28 Mis Amigos, Queridos, Adios

The Gaia hypothesis states that the Earth functions like a living organism – upset the balance, and everything hangs askew. As a biology major, I was intimately familiar with the theory. Scientists said we had exacerbated the planet, accelerating climate change. Zealots said it was the End Times. For the first time in history, the fanatics were right, and the rationalists wrong.

Natural disasters increased tenfold – each week, a hurricane, a tsunami, an earthquake. The death toll climbed and climbed. Wars broke out over resources. I read the papers, numb.

It had been easy enough to lie to my parents. Samael had bound the horsemen in my twin's comatose body, but when he had wanted to keep Mo under the archdemons' watch in Hell, I had exploded. And so we'd staged a car crash, wrecking Mo's car, with my brother behind the wheel, limp like he'd had a head-on collision with a tree. I had called my family from the passenger seat, faking panic, when all I could feel inside was nothing. Nothing but bitter cold.

The ambulance had arrived, sirens wailing like the cries of a banshee. They had carried Mo out in a stretcher. He was a prisoner in his own body – brain activity raging, trapped immobile in his own limbs. I could only imagine what war burned on in his undead mind.

I was beside him in the hospital, reading him his favorite author, Stephen King, in the hopes that he might hear.

Mo's heart rate spiked.

"Mo?"

His eyes shot open. He began to seizure.

"Mo? Mo! Doctor, doctor, he's awake!"

The hospital staff flooded in. Nurses ushered me out of the room. And so my dead brother rose, soul trapped in his body, Samael's binding not strong enough to stand up to the horsemen.

"I'm fine, Shannikins. Stop watching me." Mo tried to move from his bed. He lost his balance and fell onto the mattress, clutching his temple. "Ugh, my head. Man, I feel like I ran skull-first into a tree. Wait – I did." Mo grinned.

"Don't joke about that," I said, secretly relieved he didn't remember what had really occurred. He was pale, so pale, almost the same shade as Samael. I set a breakfast tray on his nightstand.

Mo's recovery had thawed my heart. For the first time in weeks, there was a flicker of hope – Samael's binding had contained the horsemen in my brother, and for all intents and purposes, Mo was alive, with no knowledge that he was a vessel for Pestilence, Famine, and War.

Things weren't as bright in the celestial realms. Michael, Heaven's foremost archangel, was possessed by God's Word, forced to act out his role as Heaven's general in the final battle between Heaven and Hell. At his side were countless angelic drones, unthinking vessels of God's wrath.

The other archangels, their free will still intact, had sided with Hell to prevent a premature Apocalypse. Forced out of Heaven by Michael, they had taken refuge in Hell, much to their chagrin. It was an awkward family reunion, especially considering that a third of their siblings had been disowned.

The only angel who seemed happy was Raphael, whose joviality wouldn't deflate even if he was a balloon with a pin pushed in. He had taken over Samael's kitchen, treating me daily to a world of cuisine – Creole recipes, Thai curries, Mexican innovations. Tonight was his famous gumbo. Demons and angels lined up with bowls, stretching out into Samael's parlor, waiting for the archangel to ladle out gumbo by the liter.

I stood between Uriel and Izrail, salivating at the scent of the stew. Uriel's tattoos shone on her dark skin. Izrail, the angel of souls, was busy studying one of the butterflies that she carried on her shoulders. The subject of Izrail's fascination was a blue Morpho, just like I had seen on my trip to the Amazon.

"Shannon, hold out your finger," Izrail said, voice like wind chimes.

I obliged. Izrail coaxed the scintillating blue insect onto my hand.

The butterfly crawled onto my wrist. "It's beautiful. Like a slice of sky."

Izrail smiled. "Butterflies are symbols of the soul. Isn't that right, Beelzebub?"

Beelzebub glanced over his shoulder. "Flies are better," he grumbled.

Uriel snorted. "Flies eat crap, Beel. They're disgusting. I hate bugs. Bugs and worms."

Samael sidled up to me, glass of absinthe in hand. "Did someone say worms?"

I rolled my eyes, handing the butterfly back to Izrail. "Thanks, Izzy."

"Someone said worms, right?" Samael repeated, clearly drunk. Alcoholism was his coping mechanism for the Apocalypse.

Uriel ignored him, holding out her bowl for Raphael. Raphael gave her a hearty serving of shrimp-and-sausage gumbo. It was my turn next. Samael hovered beside me.

Raphael grinned. "If it isn't my favorite human." He held his hand out for a fist bump. I pounded it.

"Hey Raff," I said. He filled my bowl to the brim.

Samael reached for my spoon. Raphael swiped his hand away.

"Sam, back of the line," Raphael chuckled. "You can't mooch off Shannon."

Samael narrowed his eyes. "I'm the eldest, Raphael. I should eat first, especially before a mortal."

"Hey!" I said, punching him in the side.

Samael smirked.

The gumbo was delicious. I ate it in the courtyard, which had been converted into a mess hall. The archdemons' dwellings, including Samael's, had become living quarters for the angelic host. Hell's cramped capital, Pandemonium, already overflowing with immigrants from the otherworlds, had little space for Heaven's inhabitants. The angels sat with the angels and the demons with the demons, still uncomfortable with their forced closeness.

Samael was a drunken heap at the head of the archdemons' table. He leered at me as I bit into a sausage chunk.

"What?" I said.

Samael looked at his empty bowl, then back to my half-filled one. He pursed his lips, pleading.

"No! This is my dinner."

"Stop bothering her," Beelzebub said. "You're irritating everyone."

"Irritating you?" Samael said. "I'm not the one who's been a pill since two-thirds of our family gate-crashed the underworld."

Beelzebub narrowed his eyes. "No, you've just been an alcohol-ridden slob."

Samael blew air through his teeth. He surreptitiously reached for my spoon. "Give me a break. It's called the demon drink, after all. How else am I supposed to blow steam in this hellhole?"

I wrestled my spoon from Samael's grip.

"Maybe by relying less on absinthe and more on your supposed wits to plan our next attack," Beelzebub said. "Michael's forces are making advances into the Sixth Heaven, moving down the celestial ladder rung by rung. We have little time for dinner parties or flirtation."

"We're not flirting!" I said, anger red on my cheeks.

Samael laughed. "I am." He released my spoon without warning and it went flying across the table, into Astaroth's champagne.

The demoness smiled and delicately removed my spoon. "Remember when we were young, Beel?" Astaroth said to her husband.

Beelzebub grumbled.

"Beel wrote me poetry, Shannon – sonnets, villanelles, ballads," Astaroth teased, taking Beelzebub's hand in hers.

Beelzebub adjusted his collar. He said nothing, eyes burning holes in the ground.

"Crappy ones, if I remember," Samael said. "A Shakespeare Beel is not."

"I thought they were lovely," Astaroth said.

Someone cleared their throat. I looked behind me to see Asmodeus, bowl in hand.

"Any room for me?" Asmodeus said.

"Sure." I slid over on the bench to make space for him.

"How's your brother?" Asmodeus asked, carefully eating his gumbo.

I sighed. "Mo's doing better. He doesn't remember anything. We're getting ready to go back to college, and he's pissed he can't play football. Maybe all this sitting around on his butt will turn him into an intellectual."

Samael snorted. "That kid has about fifteen brain cells, maggot. Probably less now that he's the Horsemen's vessel."

"Hey!" I said. "Mo's smart in his own way – a way that doesn't involve school. He's people-smart. A lady-killer." I shook my head. "God, why is he dating my roommate?"

The demons laughed.

"Probably to torment you," Samael said. "I'll need you to keep an eye on your twin on campus and make sure he remains stable. The closer Michael's forces get to Earth, the more likely the horsemen will act up."

I nodded, nervous. "Okay. And what about Metatron? Where is he?" I asked, referring to the Watcher's ally, the angel that had made it possible for Raziel to start the Apocalypse.

Samael's face darkened. "We don't know, not yet. After the chaos of the Ark of the Covenant's destruction, the Watchers fled, supposedly to wherever Metatron is hiding. They're biding their time, waiting for the chaos to begin."

"We can't let that happen," I said.

Asmodeus gave a throaty laugh. "You don't have to tell us that."

Dinner passed and I found myself on the outskirts of Samael's practice field, in a section that had been converted into a shooting range. Angels and demons ran drills around me. Having already mastered Samael's scythe and Asmodeus' swordstick, my training with the shards of the Lapis Exillis had progressed to Beelzebub's revolver. The compound-eyed demon guided my arm into the right position. I aimed at a target's bullseye.

"Get ready for the recoil, Shannon," Beelzebub buzzed, letting go of my arm.

"Okay." I pulled the trigger.

The bullet ripped loose, faster than any manmade weapon. Smoke that smelled of brimstone rose from the barrel of the gun. I missed the target by a foot, further proving I was a lousy shot.

Beelzebub sighed. He crossed his arms. "It's about perspective. You have to have a feel for your target. Samael tells me you're an artist. Apply that eye for detail to your aim."

I stared intently at my sneakers. "I just can't do it. Every time I fire a round, it's like my vision goes wonky. I focus so much on the target that I miss it, if that makes sense."

Raphael, done jogging laps with his regiment, smiled toothily at us as he came running over. "Go easy on her, Beel. You were always the best at marksmanship. Living up to your legacy is hard." Raphael ruffled my hair. "God knows I'm a lousy shot."

"We don't have time for anything less than perfection," Beelzebub said. "She's obstinate – like she's not even trying."

My patience snapped. "I am!"

"Beel, relax," Raphael said. "She's only human. Not a war drone. Shannon, have you tried closing your eyes?"

My lips opened in an O of surprise. "What do you mean?"

Raphael grinned. "Exactly what I said. Trust in the weapon. It's a shard of the Lapis Exillis – it's alive, in its own way. You might be surprised."

Beelzebub narrowed his eyes. "You know, that sounds ridiculous, but might possibly work. It can't make her any worse than she already is."

I looked at the revolver and shrugged. "Here goes nothing." I raised the gun, focused on the target, and closed my eyes. The weapon was hot in my hands. It seemed to hum. Curious, I slightly lowered, then lifted, the gun, until the humming was near constant.

I pulled the trigger.

The bullet cracked out of the barrel. I heard Beelzebub draw a sharp intake of breath. I opened my eyes to see a perfect hole in the center of the target.

I gaped. "It worked?"

"Told you," Raphael said, slipping his headphones back on, humming along to rap music, and running like a gazelle into the night.

Beelzebub smiled, a rare sight. "Perhaps I misjudged you."

"You think?" I handed him the gun, which he slipped into a holster at his belt.

I smelled alcohol. I turned to see Samael stumbling towards us. "My maggot, lethal as always," he slurred. He collapsed against a fence, a dopey smile on his face. Samael reached for a flask from the pocket of his robe and drained the remnants of absinthe within.

Beelzebub cursed. "You git."

Samael gazed at the stars. "Please, spare me your lecture. I'm just trying to enjoy the fact that my home has been turned into barracks."

Beelzebub muttered to himself and left without a backwards glance. Samael slumped to the ground, yawning.

"You smell like a bar," I said, leaning down to help him up.

"It's my aesthetic." Samael burped.

"Being an alcoholic?"

Samael hooked his arm around me, pulling me unceremoniously down into the dirt, wrapping his arms around me. "Don't judge me. I was ancient before atoms were created. I was millenia old before you were a figment of God's imagination. I have been to the outer boundaries, seen the face of existence, and laughed. Laughed at the folly of being."

I pried his viselike grip from my shoulders. "You're ranting again. I think you should go to bed."

Samael mumbled and tried to kiss my neck. I grabbed his hands and hauled him to his feet. He stumbled after me into his mansion, up the main staircase and into his room. It was more cluttered than usual, which was saying something. I shoved a heap of laundry off his comforter – all black reaping robes that smelled of cigarettes – and forced Samael onto the bed. He protested half-heartedly, squirming as I drew the blankets over him.

I dimmed the lights.

"Don't I at least get a goodnight kiss?" Samael said.

"Fine. Just one. I have to go, it's late – hey!"

He caught my wrists as I was leaning down over him and pulled me on top of him. Samael burrowed his head into the crook of my neck. "You're not going anywhere." He hiccupped.

I struggled to rid myself of him, to no avail. "Yes, I am. You're plastered, and I'm moving back to Hortense tomorrow. I need sleep, and if I stay here, I won't get any."

He smoothed the hair on my forehead. "But I have to show you something. Something beautiful."

"If this is you trying to seduce me, I'm going to castrate you."

He twined his fingers through mine. "No. It's more important than that. Close your eyes."

"If you're trying to fondle me-"

"Please?"

"Okay, okay." I squeezed my eyes shut, humoring the addict.

The air cooled, and I opened my eyes to see that we were in the Cave of Souls, the candlelit repository of spirits at the base of the Tree of Knowledge. I was calmed by the lullaby atmosphere.

Samael released me, and I rolled off him, staring up at the roots far above us.

"Why did you bring me here?" I asked, mesmerized by the candles' slow burn.

Samael smiled. "To show you this." He flicked his wrists, and the stone pews of souls shifted, parting like a curtain to expose more tapers. The gulf of candles widened, leaving a stretch of darkness. A single candle emerged, high above the others, three-quarters full. Its flame, unlike the soft yellow of the others, was a bright blue.

Samael sighed. "Gorgeous, isn't it?"

I squinted, trying to see what made it so remarkable. "Umm, not really - it looks like something I could buy at the Yankee Candle Factory in Williamsburg."

Samael lightly squeezed my arm. "It's your soul, Shannon."

My skin crawled. "Oh. Why… why is it blue?"

"Blue flames are the hottest. Your soul and Adam's, as the first humans created, are closest to the Source. They're the brightest of them all."

"The Source?"

He snaked his arm under my waist. "You, me, God – we're all just emanations of the Source, the force that binds Creation together. It's what makes up your atoms and my ether. It's what joins us. Angels call it Shekinah – the Holy Spirit."

I thought back to Sunday school. "I thought the Holy Spirit was God – part of the Trinity."

"It's more complicated than that. The Shekinah has no personality. It's the eldritch mother of all, the faceless Source from which we spring. Think of the Venus figurines ancient man carved. Gods, angels, mortals – we're all just dancers on the Shekinah's stage. If we were actors, the Shekinah would be the theater our lives played out on. My Father fancied Himself one with the Shekinah, but He's no more one with the Source than I am." Samael scoffed. "My Father is a fool."

"Why is God letting the Apocalypse happen?"

"My Father tends to be very laissez faire with humanity – He lets free will play its course. You chose to start the Apocalypse to save your brother's life, and so it came to pass."

I slumped. "I didn't mean to. I wasn't thinking, Sam – I just couldn't let my brother die."

Samael hushed me. "It's alright. No one blames you. Fine, maybe some do, especially Beelzebub, but I don't. And you've met the angels. They're a very forgiving lot. Raphael has nothing but glowing things to say about you."

I rolled onto my side, facing away from Samael. "But Raff likes everybody," I muttered. "The world might end, and it's all my fault. Look at all the wars that I started. The outbreaks of disease. The natural disasters. They've all been exacerbated by my… my decision."

Samael ran a finger down my spine. "Shannon, you've been kicking yourself in the gut ever since the Apocalypse started. Go easy on yourself. We'll fix this."