Brothers: First in the Brothers Series

By Clara M. Miller

Warning: this is not a religious book!

Brothers, the first book in the Brothers Series, opens in Hell. A modern fantasy/romance, the book describes the efforts of Lucifer to win, wed and impregnate a human female in the hopes of siring the Antagonist and bringing about the Rule of Chaos. This would allow Lucifer free reign over the Earth and its inhabitants. Lucifers Father, The Old Man (aka T.O.M.), cannot allow this but, at the same time because of free-will, cannot openly prevent it. His solution is to send Michael the Archangel to woo the targeted female away from his satanic brother. Michael, whose talent lies not in charm but in military matters, balks but must finally submit to his Fathers will.

Much of the action takes place in Scajaquada, New York, a small town on Long Island. Perhaps the fact that its a liberal community and has long accepted outsiders makes it an easy target for such outr doings. In any case, Catherine OConnor is not aware of the identity of the doctor who is paying her court because Lucius Farrell is in reality Lucifer. Since Lucifers main talent is charm, its hard to Cathie to resist him....until she meets a clumsy young man named Michael Angeli who also has a secret identity.

Adding spice to the above mixture is the presence of Lucifers Lieutenant, Beelzebub, who is acting as his masters butler under the name Beezly. Michaels fragile ego takes many hits and he sustains many shocks before the final outcome. Included in these shocks is the arrival of his nephew, Ashmadai, Lucifers exiled son along with a fellow-demon named Otis.

The human members of the town are not just window-dressing but take an active part in proceedings even though they havent the slightest idea of the importance of the ongoing battle between the Brothers. Cathies parents and brother, her best friend, Sarah, and her husband, a nurse named Nell who loves a demon and Nells friend, Caroline, who has just rescued a demon herself.

This is not a religious book nor meant to convey any message. It is, instead.....I hope, a rollicking good read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 23, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469109640

Clara M. Miller

The author was born in Buffalo, New York. Her first published book, Echoes of a Haunting (published in 1999) is non-fiction. In the fiction field, she has written Brothers (2001), Once a Demon (2002), Birds of a Feather (2002). Cirque Diabolique (2003), Shamrocks in the Heather (2003), A Breath of Old Smoke (2004) and Daughters of Gemini all in the BROTHERS Series. In 1975, she moved out West, first to California and then north to Oregon. She currently resides in the coastal town of Florence, Oregon with her mother, their dog, “Dear” Abby and a cat named Miss Kitty.

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Copyright © 2001 by Clara M. Miller.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

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or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing

from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to

any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

Characters in BROTHERS

THE ENTIRE BROTHERS SERIES

IS DEDICATED TO:

MY MOTHER, ANN BOLAND MILLER,

WHO NEVER LOST FAITH IN ME

AND WHO HAS SUFFERED

THROUGH COUNTLESS READ-THROUGHS

THIS VOLUME,

THE FIRST IN THE BROTHERS SERIES

IS DEDICATED TO:

MY DAUGHTER, LAURA MARIE DANDY PATRON

(9/19/60-9/1/92)

WHO FELL IN LOVE WITH A CHARACTER

NAMED MICHAEL ANGELI

It’s a beautiful day today; a perfect day for a good story. Of course, in My mind, every day is a perfect day for a good story, especially one revolving around any of My sons. As every parent knows, sons seem to be especially difficult to cope with due to their infernal impulse to compete with each other and Mine proved to be no exception. Still, I must admit that much of the conflict in the tale could be said to result from some peccadillo or, some would say machination, of My own. . . . though I’d never admit it, of course. Well, I’ve promised to tell you a story, a long, complicated story that eventually involved many people and just as many Angels, the greatest of whom, of course, are My sons. I will allow the story to tell itself with only an occasional comment of My own. That seems fair. Let the story begin. . . . T.O.M.

PROLOGUE

As it always seemed to, the trouble began in the Netherworld although the Prince of Hell would have indignantly denied that fact. To Lucifer, the trouble had started long ago with his ignominious and, to him, unfair expulsion from his celestial home. Since then, despite minor compensations found in causing mischief for the inhabitants of Earth, the erstwhile Archangel had alternated between seething in silent rage and carefully plotting for his triumphant return to power by creating a situation called, for want of a better title, The Rule of Chaos. For the past forty years one of his plots had been aimed at destroying the power and disrupting the lives of two enigmatic twin sisters whom he thought were thwarting his plans but, like all his carefully thought-out schemes, this one too had led to repeated, humiliating failure and, in many cases, had backfired. With a practicality that was unusual for him, he had abruptly dropped his designs against the two women and made the inauguration of the Rule of Chaos his raison d’etre, concocting and almost immediately rejecting, plot after plot. It was typical of Lucifer that he seldom blamed himself when his plans went awry. This latest incident only proved his theory. Thus, the saga of the Brothers begins in the Netherworld.

Lucifer roared, a bellow of sheer demonic fury and all of Hell quivered. The terrifying sound bounced erratically down the rocky corridors, vibrating the walls and floors alike. A bone-chilling, hair-raising cacophony of rage, it went on and on echoing and re-echoing like some mad ululation of doom. Along its route, creatures trembled, afraid of deflecting that wrath onto themselves. Gingerly, even more quietly than usual, they crept along hugging the walls, keeping carefully away from the middle of the aisles and, when the sound became too much for them, tried to hide in the fissures and crevices that lined the stony corridors. These reeking, discordant passageways criss-crossed in a mind-numbing maze throughout the kingdom of Lucifer, their twists and turns showing clearly the mind of their creator. Their non-Euclidian geometry made finding one’s way a challenge; and woe to the creature with a faulty sense of direction!

The ear-splitting, inhuman howl was everywhere, permeating stone walls and ear tissue alike. It made no difference that it had been many years, by Earth’s method of reckoning, since Lucifer had exiled his only son, Ashmadai, from these precincts. The passage of time had done little to soften the passion of his Satanic majesty and recent defeats at the hands of his twin nemeses had only served to heighten his anger and remind him of his rebellious son. Lucifer had never been one to forgive or forget an injury, whether real or imagined. Beelzebub hovered anxiously at his master’s side, still hoping to placate his anger; still hoping to bring some semblance of peace to the Netherworld, if such a miracle were possible.

Of all the creatures of Hell, Beelzebub probably had the least to worry about. Reluctant as Lucifer would have been to admit it, he depended upon the ugly little man as a listening post, a leaning post and, more often than not, a whipping post. Then too, Beelzebub, unlike his fellow demons, truly felt deep pity for Lucifer. Under the rage, under the implacable will that had exiled his only son, Beelzebub saw the crippling pain, the overwhelming misery of a lost soul, much like himself. Softly, deferentially, and holding little hope of success, Beelzebub began once again to speak into his master’s ear, You’ll think of something, your wickedness! Something truly spectacular, I’m sure. You’ve never admitted defeat so easily before; don’t start now. It’s true that Ashmadai’s betrayal was a blow to you but you’ve had blows before and the loss of the war will be corrected by winning the next one. As for the twins—dismiss them from your mind—they’re of no real importance.

With a loud groan, Lucifer sank visibly deeper into his gloomy shell. Beelzebub tried desperately to come up with a method to arouse his master’s interest. But the fact was that he was a mere demon. Even after all this time, he knew little of the inner workings of the former Archangel’s mind. Cannily, he stuck to generalities. The little demon knew full well that Lucifer would not use the ideas of another. Think, master, think! You, yourself said you had a plan to change this defeat into a triumph. You’ve spoken of it many times. We’ve even laid the groundwork.

Abruptly, the agonized howling stopped and all movement and sound in the Netherworld stopped with it as the memory of the plot he’d been hatching returned to bolster his spirits. The Satanic eyes turned toward his lieutenant and glowed with a weird, phosphorescent light.

And Lucifer thought. Then, more terribly, he began to laugh.

Light years away or only a breath away, since all such worlds are near, in Lucifer’s former home the situation couldn’t have been more dissimilar. Here, there were no rocky walls, no sulfuric stench, no Satanic wrath. Here there was only peace, light and expectation. In his sylvan retreat behind the Celestial Library, Michael the Archangel was receiving a report from his current second-in-command. Za’am’el crouched before his leader pointing to a chart spread out between them. Michael was questioning the other Angel closely. In your opinion, then, has the threat of invasion been eliminated?

Za’am’el nodded his head after a moment’s thought. It was never wise to answer too quickly or too rashly; Michael expected candor and accuracy. Za’am’el’s voice rang with confidence. In my opinion, we have successfully avoided conflict. We’ve made it quite clear to the would-be invaders that attacking a helpless neighbor would not be countenanced.

Michael nodded; bent over and picked up the map; then gestured to Za’am’el to take a seat opposite his own. He rubbed his chin, a constant habit when thinking. It makes it difficult when only some worlds have total free will and others do not. We just can’t allow those who have fewer privileges to fall prey to those like Aldebaran III. I’m pleased with your work. You will probably receive a promotion out of this.

Za’am’el frowned. Really, Michael, I’d rather stay where I am. I enjoy being your assistant.

Michael grinned. I know but The Old Man relishes transferring Angels just as they become comfortable. It’s His way of keeping you on your toes.

Little did Michael realize, he was soon to learn the truth of this sweeping statement. . . . in spades. . . . T.O.M.

As Michael rolled the map up and tucked it into his tunic, a tiny blue bird landed gracefully on his shoulder. He blinked in surprise and then strained to get a look at the creature who gazed back serenely into Michael’s electric-blue eyes. Both Angels knew the bird appeared as a messenger and both knew the summons had to be from their Father. Michael relaxed a bit, feeling no pressure to obey instantly until the bird pecked rather energetically at the side of his neck. Ouch! Hey, that hurt! Okay, okay! Must be more important than I’d thought. As he got to his feet and extended his hand, the little bird launched itself into the air in a graceful flutter of wings. I’ll talk to you later, Za’am’el. I’d appreciate your keeping an eye on the situation until we’re certain Aldebaran III has truly backed off.

The other Angel shook hands firmly and nodded his agreement. I’ll let you know if anything changes. Sighing, Michael turned on his heel and began the trek to his Father’s garden. He knew he could have teleported but walking gave him time to think. . . . and worry.

Wordlessly, he passed through the Inhabitants of the Celestial Kingdom as they parted before him.

Streams of souls walked energetically to and from the Library and in and out of the Hall of Memory. The strollers could have been college students during class break; their conversations were a comforting humming sound to listening ears. Michael didn’t notice. If they were a little startled at the sight of the usually unflappable Archangel plowing his way through them, they didn’t let on. Quick glances were the only signs that they’d noticed him at all. They knew when Michael didn’t wish to be bothered and they wouldn’t have considered doing so. Still, they couldn’t help admiring him. Though unaware of how impressive he was, modesty couldn’t hide the fact that he was the highest Archangel in Heaven. Not that he fit the popular conception of angelic appearance which he disdained. Golden curls and blond beauty were effeminate in his opinion. Instead, his hair fell to the tips of his ears in gentle waves as blue-black as the night, a color much more in keeping with his image as a warrior. Then too, the fact that his older brother was blond might have added to his bias. At the moment, however, his hair and his image were at the very back of his mind. Michael was in a hurry.

Lost in his own thoughts, the Archangel ignored everything in his haste: the comfortable benches, set under gracefully arching trees; the gently curving paths leading through verdant glades; the pleasantly cool pond crossed by a stone bridge; in fact, all the places created by the pleasant memories buried in the minds of the Inhabitants. He muttered to himself as he strode, ignoring in turn his Brothers, Raphael, Gabriel and Uriel who cast curious glances at him. Since before the beginning of time, he had always been a creature who concentrated on one problem at a time. A valuable quality and one that made him such a good soldier. That same quality, unfortunately, also blinded him to many matters, matters he didn’t consider important. The Archangel’s tendency toward single-mindedness was a characteristic his Father worried about. Michael knew none of this and probably wouldn’t have cared had he known. Soldiers have little time for philosophy and introspection. Preparation and strategy occupy too much of their time.

Before he was ready, the high, wrought-iron gates loomed in front of him. He entered the garden carefully and reluctantly. The Archangel was a large man and, as such, felt clumsy and uncomfortable around the blossoms spreading at his feet and continuing, carpet-like, in a colorful riot stretching out of sight. The display, as always, momentarily dazzled his eyes. As he moved gingerly through the endless, neat rows of flowers, he tried in vain to imagine what had caused this abrupt summons. Casting his mind frantically about, he could think of no problem worth his Father’s attention.

He sighed as he entered the rose garden. Then he spotted his Father.

The Old Man turned and looked at him in that infuriatingly calm manner He always had. When Michael felt this worried, he expected everyone to worry so His Father’s serenity unnerved him. Though the Archangel tried to stay oblivious to the flattering attention given him by the Inhabitants, still it did serve to elevate his opinion of himself. It took Michael a moment to remember that this wasn’t an Inhabitant he was facing. When he did, he bent forward in a deep bow of respect. As he rose, his eyes met those of his Father and love swept over him like a warm blanket. In that split second, his annoyance and impatience disappeared as though they had never been. As always, he felt small and insignificant beside the fragile appearing Man before him.

Also as always, his Father took His own sweet time telling Michael why He had summoned him with such urgency. The Old Man’s tone was casual and friendly, Aren’t the roses simply beautiful, Michael? I’ve finally managed to combine my two favorites and the pale violet color is magnificent. Don’t you agree? He turned His eyes to his son.

Michael, totally out of his element, mumbled, Yes, Father, they are quite lovely. It was the best he could do.

Then his Father sighed, What is the state of the third planet from the Sun in the Milky Way Galaxy at the moment? You know the one I mean.

Michael shuffled his feet. There was no way to make a short report on such a complicated subject. Carefully, he answered, It’s about as usual. I believe they’re between major wars at the moment although the situation in Vietnam bears watching. As they chatted, Michael’s mind was racing with possibilities. Unable to account for the summons and baffled by what he considered the inane and unnecessary conversation, he turned his attention back to The Old Man, teeth grinding with frustration and anxiety.

His Father was a small Man, slender and lithe Who was forever busy. In contrast with His fragile looking body He possessed a mellifluous, deep voice. His gentle, somewhat sorrowful face was always filled with love, concern and an unflappable tranquility. Under His heavy brows, His eyes changed color constantly. Try as he might, Michael could never connect the hue to any particular mood. One moment, the irises flashed a brilliant blue, much like Michael’s own. The next, they assumed a vivid green shade and, before one became accustomed to the change, they were a rich chestnut brown. The kaleidoscopic effect was very disconcerting until one adjusted to it. Michael, although he had been in his Father’s presence more often than most, still found it unnerved him. The Old Man’s pristine, white hair surrounded His head like a downy halo. However, unlike that legendary sign of holiness, His hair had a habit of looking very disheveled. He was a busy Man and looked it. His garden was His source of strength. When being The Old Man got to be too much even for Him, He retired for a few hours of gardening. It did wonders for His disposition. His benign appearance however, as Michael had reason to know, could be most deceiving. When his Father got angry Heaven trembled and Michael cringed! His wrath could be terrible even though it always proved to be righteous.

Now The Old Man looked at Michael with such expressive eyes that the Archangel found himself becoming lost in them, his Father proceeded to astonish his favorite son, not for the first time of course, with a preposterous proposal.

As The Old Man spoke, He continued to trim the roses. Michael, I know I can always count on you so I am going to give you an assignment which is rather unusual and it concerns the third Planet. Snip, snip! Your brother—I’m sure I don’t have to tell you which one—has another rather sleazy scheme up his sleeve. I’m afraid it’s up to you to stop him. For some unfathomable reason, he has suddenly decided to sire an Antagonist although I suspect the plot has been a long time in the hatching. Another snip. I get very impatient with him sometimes but you know how he is. That boy just can’t leave well enough alone; he has virtually the whole planet now and still he wants more. Ah, well, he never was easy to understand.

The Old Man sighed as He snipped another dead blossom. Michael was unable to take his eyes off his Father’s busy hands—their rhythm was mesmerizing. At any rate, I must ask you to prevent this from happening. Of course, there is free will involved here so we must not interfere with that. I’m afraid I had a very bad idea when I conferred free will upon creatures who could not handle it although I hate to admit Lucifer was right. Too late to worry about that, however, so we must do what we can to salvage the situation again. He waved the scissors imperiously in the air and turned to Michael. That’s why I want you to charm the intended mother away from your brother. That shouldn’t be too hard, do you think? Apparently sure of the answer, He unconcernedly turned back and resumed pruning the rosebush.

Michael’s mouth sagged open in astonishment. He couldn’t speak at first, so great was the shock.

Over untold millennia he had performed many tasks for his Father, and all of them gladly. But those tasks had been more in keeping with his character. When his Father had appointed him to quell the ethnic cleansing on Planet 7 in the Andromeda Galaxy, he had jumped at the chance. More recently, putting down a war instigated against Labidee 31 had given him great satisfaction. Labidee 31 was a comparatively small planet in a Galaxy so far away that it was nonexistent to the inhabitants of the Milky Way. The peace-loving population consisted almost entirely of artisans and craftsmen. Their neighboring planet, three times their size, had decided to seize their minerals and other precious resources. That is, until Michael had intervened. Preventing such an injustice was what the Archangel reveled in. Then, more recently, his Aide had prevented another intergalactic war, narrowly averting what could have been genocide. Michael was justifiably proud of his soldierly talents and used them to good effect against a variety of evildoers. He often wished that the damnable free will mistake didn’t prevent him from exacting justice on some of the dwellers on the third planet. At times his feet fairly itched to tromp some Earthly miscreant into the ground. Now this!

In spite of his much-deserved pride, Michael also knew his failings. His strength was in soldierly pursuits and being the Lord’s bully suited him just fine. Everyone knew, however, that Michael’s long suit was not charm. He tended, rather, to ride roughshod over everyone. His brother, Lucifer, on the other hand, had charm and charisma in excess. How was he, more than able in his own field, going to manage to out-charm the Charmer of all time? His head spun with the thought.

my brother! But I surely don’t have to like the rascal. How can Father order me to go one on one with him in the charm department? It’s unfair. . . . not to mention impossible! Still, how can I refuse Him?> As he struggled with the enormity of the request, his anxiety mounted and threatened to choke him.

Shuffling from foot to foot like a schoolboy, Michael tried to use another quality which was rather unfamiliar to him—tact. Father, you know I would do anything You ask but I’m not sure I’m the correct Brother to assign to this task. Surely, Raphael with all his beautiful music would be more suitable. He could sing love songs to the lady! Or perhaps Gabriel. You know he can be quite charming when he wants to. That is, if you can get him off the subject of the end of the Universe. Even Uriel might be better suited; he’s very artistic. I’m sure You realize that this must be the beginning of a plan to bring about The Rule of Chaos so the assignment is much too important to trust to someone like me. You don’t really expect me to out-charm that liar of a brother of mine, do You? He has the slickest tongue in the Universe.

His Father stopped snipping, turned once more to His son and replied, unperturbably: But, Michael, that’s exactly what I expect you to do. Raphael is a fine lad but he gets so wrapped up in writing songs that it’s all I can do to get him to sing for us at dinner. As for Gabriel—forget it. That poor boy couldn’t charm his way out of a bushel basket. That leaves only Uriel. Now, you and I both know that he can be a terrible Angel chauvinist and he’s shy besides. No, it’s up to you. I’m sure I can count on you. The intended mother has already met Lucifer. She doesn’t know it, of course. He’s posing as a doctor in a hospital on Long Island, New York. As I’m sure you know, that’s in the United States of America. By the way, your brother is calling himself Lucius Farrell. Bad pun! He never did have much of a sense of humor let alone originality. The name of his intended is Catherine O’Connor and she’s a nurse in the same hospital. The young lady has just bought her own home—actually it’s a cottage—near the beach in Scajaquada. It’s only a mile or so from her parents’. I understand there’s a cottage for rent quite near hers. Of course, it’s up to you but I would advise you to rent it and proceed with your task. I’ll expect reports now and again. I have all the confidence in the Universe in you as usual, Michael. Now, I must get back to My roses—the aphids are terrible this year. I wonder if your brother might have been encouraging them. His voice wandered off as He resumed His chore and Michael knew he had been gently but firmly dismissed.

Seeing that argument was futile, the Archangel trudged despondently out of the garden. God help anyone who got in his way at this point! Michael’s face looked like a thundercloud, his vivid, electric blue eyes blazing a warning. The dark thoughts, behind those flashing eyes, whirled like dervishes. He groaned out loud as his thoughts took an even darker turn. He tightened his lips as he realized: The thoughts went on and on, each one more alarming than the last. Traitorously, his mind conjured up the most appalling scenarios, tripping over one another.

He shook his head to clear it of such nonsense. witches were merely unconventional in their behavior; they were the probably the first women of their day to want independence.>

He rubbed his head, combing his fingers savagely through his hair. Panic was beginning to grip him. Then, visibly pulling himself together, he sighed deeply. He searched his mind frantically and his shoulders raised in another sigh, this time one of relief. He had finally reached his usual retreat behind the Library. Wearily, he sank to the bench in the comforting shade of the sprawling oak. Another sigh, deeper this time, signaled his acceptance of his fate. He shook his head in consternation. The humor of his situation suddenly hit him; his laughter rang out and startled the birds who sang in the branches above him. With the burst of merriment, he admitted how foolish he was acting. Michael, the most militant of The Brothers, decided he would have to charm Catherine O’Connor.

In My own defense I must tell you that Michael is forever underestimating himself. What he lacks in charm he more than makes up for in ingenuity. I planned to put that talent to the test. . . . T.O.M.

If Michael was having difficulty with his self-image in the charm department, Lucifer had no such problem. Sitting quite contentedly in his luxury apartment in the exclusive Shorecrest Heights section of Scajaquada, he preened in front of a large, gilt-edged mirror. The reflection smiled fetchingly back at him. Unlike Michael, Lucifer found his blond fairness quite dazzling. Under his casually tumbling, golden curls, his deep blue eyes fairly sparkled with good humor. Teeth, as perfect as pearls, glistened between sensual lips and his modish tan radiated robust good health. He dressed his six foot four inch, broad-shouldered frame impeccably and in the latest fashion. His ever-present silk ascot was tied becomingly and tucked into his immaculate shirt. The raw silk, custom-made suit cost the world but he was worth it, of course. Beaming at the mirror, he felt deeply pleased with the effect he achieved.

To keep his appearance and surroundings immaculate, Lucifer employed a valet/butler/ general factotum named Beezly. No one had to know that Beezly’s real name was Beelzebub and that he was his master’s favorite lieutenant, brought up from the Netherworld for just this purpose. Beelzebub, for his part, enjoyed working with his prince and managed to keep his fawning to a minimum when anyone was around. The demon was the perfect servant, requiring neither food nor wages. Nor did his master have to tell him to do something more than once. He was all too well aware of the consequences of disobedience or ineptitude. Beezly was, however, not the most attractive person to have around. His looks were more than disconcerting but he managed to minimize their effect with an excess of mincing dignity. His long face tapered to a most unattractive pointed chin and his sharp nose could have cut tough steak. Deeply set eyes of an indeterminate color, and resembling knife slashes, sat rather too closely together in a sallow complexion. Their muddy color was liable to change at the slightest provocation. Moreover, they were the vicious eyes of a predator so he kept them downcast to prevent anyone from looking too closely. His mouth, as often as not, was twisted in a sneer to cover his deep insecurity. Greasy black, too-long hair hung halfway to his shoulders in lank rope-like strands. The contrast between Beezly and his master was ludicrous. The Prince of Flies, unlike Lucifer, showed his nature quite plainly. But then, he had never been an Archangel or even an Angel. His master had fashioned him out of whole cloth. Beelzebub had been born of the anguish and wrath of the Prince of Hell. His Master liked him. He was a great bower and scraper and, to all appearances, served Lucifer slavishly. But even Beelzebub had a secret.

Lucifer’s apartment, like the former Archangel himself, reflected nothing but good taste. The upto-the-minute, 1960’s decor was cultured and understated—nothing flamboyant. Soft leather furniture done in the latest earthtone shades was accented with burnt orange accessories scattered here and there. The well-stocked bar, covered in deep brown leather and studded with gold nail heads, stood just opposite the sliding glass doors that opened onto a small balcony. The view from the balcony included park-like grounds complete with a small waterfall and a goldfish pond. The building he lived in was plush and exclusive. The management didn’t exactly keep undesirables out but it was general knowledge that some people weren’t welcome, a streak of elitism the local residents deeply resented . . . especially since the owners were from out-of-town. Lucifer had to chuckle at the exclusiveness rule. What would they say if they knew who he was? Come to think of it, they’d probably welcome him. To some people he was a god, to others the ultimate evil and to yet others merely a myth. Still, no one could entirely dismiss him.

In keeping with his identity as Dr. Lucius Farrell, he drove a bright red Jaguar XKE ($6,225 POE) with genuine leopard-skin seat covers. Its gleaming, gold-trimmed chrome hubcaps flashed in the sun, just as they should. The sales slogan for the sleek automobile appealed to him: A Different Breed of Cat. The catchy motto had a certain ring to it and was reminiscent of his opinion of his own persona. He was, indeed, a different breed of cat! The Jag, of course, came fully equipped with the requisite hi-fidelity radio and a full array of factory add-ons. On his wrist, Lucifer wore a 45K gold Rolex watch with diamond accents. A tasteful black onyx and diamond ring caressed the ring finger of his right hand. He treated himself to a weekly manicure, an indulgence he considered a necessity due to his close contact with patients. Every three weeks, his barber came to his penthouse apartment to insure that the curls fell across his forehead in just the right way. In all ways, he appeared to be a prosperous, upcoming young medical man. With practiced ease, he kept his fabled horns well hidden.

As a successful, respected doctor, Lucifer even allowed most of his patients to recover. It surprised him to find out that he rather enjoyed the contrast with his usual activities, saving people instead of encouraging their self-destructive behavior to prove the foolhardiness of free will. The change was adding spice to his life. Prior to this, his latest venture, life had been getting rather mundane. He had tired of the game he was playing with a family of psychics and their maddeningly proficient twins. He had also become rather circumspect on the subject of the Guardian Angels he’d always held in contempt. Then, there was Ashmadai. Carefully, he dismissed from his mind the near mind-shattering temper tantrum that had preceded his final decision to sire a son. He preferred to dwell on more up-lifting subjects. He turned and regarded his henchman with a certain distaste. Though he was aware of his reliance on the little man, Beelzebub’s very ugliness reminded him of his ouster from his former home.

His voice sounded weary even to his own ears. Bub, I hate to admit it but I’m bored. Even this venture may prove to be too easy. As for the general population, it seems I have to do less and less to corrupt mankind. They seem to degenerate quite well without my help. Could it be I’m becoming extraneous? Not only that, but people are creating demons at a mind-boggling rate. Surely, I don’t have to worry about overpopulation, do I?

Although he knew the questions to be rhetorical, Bub answered anyway. Now, master, you know you’ll never become extraneous. As for overpopulation, the demons created by mankind are rather transitory in nature. As you know, humans have very limited attention spans. They soon tire of one demon and go on to another. The old ones soon lose any power they possessed in the first place.

Lucifer, unconvinced, rubbed his chin, a trait he shared with his detested brother, Michael. Of course, it does amuse me that the fools believe our deliberate. . . . shall we say ‘white lie’. . . . about mere humans being sent to Hell. In fact, the amusement grows every time I hear one of their pompous ‘religious leaders’ repeat the lie. As if such lowly creatures could occupy a place created by their Prince for high class demons. He was careful not to mention that the lower orders of demons also called the Netherworld home. As he often did, Lucifer suddenly spun around and confronted a startled Bub. Do you suppose we could consider the Otherwhere as part of Hell? I mean, who would dispute it?

As meekly as possible, the little demon answered, Only your Father, sir.

Lucifer hissed his displeasure. He doesn’t count. The very audaciousness of that statement made him chuckle deep in his chest. The amused sound ended abruptly, turning into a deep sigh. His dissatisfaction puzzled him. Mentally, he reviewed his accomplishments.

Beelzebub, leery of any swift changes of mood in his master, tried valiantly to raise his spirits. Surely you’re not still worrying about the disappointing results of World War II. After all, you’ve had many triumphs since then. Why, just this year, 1962. . . . His voice trailed off.

Lucifer finished for him. Yes. This year! The year of the opening of the Vatican Council by that annoying Pope John XXIII. That man irks me more than I can tell you. There is the unrest caused by the Civil Rights Movement which is amusing but of little lasting satisfaction and the trouble in Vietnam is still a minor blip. His expression brightened. Of course, there was the earthquake in Iran. That was rather diverting but the area destroyed was a bit small. I tell you, Bub, things are just not the way they were in the good old days. He sighed deeply and muttered, Where is Attila the Hun when I need him? Attila! Ha, I’d settle for Stalin at this point!

Bub tried again. There’s always next year, master. Your plans for 1963 should make you feel much better. After all, there is a major earthquake, the collapse of a dam, a hurricane and didn’t you tell me that next year is the one where Buddhist priests and nuns will immolate themselves protesting the policies of the Diem Regime? So, there are some good laughs ahead.

Lucifer’s lips curled up in the slightest trace of a smile. Almost to himself, he continued Bub’s macabre list. I can also look forward to the deaths of Evers, King and Kennedy, a man I consider dangerous. He rubbed his hands together, his humor quite restored. Yes, 1963 looks like it will be a pretty good year. I’ll just have to suffer through this duller one, I suppose. Still, Bub could tell, his master’s ennui persisted. A grunt escaped Lucifer and he rubbed his smooth, perfectly formed chin in puzzlement. Discontent made him edgy and he hated that feeling. With a practiced ease, he dismissed that as a possibility. He didn’t like to admit how much they upset him. He didn’t like being upset.

He thought out loud, completely ignoring the presence of his Lieutenant, Once upon a time, I thought the benefits of my job almost made up for my unfair exile but lately it has become clear to me that there is very little challenge left. A superior being such as myself needs challenge. That’s why I chose Cathie as the receptacle of my seed, unworthy though she is. His voice turned speculative as he continued to think out loud. The corruption of Cathie, the innocent one, will not be easy, I know, but by all I’ve heard of the young lady, I am certain she will make a perfect mother for the Antagonist. He began to pace as he continued. The birth of my new son will help make up for the craven defection of my ex-heir, Ashmadai. It will also give me another chance to extend The Rule of Chaos. Suddenly, he seemed to remember his audience. Yes, Bub, I’ve worked for many millennia to accomplish this long coveted goal. It rather galls me that I can’t attain it on my own and the thought that these despised creatures of a minor planet have to cooperate in my plot is enough to set my teeth on edge. But, now I have Cathie. His smile widened.

Dr. Lucius Farrell’s first day working at Scajaquada Memorial Hospital had elicited the information that his intended bride had been dumped one week before her wedding. The truth of the matter was slightly different. Unfortunately, or fortuitously according to one’s point of view, she had unexpectedly brought some belongings to her newly-purchased cottage early one afternoon. To her dismay, she had discovered her fiancé in a somewhat compromising position with her maid of honor. Her engagement ring was not the only item she threw at Stephen that day. Popular opinion had it that the gentleman was still running. In fact, not too many people relished being the object of Cathie’s anger since she tended to act first and think later. As she herself admitted—she didn’t have red hair for nothing. The unfortunate incident had occurred over three months ago and she hadn’t dated since. Far from discouraging Lucifer, her disillusionment with the male gender merely whetted his appetite. He would have hated a pushover. To add a little spice, Cathie was a Catholic, albeit a nominal one. The Roman Church had long been a favorite adversary of his and, sometimes, an unwitting accomplice.

A second rumor making the rounds further served to define Cathie’s character in Lucifer’s mind. This one concerned her feud with the parish priest. A few years ago, she had disputed the fact of Lucifer’s fall. Warming to her subject, she posed the question that, if an Archangel could fall, what chance did mortals have? Furthermore, if an Archangel did fall then God made a mistake in creating him and, therefore, couldn’t be perfect. The unfortunate cleric heatedly replied that she sounded like a pagan. This, of course, only incited Cathie and the following week she appeared with a hand lettered sign on the back of her car proclaiming Pagans Have More Fun. Needless to say, she was no longer received with open arms by the disgruntled priest. By all the signs, she was the perfect bride for Satan. He almost laughed at the incongruity. Imagine, she had defended him! He rather liked the idea.

Now he was plotting his next move. Early efforts at exerting his considerable charm on Cathie had fallen rather flat. Attributing this, correctly, to a certain reticence on her part to trust any man, he vowed to try again. With his blond, California-surfer looks, he was very difficult to resist and he knew it. Of course, if his natural attractions failed to win her over, there was always a subtle mind-control. That always worked. Sooner or later, by fair means or foul, she would have to fall and he had all the time in the world.

His reasons for siring a son at this stage of the game weren’t entirely clear to him. He cast his attention inward. He paused in his reflections and wondered aloud. Bub, I wonder what kind of a father I’ll make. Certainly, I’ll do a better job than my Father did! If my son wants to be mightier than. . . . well, perhaps that’s not a good analogy. In a slightly more subdued tone, he continued. At any rate, I won’t exile my son! Bub noticed that Lucifer conveniently neglected to mention that he had already exiled his son. He snorted with satisfaction. "No, not this one! That is—not if this one behaves himself and acts as he should. Otherwise! Well, I don’t have to think about that since

I’m sure this one will not be like Ashmadai. This one will obey!"

He sauntered nonchalantly over; opened the sliding glass doors and stepped onto the balcony. His eyes looked out over the town and toward the ocean but his mind was firmly fixed in the future. Without turning to his audience, he mused out loud. I wonder whether my offspring should inherit my own splendid looks or whether he should have red hair like Cathie’s. He laughed. I rather like the idea of my child flaunting flamboyant red hair! Abruptly, he turned and almost flung himself through the door and back into the living room. But, of course, there is plenty of time to think about that. He sighed although his air of confidence did not dim. After all, I still have to win the lady. With a mental shrug and a gentle sigh of contentment, he shifted his thoughts. He turned and once again acknowledged Bub’s presence. Now, what shall I wear to the Met tonight? The tenor scheduled to sing in La Boheme had better be all he’s alleged to be. I hate wasting my precious time on amateurs! He dreaded the thought of driving into New York City but he really did like opera and his usual method of transportation would not fit his present image. At no time, did Lucifer even think of his despised Brother, Michael.

Perhaps, at this point, I should say a few words about Scajaquada, Long Island, New York. This small community of a little over 5,000 people was, unknown to the residents, innocent and otherwise, soon to become the arena for a battle between celestial titans and satanic leviathans. Quite an honor for such an inconspicuous piece of real estate. Does it sound as though I am exaggerating? Well, perhaps a bit but I’ll let you judge for yourself.

The land the town sits on was originally purchased by an enterprising Dutchman from the Poospatuck Indians who, of course, had no right to sell it. After all, it was the hunting ground of the Shinnecocks. The rival tribe had never let little facts like that interfere with progress, however. The tract had cost the Dutchman the equivalent of $36 in goods imported from Europe. It was a pretty good bargain, even in those days. The land’s value had escalated somewhat by 1962, the time of our story.

Appropriately, the name Scajaquada comes from the Seneca word Sqa-Dyiuk’-Qun-Dik, meaning beyond the multitude because the original residents were tough and hardy fishermen who cherished their independence and stayed as far beyond the multitude as possible. When the fishing trade slacked off, they watched in dismay as their beloved and practical little village became more and more a bedroom community for the larger cities around them. In particular—New York City. Locals were in the habit of referring to New Yorkers as those people, with a vicious emphasis on those.

Scajaquada rests on the southern shore of a thrusting arm which juts arrogantly out into the Atlantic Ocean. This exposed location subjects the residents to vagaries of weather engendered by its proximity to the ocean. However, pleasant summers serve to balance the discomfort of the fierce winters. Then, cool ocean breezes temper what would otherwise be excruciatingly heavy, moist heat.

Reached by driving east from New York City on the Long Island Expressway, the town is just off the exit marked Shoreline Highway, not as one would expect by the exit marked Scajaquada. Some joker from the highway department had apparently figured that marking the signs creatively instead of practically added some piquancy to an otherwise dull trip. By exiting via the Scajaquada ramp, the