this guy you're taking us to see is in Crown Heights?"
Poujean nodded, looking a little disappointed that Astarte had stolen his thunder. As they walked to the subway station, Poujean filled them in on the climate of the neighborhood. There were two main ethnic groups in Crown Heights-the Hasidic Jews and the West Indians. And they didn't get along.
The Hasidim were one of the most conservative sects of Judaism. In their community, a great deal of importance was placed on attire and social interaction between the genders. The women wore long dresses and covered their heads. The men wore black suits and hats and grew full beards. On the other hand, the West Indians were considerably more liberal. There had been long-standing tensions between the two groups. Then, in 1991, there was a car accident in which a Hasidic man killed a West Indian child. A three-day riot followed.
"It's been a few years since the riots," said Poujean as they descended the station steps to the underground subway platform. "But tensions remain."
Soon the number 4 train pulled in, and they boarded an empty car. The subway train rocketed through the tunnel that connected Manhattan and Brooklyn beneath the East River. The lights flickered out for a moment. When they came back on, Paul noticed there were two people in the car who hadn't been there before. They stood at the far end of the car, casually reading the advertisements above their heads. One was a tall, thin man with a long nose, a pronounced overbite, and glittering amber eyes. The other one was short and round, not so much fat as simply thick, with droopy, florid jowls and lavender eyes. Both of them were clearly demons.
Paul squeezed Astarte's hand and she immediately squeezed back. She knew. When they got out at the Franklin Avenue station, the demons followed but maintained a good distance.
"We're being tailed," Paul muttered to Poujean.
Poujean nodded. "I saw them. They must be fairly powerful to manifest without a human host."
"I know those two," said Astarte. "The tall one is Amon, the fat one is Philotanus. They are powerful, but clearly time has not made them more intelligent if they thought we wouldn't notice them slipping in like that."
"Will holy objects affect them?" asked Poujean.
"I should think most would," she said.
"Good. Then they won't be able to follow us for long."
Poujean led them out of the station and onto the promenade, a strip of sidewalk along the main thoroughfare of Eastern Parkway. The street was lined with old apartment buildings and the occasional grocery store, all with bars on the windows. A few Hasidic families walked along the promenade, glancing at the mixed crew as they passed.
The two demons followed at a distance until Poujean turned and led his friends up the front steps of an old brownstone. As Paul and Astarte walked through the front door, Poujean pointed to the small box nailed above the doorway.
"There's a little piece of blessed Torah above every door in every Hasidic home," he said.
"Spiritual security system," said Paul.
"Precisely," said Poujean. "And much less gruesome than painting the door with lamb's blood." He glanced at Astarte. "It still baffles me as to why none of these objects affect you."
She shrugged. "I'm just not that kind of demon."
Paul knew the real reason. It was because she predated all Judeo-Christian religions, and was therefore immune. Of course, saying "Because I'm too old" was not something Astarte would ever say.
They entered the building and ascended an old, creaky staircase to the third and topmost floor.
"We're meeting with Rabbi Kazen, a very progressive voice in his community," said Poujean. "He's rather eccentric, and a little too in love with his books. But he's a good, kind man. He and I have been working together to try to ease some of the tensions between our two communities. If this case of yours is somehow connected to real estate in Brooklyn, there's a good chance the Hasidic community is involved, or at least aware of it. And if they are aware, so is he."
Poujean knocked quietly at a door covered with peeling yellow paint.
There was a sound like a pile of books falling over, then slow, heavy footsteps. A moment of silence as the person presumably peered through the peephole, then… "Ah!" Paul counted the sounds of three dead bolts and a chain sliding open, then at last the door flew wide. A large man with a flat, bearded face stood in the doorway in shirtsleeves and suspenders, his arms outstretched.
"Father Poujean!" he bellowed in a deep baritone, and embraced Poujean in a rough bear hug, slapping him several times on the back.
"Good to see you, Rabbi," said Poujean, wincing slightly.
"And who did you bring me?" asked Kazen. He glanced briefly at Paul, but then he saw Astarte and his eyes went wide. "An interesting pair, to say the least!" His eyes flickered anxiously to Poujean, who nodded.
"Come, then, come!" He gestured inside. They followed him into a living room with no furniture, only stacks of books. "Who needs shelves, yes?" Rabbi Kazen said, and chuckled. "This way, I don't even need furniture." He sat down on a stack of books and gestured for them to do the same.
"Rabbi," said Poujean. "This is an old friend of mine from seminary, Paul Thompson. And this is his wife, the lovely-"
"I am not blind," said Kazen, still jovial, but with a strange edge to his voice. "And I certainly need no introduction to Lilith, the First Woman."
Astarte nodded. "Rabbi."
"Ah, my dear," he said, rubbing his hands together briskly. "The knowledge that must be contained behind that radiant face. I could ask you a thousand questions and still not be satisfied."
"Quite so," said Astarte. "But what about an exchange of one for one?"
"Only one?" he said with good-humored anguish. "Well, I will have to make it a good one, then."
"Rabbi," said Paul, "we're tracking a large and well-connected group of demons. They seem to be getting heavily involved in a lot of financial activities-real estate, stocks, that sort of thing."
"That seems a bit complex for them," said Kazen.
"Right," said Paul. "This actually seems to be a coordinated effort. We're trying to determine who is in charge of it. Our concern is that this is being organized at a higher level. Perhaps even by one of the Grand Dukes."
"Hmm," said Kazen. He leaned back on his stack of books and stroked his beard. "There is one group that has been trying to push into Hasidic turf, actually. Of course, there's more than money at stake for us. We need this neighborhood in order to maintain our way of life. So they haven't been very successful yet. But they've got someone in the Haitian community who's been stirring up old resentments the past few weeks and I fear that things could get unpleasant."
"One of mine?" asked Poujean in surprise. "Do you know who?"
"A fellow named Emile Rameau, I believe," said Kazen.
Poujean frowned. "That's strange…" He looked at Paul and Astarte. "I know this man. He's not the sort to get mixed up with demons in any sort of serious way. If he's working for them, they're pressuring him somehow."
"Or possessing him," said Paul.
Poujean's eyes widened. "We should see him immediately."
Paul nodded and stood up, extending his hand to Kazen. "Thank you very much for the information."
"Just a moment!" said Kazen with a sly grin. He turned to Astarte. "What about my question? One for one?"
Astarte leaned back and crossed her arms. "Ask away," she said, and smiled in that cold way of hers that told Paul quite clearly that this poor, knowledge-thirsty rabbi was about to be taught a lesson.
"Well!" said Kazen eagerly. "One question only… hmmm… which to pick…" He tugged on his beard for a moment, his thick brows furrowed. "Ah! I've got it!" He sat up and smoothed his shirt and pants, as if preparing himself for a historic event. "Oh, Lilith, First Woman and Queen of the Lilitu, where is the Garden of Eden?"
"The Garden?" asked Astarte, her smile still present, but taking on an even harder edge than before.
"Hon…," said Paul, placing a hand on her arm.
"But my love," said Astarte. "I did promise I would answer."
"Yes, yes!" said Kazen, his eyes gleaming eagerly. "Can you tell me where it is or what it looks like?"
"Better than that," she said. "I can show you."
"Oh yes!" he said exultantly.
"Look into my eyes," she said in a voice that almost purred.
He did, and the lines of tension in his face lessened until it was almost slack and his eyes grew distant.
"The Garden," said Astarte. "Omphalos, the center, the origin of all… it lies at the point where Heaven, Hell, and Gaia-the mortal realm-intersect."
Kazen's eyes widened, seeing something in his mind's eye.
"It is a place," continued Astarte, "that follows all rules and none. The crossroads of order and chaos, light and dark, good and bad. It is, as Lao-tzu once said, the source from which both mystery and reality emerge. A darkness born from darkness. The beginning of all understanding."
Kazen's eyes changed slowly from dreamy amazement to unease.
"In that darkness," said Astarte, "lives Abbadon the Destroyer. He stands upon countless worlds of mortal souls. His eyes are the torment of a million dead gods and goddesses, and his mouth is a gaping wound in a reality that consumes time itself."
Kazen's face twisted up with fear. He covered his eyes with his suddenly trembling hands, but it did not block the images that were in his head. "Please…," he whispered.
"And past him," said Astarte relentlessly, "the Void, the unmaking of everything. To look upon it is to know one long, endless moment of death as the universe itself dies."
"Please," moaned Kazen, tears coursing down his bearded cheeks. "Please, no more."
"Yes," said Astarte abruptly. "A wise choice." She waved a hand in front of his face. He shuddered, then began sobbing.
"Astarte," said Paul, giving her a reproachful look.
"What?" she said, blinking innocently. "He asked."
"He also just helped us with the case," Paul said.
She rolled her eyes. "Okay, perhaps I was a little harsh."
"Yes," Paul agreed. "You had your fun, but…"
"Fine," she said crossly. She leaned over the still-sobbing Kazen. "Rabbi," she said gently, "look at me."
"No, no," he said weakly. But he looked.
"It's okay," she said, and stroked his bearded cheek. "It is best for mortals not to know some things. You will remember this lesson, but not the images I showed you. It will be like a dream, in which the feeling is recalled vaguely and without detail. Now sleep on your nice, safe, scholarly books and take comfort in their simple embrace."
Kazen's face slowly softened and his eyes closed. She gently laid him down amidst his piles of books.
"Thank you," said Paul.
She shrugged, then kissed him. "One of the many reasons I keep you around."
"God…," said Poujean. He looked at her with a new appreciation and a bit of unease.
"Let's go see this Emile of yours, Father," said Astarte, and she walked out of the apartment.
"Y-y-yes, of course," said Poujean. As he and Paul followed her down the steps, he whispered, "Does she do this a lot?"
"Only when they ask for it. She still feels a responsibility to enlighten mortals. I've tried to suggest that it doesn't have to be so…"
"Cruel?" asked Poujean.
"Yeah," said Paul. "She's having a little trouble with the concept."
? ? ?
When they got back out onto Eastern Parkway, the two demons who had followed them from the subway were gone.
"They're somewhere around," said Astarte.
They walked down the parkway promenade, out of the Hasidic section and into the Haitian section. The same old buildings lined the streets, although they seemed a little more run-down. Out of many windows came the thumping music of raga-similar to Jamaican reggae, but harder and more aggressive. Poujean led them to the largest apartment building on the block, five stories high.
"I'm not sure how Emile is mixed up in all this," said Poujean. "He's a very fine, stable member of my church. Sells a few traditional remedies on the side, but nothing serious. Certainly nothing that would make me think he was dealing with darker aspects of Vodoun. He is no bokur." He turned to Astarte. "Please, Erzulie Freda. Be kind to him. For my sake."
"Why, Father Poujean," she said, and smiled sweetly. "I'm always kind. Except when they ask me not to be. And I don't think we'll have to worry about that in this case."
"Why do you say-" began Poujean. Then they heard a scream coming from within the building.
They pushed through the heavy front doors and charged down the hallway. Poujean led them up to the second floor and through another hallway to a scuffed white wooden door. The screams were coming from behind it. Poujean pounded on the door.
"Emile! Marie! It's Father Poujean! Open the door!"
They heard the sounds of frantic fumbling with the locks, then the door swung open. A middle-aged Haitian woman stood in the doorway, panting, the sleeve of her shirt torn.
"Father! Thank God!" she said between breaths. "It's Emile!"
"What happened?" asked Poujean as they piled into the narrow foyer of the apartment.
"He's been mounted by the loa before," said Marie, "but they've never taken control of him this violently! I had to lock him in the bedroom!"
Almost in response, a sharp crash of breaking glass came from down the hall.
"Did this come on suddenly?" asked Paul. "Or did it happen gradually?"
"Who…" She glanced worriedly at Poujean. "It's okay," he said. "This is Father Paul, an old friend from seminary. Please answer the question."
"W-w-well," she said, "he had been acting a little moody the past few weeks, and that's not like him. But it was nothing like this."
"And when did he lose control?"
"Only just a little bit ago."
"They knew we were coming," Paul said to Astarte and Poujean. "They've been prepping him for something and we forced their hand. Poujean, come with me. We'll see if we can't kick whoever's in there out. Astarte…" They exchanged a quick look and she nodded.
Astarte turned to Marie. "Come, dear," she said in a soothing tone. "Let's go to the kitchen. I don't suppose you have any fresh fruit? I'm famished."
Marie looked helplessly at Poujean.
"It's okay, Marie. You and your husband are in good hands."
Astarte led Marie into her own kitchen, murmuring quietly to her. Paul and Poujean followed the screams and pounding to the bedroom. As they walked, Paul pulled two long, fat rosaries from his overcoat pockets and handed them to Poujean.
"I'll stun him and you tie him down to something heavy," he said tersely.
Poujean took the rosaries, looking nervous.
Paul didn't break his stride as he knocked aside the chair that held the door closed, opened the door, and stepped into the dark room. It stank of piss and vomit. A naked man crouched on top of the bed. His head snapped in Paul's direction like an animal's would. His eyes were bloodshot and a thick, clear liquid leaked from them. He was chewing on something and had blood smeared on his face and a headless pigeon in his hand. A snarl curled his lips.
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, be gone!" shouted Paul, splashing holy water on the man. "In the name of Muhammad, Siddhartha, Lao-tzu, and Confucius, of Zeus and Jupiter, of Shiva, and Osiris, in the name of the faith of all those named and unnamed, I cast you out, you parasite, you scavenger, you bottom-feeding scum of mortality!"
The possessed man reeled. His eyes rolled back into his head until only the whites showed, and he fell on the bed in convulsions.
"Poujean! Now!" barked Paul.
Poujean hurriedly tied the possessed's wrists to the metal headboard, then stepped back to the other side of the room.
Another moment and the convulsions subsided. The possessed took stock of the rosaries that secured him to the bed, and a strange bleating sound, like a goat's cry, escaped his lips. Then he turned his eyes to Paul.
"I've heard of you," he said. "Astarte's pet exorcist. Very cute. But I think you'll find that I-"
"In the name of Yahweh, El, and Brahman!" roared Paul, throwing more holy water. "Be gone!"
The possessed howled in pain. "When I break free from here, I will dine upon your entrails, you mortal incubus!"
"Are we going to go on like this for a while?" asked Paul in a milder tone. "Or are you going to save us all the trouble and get out now? I don't have all day."
"You will find me much more difficult to dislodge than the lesser imps you are accustomed to, mortal," he hissed.
"Sure, sure," said Paul, sounding bored. "Nice bluff, but I can smell you from here, Bifrane."
The possessed's eyes widened in outrage. "Bifrane?! You think I am some decrepit peddler of corpses?! You will pay for that insult, you gobbet of flesh! Tremble in fear, mortal, for I am Asmodeus, master of gamblers and whores, corrupter and despoiler of life!"
Paul sighed and shook his head. "It's almost disappointing how often that trick works."
"What?"
Paul walked over and placed his hand on top of the thrashing head of the possessed. "With thy name, Asmodeus, I bind thee to this mortal shell."
"No!" screamed the possessed. "You filth, you whoreson, you-"
"And be quiet," said Paul.
The possessed's mouth moved, but no sound escaped.
Paul walked over to the corner of the room where Poujean stood awestruck. He sat down heavily in a small, wooden chair and said, "That's a lot more tiring than it looks."
"I… I don't understand," said Poujean. "You just trapped him inside Emile's body?"
"Yes."
"And now?"
"We wait for the other two to come running."
Poujean rubbed his temples and leaned against the door frame. "I think I'm a bit out of my league."
"The fact that this doesn't happen to you on a regular basis is a good thing," said Paul. Then he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.
There were a few moments of quiet, during which the possessed gave up thrashing and simply glared at Paul and Poujean with a sulky expression. Then the front door of the apartment blew inward with such force that splinters skittered all the way down the hallway to the bedroom. Paul launched himself out of his chair and stepped into the hallway.
"Hellspawn!" he yelled, brandishing his vial of holy water.
Two figures-the tall, gaunt Amon and the short, thick Philotanus-stepped over the wreckage of the door and into the apartment. Philotanus hung back a bit while Amon strode down the hallway toward Paul and Poujean, smiling wolfishly.
"Where is she, mortal? Where is that traitorous bitch?"
As he walked past the kitchen, a thick jet of flame blasted from the doorway and slammed him into the far wall.
"Right here, Amon," said Astarte from the doorway.
Smoke trailed from Amon's clothes, hair, and skin. He snarled, showing long canines. Then he leaped at her, his fanged mouth stretching wide into a wolf's muzzle. She stood perfectly still until he was only inches from her, then she thrust her fist down his throat. His jaws clamped down on her shoulder, fangs sinking through her shirt and into her flesh. Bright red bloomed on her white blouse. But then she shifted her weight slightly, her shoulder tensed, and Amon's eyes went wide.
"Ah," she said cheerfully. "Do you know what I have a hold of in there?"
He whimpered but continued to bite down on her shoulder. "Neither do I," she said. "But let's see what happens when I twist."
He barked in pain, his jaw opening with a jerk.
"This isn't Hell," she said quietly, "and your master isn't here to protect you."
Then Paul felt a hard grip around his neck. A thick, oily voice behind him said, "And you have gotten soft here on Gaia."
Paul couldn't turn his head, but he didn't need to. The other end of the hallway was empty now, and the rancid stench told him that Philotanus had just appeared directly behind him, and probably held Poujean as well.
"Release the mortals, Philotanus," said Astarte, "or be destroyed."
"Your weakness for these cattle sickens me," said Philotanus. "When Belial hears of it, he will punish you severely."
"Belial and the other Grand Dukes are nothing but usurpers. They have no right to claim mastery over me or any other demon."
"The Grand Dukes were invested with their power by the authority of Lucifer Himself!" said Philotanus.
Astarte gazed at him for a moment. "You really do believe Belial's lies, then, don't you, Philotanus? You have forgotten that we weren't always like this. Once we were glorious."
"We were fools," said Philotanus, and spat.
"The Grand Dukes have you, then," she said, her eyes sorrowful. "Completely."
"They have us all," he said. "Even if you are too stubborn to accept it yet."
She sighed, her eyes trailing off to stare at nothing for a moment. Then she flexed her shoulder. Amon began to howl, but it was cut short into a gurgle as she hauled a yard of intestines out. He shuddered convulsively and fell to the floor.
"That was foolish," said Philotanus. "Now these mortals will die."
"No," said Astarte quietly, "you will."
Her eyes met Paul's and she nodded.
That was the signal he had been waiting for. He pulled a long silver-bladed crucifix from a sheath strapped to his thigh and plunged it into the round belly behind him. He heard a retching sound, and putrid black bile splashed his back. He ignored that and sawed slowly upward while whispering, "Memento, homo, quia pulvis es et in pulverem reverteris!" Remember, man, you are dust and to dust you shall return.
Philotanus released his grip, trying to escape, but Paul spun around, the prayer growing to a roar on his lips as he struck the demon with all his might. Paul could smell the corruption on this one. He was a schemer, a torturer, and a molester of children. Paul worked without pause, hacking away with his bladed crucifix, letting his loathing and hatred fuel each blow until finally there was nothing left but quivering chunks of demon flesh.
"Paul." Astarte's voice penetrated through his rage. "Enough. He won't be coming back."
Paul stopped, his breath whistling harshly through clenched teeth. As his peripheral vision returned, he could see Poujean looking at him in horror. He ignored it and instead looked to Astarte. "Amon escaped," he said in a flat voice, and pointed with his dripping, bladed crucifix at the spot where only a small pile of intestines remained.
"It will take him a long time to heal from that," said Astarte in a soothing voice. "And in the meantime, he will suffer quite a lot."
Paul grunted. Then he pointed his crucifix at the possessed, who was still chained to the bed, eyes wide. "What about him?"
Astarte looked over at the possessed, her face neutral. "What about him?" she asked.
"The penalty for forcibly possessing a mortal," he said, "is destruction."
Astarte continued to look at Asmodeus. He looked back at her through the mortal frame that held him prisoner. His eyes were now dark and deep and empty, like the night sky.
"Will you let him speak for a moment?" she asked Paul.
Paul's eyes narrowed, but he nodded curtly, then made the sign of the cross and said, "Speak, Asmodeus."
Astarte walked over to the bed. "Well, Asmodeus?" she asked. "Will you follow Philotanus into oblivion?"
"Does it matter?" asked Asmodeus. "I see now what this was. They knew you were onto their operation here. I was bait to draw you out. I was expendable, expected to fail. But why? I have faithfully served His Grace. I have done everything in my power to earn his favor."
"You know why," she said, almost gently. "Belial will never truly accept you."
"Because of what I once was," Asmodeus said hollowly. "A halfbreed."
"Yes."
"But I sacrificed my mortal side," he said, his eyes screwing up with anguish. "I destroyed half of myself. Can there be any worse torment?"
"Belial's hatred for halfbreeds is endless. No amount of suffering on your part will ever satisfy him."
He nodded. "And yet, what else could I do? If I had not tried to appease him, he would have killed me outright." He closed his eyes. "No matter what I do, I can never escape what I am. I have tried, and I have failed. Worse, I have defiled myself beyond repair. My existence is bereft of meaning. Let your avenger destroy me. It makes no difference to the universe."
Astarte looked at him for a moment. "Perhaps you are mistaken," she said at last. "Perhaps you still have tasks to complete." She turned to Paul. "Spare him. For me."
Paul's eyes widened. His mouth set hard, as if he was in pain. The hand that held the crucifix tensed up and the blade quivered. Then he took a deep breath and nodded.
"For you," he said quietly. "Anything."
He wiped his blade on the bedsheet, slid it back into its sheath, then walked to the other side of the bed.
Asmodeus looked to Paul on his left and Astarte on his right, his expression baffled.
"I give you your life, Asmodeus," said Astarte. "A day will come when you will be able to repay this debt. Until then, bide your time and serve your cruel master as best you can."
"I do not understand," said Asmodeus.
"Oh?" said Astarte, one eyebrow arched. "Perhaps you understand better than anyone." She held his gaze for a moment and something passed between them.
"No!" he said. "You-"
"Yes," said Astarte calmly.
He stared up at her, his face merely a frame for those bottomless eyes. "I feel your sorrow," he said at last.
"I feel no sorrow," she said firmly. Defiantly. "I feel joy."
An expression of awe slowly grew on the possessed's face. "Can such a thing be? Can your heart be so bold?"
"Of course."
He looked up at the ceiling, and a strange little smile formed on the possessed's lips. "Astarte, you have given me something rarer than my life this day. You have given me hope."
"There will be many dark times ahead," she said. "Remember that hope. Keep it close."
"Always," he said.
Paul looked back and forth between them, his eyes narrowed. "Please release him now, my love," Astarte said.
Paul nodded curtly, leaned over, and laid his hand on the possessed's forehead.
"Swear that you will never possess another mortal man or woman," he said.
"I swear," said Asmodeus.
"I release you," Paul said.
The possessed convulsed, then fell unconscious. A fine mist coalesced above Emile's head. For a moment, Asmodeus appeared in his true form-a creature with three heads: man, ram, and bull. He bowed in thanks first to Paul, then to Astarte. Then his form dissipated.
"What was all that about?" asked Paul.
Astarte looked at him then in that way she had, her fierce green demon eyes piercing down to his soul. It stripped away all the safeguards he held up during the fight. She disarmed his heart until he stood before her, the same man who had thrown himself off a cliff because he loved her too much. Still holding his gaze, she walked slowly around the bed until she stood in front of him. She held out her hands and he took them immediately in his.
"I'm pregnant," she said.
It hung there in a silence that stretched on for a long time. Then Poujean, off in the corner, cleared his throat. "Would it be appropriate to offer my congratulations?"
"Of course it would," said Astarte. Her eyes were still locked on Paul's, and there was a vulnerability in them that he had never seen before.
"Part demon, part mortal," he said.
"Yes," she said. "A halfbreed."
"Forbidden by Hell," he said. "And Heaven."
"Yes," she said.
"They will hunt us," he said.
"Yes, they will," she said.
"They will kill us," he said.
"They will try," she said.
He slowly knelt down and pressed his forehead to her stomach.
"You will see," she said, stroking his hair. "This is our destiny. This child will set right that which has been wrong for so many centuries now."
"I love you," he whispered. "Nothing else matters."