11
The bottomless crevasses yawned below Marc’s feet as he landed in Malebolge. Even this far away, he could hear their cries. The souls condemned by deceit.
The bridge swayed, sending brimstone dust sailing into the darkness. The Eighth Circle was the least visited because, even in death, the souls that dwelled here spoke only untruths. Above him, the dark sky roiled with noxious clouds. Sharp mountain peaks rose out of the depths like claws, trying to scratch their way out. Howling winds, carrying the scent of misery, ruffled Marc’s hair as he approached the Tenth Ditch of the Eighth Circle – the home of the falsifiers and the liars.
Descending the blackened steps of the staircase carved into the mountainside, Marc finally reached the bottom of the valley. The smell of rot and disease hung over the barren grounds in a yellow fog, and thousands upon thousands of ragged figures dragged their deteriorating limbs eternally in a march around the ditch.
“The King of Hell, himself,” Scarmiglione said, cloaked in a cloud of buzzing insects. “What brings you so far down into the pits of suffering?”
Her dark gray skin, dotted with blemishes and crawling with maggots, glistened with the pus seeping out of the open wounds.
“I’ve come to see the False Oracle of Decapolis.”
“Oh, oh, that’s intriguing,” Scar said, her long tongue flicking across her broken lips. “Why is that, hmm?”
“I don’t have time for your games,” Marc said, his eyes burning dangerously red.
“Oh, but they have time for you… after all, time is endless down here.”
“Time moves even slower down in the Frozen Lake,” Marc said leisurely. “I’ve heard there’s an open spot if you’re interested?”
Scar’s empty eyes widened, and she scuttled away. “Come right this way, my king. Yes, this way to the oracle!”
They moved through the hordes of the diseased. Faces twisted in agony. Gashes and rashes. Open wounds and festering flesh enveloped them on all sides. Finally, they reached a spot near the middle of the valley, and the demoness crouched down, digging her claws into the soil.
She unearthed the lid of a wooden box, bound by thick chains. Her sharp fingernail slid into the lock, turning it. As the chains rattled away and the lid opened, an old man appeared. He was bathing to his neck in filth, with cockroaches and centipedes crawling over his face.
“Sorry, Scar, but I need this one,” Marc said, pulling the man up out of the box.
The demoness pouted but didn’t protest or try to stop him. The old man mumbled incoherently, spilling ants and bile out of his mouth and into his tangled beard.
“Do you remember why you were put in this box?” Marc said, shaking him.
“I used the blessing of Christ selfishly! I spread his word, but for my own gains. I tricked the people of Decapolis into giving me their wealth!”
“At least you speak the truth now,” Marc rumbled. “Let’s go somewhere private.”
The King of Hell snapped his fingers, and they reappeared in a pavilion in the middle of a blossoming garden. Ivy climbed up the pillars of the structure, and men and women, clad in flowing togas, wandered the sanded pathways along the groves and lilac alcoves.
“This is Limbo,” Marc said, sweeping his hand over the garden.
“T-the... First Circle?” the old man’s voice cracked, tears of awe rolling down his cheeks.
“Indeed. This is where the non-believers and unbaptized go. Their only punishment is separation from God.”
“Have you brought me here to taunt me, demon?” The old man’s face turned bitter.
Marc smiled, revealing a row of sharp teeth. “I’m going to ask you some questions, and if you lie, you’re going straight back to Scar and her box.”
The old man swallowed and nodded – each clean breath, a blessing in his lungs.
Marc took a step closer. “Your soul was tainted. Christ touched your face, curing the taint. Correct?”
“I had a demon living inside me! I was innocent!” the man wailed, causing the closest people to turn their heads.
“And not just any demon?”
“Oh, no! It was Belial, the Fallen Angel of Enmity!”
“The first demonic possession.”
“The very first!” the oracle confirmed.
“Christ released you from the grips of that demon. But I know that he had help from someone. If you tell me their name, I’ll let you spend one week of every month in this garden.”
“You’re lying,” the old man said.
“I might be, but what do you really have to lose?”
The old man ran his grubby fingers through his beard, watching the people strolling by a pond, lazily feeding the ducks. A minute passed in silence, but Marc could see the struggle happening beneath the surface of the wrinkled skin of the false oracle.
He took another shuddering breath. “One week?”
“Every month.”
The old man nodded, his eyes turbid with cataract. “I’ll give you their name, but it won’t do you any good.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Marc said.
A sigh slipped over his cracked lips. “Phanuel.”
***
Locked into his private sanctum, Marc closed another tome, sending a puff of sulfur dust swirling into the air. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. Phanuel was one of the first seven angels to enter existence, but that was the only concrete fact that he could find on him. The records of his deeds lay shrouded in mystery.
A knock came on the door, interrupting his thoughts.
“What?!”
“You’ve been requested in the strategy chamber, milord,” the squeaky voice of the corrupted cherub announced.
With a snarl, Marc flew out of his chair and threw the door open. He stomped down the dark corridor, a tail of burning air in his wake.
“I told you specifically not to disturb me!” Marc thundered as he entered the chamber.
His three advisors seemed to have expected his rage and sat tensely around the strategy table. Everything appeared to be in order. None of his fortresses had fallen, and the scales of battle seemed to be swaying in his favor.
“What?” Marc said, anger lingering in his voice.
“Lucifer’s troops have crossed the River of Souls, taking control of the shoreline near the Bone Desert,” Asmodeus said.
Marc sat down at the table, his anger swept away by confusion. “Why?”
Marc glanced at the baby imps representing the demonic legions. His own forces congregated near the Black Citadels north of the desert. They were a key stronghold that Lucifer had to take in order to advance further north. The sudden turn west of the enemy forces was surprising, especially since the Bone Desert was just that – an endless field of bones and dust, with nothing of value, and on top of that, an incredibly weak point to defend.
“What are they doing in the desert?” Marc said.
Lilith shrugged, crossing her long legs. “There’s nothing out there.”
“Everyone knows there’s nothing out there,” Marc said. “Lucifer knows that we know.”
“It must be a bluff of some sort,” Lilith said. “Lucifer is smart. She wouldn’t expose those troops if there were nothing to gain from it.”
“I say we call the bluff,” Baphomet rumbled, holding up his clenched fist. “Strike those legions down.”
Marc watched the imps inching slowly toward the center of the desert. “Asmodeus, what do you think she’s up to?”
The demon touched the chin of his bearded head before speaking. “The Bone Desert is among the oldest places in Hell. Perhaps there’s something buried there that only the first angels know about? If Samael were here, you could ask him.”
“If Abaddon were here, he would slam you across the room for calling him that name.” Lilith rose, trotting around the table, her leathery wings folded on her back. “That name reeks of holiness. There’s a reason the fallen angels changed their names.”
Asmodeus just laughed at Lilith, causing his mountainous belly to jiggle and bounce. Marc ignored the spiteful exchange between his advisors. The cogs in his head had finally started to turn. He stood up abruptly and walked out of the room.
“Where are you going?” Lilith said, annoyance seeping into her voice.
Marc didn’t answer. He just stepped through the fiery portal and landed outside Amanda’s apartment building. It didn’t take long for Don to come outside.
“What brings you back so soon?” the angel of death said.
“You were one of the original seven.” Marc weighed his words carefully. “What do you know about an angel called Phanuel?”
Abaddon’s face darkened at the mention of the name, his massive black wings flickering into existence for a brief moment. Marc knew that he preferred not speaking of the time before the Fall.
“He is no more,” Abaddon said after a drawn-out pause.
“Was he killed during the Fall?”
“You can’t kill an archangel, Marcellixis.”
“I… I don’t understand.”
“It’s best not to delve too deeply into secrets of the forgotten past.” Abaddon’s voice was hollow. “Lest the secrets swallow you whole.”
“I need to find him.”
“You won’t.” Silence lingered around them, taking on a viscous form, before finally collapsing into Abbadon’s words. “Even if you scour every bone left by the Great Flood.”