Once a Demon: Second in the Brothers Series

By Clara M. Miller

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 15, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469109657

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.

Book preview

Once A Demon

Second in the Brothers Series

CLARA M. MILLER

Copyright © 2002, 2004 by Clara M. Miller.

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

form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

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.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

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Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

O T I S

Chapter 2

N E L L

CHAPTER 3

A S H M A D A I

CHAPTER 4

N E L L

CHAPTER 5

O T I S

CHAPTER 6

T H E R I T U A L

CHAPTER 7

T H E P R O F E S S O R

CHAPTER 8

M I C H A E L

CHAPTER 9

C O N F R O N T A T I O N

CHAPTER 10

T H E W E D D I N G S

CHAPTER 11

T H E A T T A C K

CHAPTER 12

GABRIEL AND URIEL

CHAPTER 13

R E T A L I A T I O N

CHAPTER 14

C O N F R O N T A T I O N I I

CHAPTER 15

T H E F U T U R E

CHAPTER 16

A F T E R W O R D

Characters in ONCE A DEMON

(Takes place between June 1962 and August 1962)

The entire BROTHERS Series is dedicated to: my mother, Ann Boland Miller, who never lost her faith in me and who suffered through interminable readings of my books.

This Volume, ONCE A DEMON, is dedicated to: my sister, Cathie Miller, who has been my indefatigable proof-reader and my daughter, Mary, who has been there for me.

Well, I guess it’s time I continued My story. If you read My last communication, you learned of My son, Michael’s, successful courting of Cathie O’Connor. You also learned the regrettable fact of their child’s parentage. However, we must work with what we have so. . . . At any rate, at the same time Michael and Cathie were bonding, a completely different but interlocking story was taking place in the background. This story also involves a relative of Mine, My nephew, Ashmadai. Now, you may think of this unfortunate young man as a demon but, please be advised, that things are not always as they appear. You’ve heard of Moles, haven’t you. I admit, My trick was a bit underhanded and caused the boy some suffering but it turned out well in the end. That fact helped salve My conscience a bit. My plan also produced a totally unexpected bonus. . . . a brand new Angel. But . . . you’ll see!. . . . T.O.M.

PROLOGUE

During the hot, humid summer of 1962, his Father sent a reluctant Michael the Archangel to the small town of Scajaquada, Long Island, New York. The daunting job assigned him was to prevent his prodigal brother, Lucifer, from seducing a young nurse named Catherine O’Connor and fathering the Antagonist. Because of Michael’s inexperience in dealing with erratic mortals, his more seasoned, satanic brother managed to charm Cathie. Although Michael triumphed in the end and made Cathie his wife, it was nevertheless true that the son Cathie bore was Lucifer’s. Their only hope was that environment would triumph over inherited genes.

One of Cathie’s close friends is a fellow nurse by the name of Nell Pritchard. By a peculiar series of coincidences, Nell and her friend Caroline became involved in the colossal struggle between the brothers—one satanic and the other celestial.

Scajaquada is a rather unorthodox community of approximately 5,000 souls, and is located on the southern shore of an arm jutting out into the Atlantic Ocean. Whether it is geographical position or an effect of magnetism or more occult forces that made the small community the center of such cataclysmic events is unknown. Whatever the cause, tiny Scajaquada bore the brunt well.

The following story takes place at approximately the same time as that of Cathie, Michael and Lucifer and contains many of the same characters. The stories interweave and lead to an inevitable conclusion. Read on. . . .

CHAPTER 1

O T I S

Location: The Nether Regions

Time: Not So Very Long Ago

Spine tingling, scalp crawling, back sweating, Otis ran. The sound of derisive laughter pursued him like a harpy. Once more, he had failed. Once more, he was the butt of all the cruel jokes, jokes such as only demons could devise. Once more, he wished himself dead or whatever state it is that would give rest to one such as he. Only moments ago, Seducere had read out the names of the proud members scheduled to graduate this term. In his heart, Otis knew he wouldn’t be on the list but he couldn’t help hoping. When his teacher reached the name Xenaan, Otis knew he had failed once again. An explosion of laughter from his classmates propelled him like a missile from the room. Through the seven layers of Gehenna, he ran, carefully avoiding the Otherwhere. The hurtful sounds of glee pursued him from Sheol on the top through Perdition, The Lowest Pit, The Bilge, Silence, The Gates of Death and, finally, The Gates of the Shadow of Death. There, in the seventh and lowest level of Gehenna, as always, he would seek refuge from his despair.

As he ran, the floor in the Netherworld undulated sickeningly. Its mindless asymmetry made Otis stumble even more than usual. Not a clumsy creature by nature, lately and with increasing frequency, his agitation was making traitors of his knees. The walls at his sides waved like liquid, now bulging outward, now inward, a mad dance of motion. As always, its nauseating pulsation made the passageway decidedly disorienting. Doorways randomly appeared and disappeared and only those very familiar with the odd, alien physics of Hell would be able to navigate the halls with any degree of accuracy. But Otis had run these halls often—always running, always trying to escape laughter, always trying to escape the shame. Never succeeding.

Suddenly, directly in front of his feet, a pit opened, an awesome abyss bristling with sharp teeth. With practiced skill, Otis vaulted over to land on the other side. As he watched, a questing tongue obscenely explored the edges of the hole for prey. Nimbly, he scrambled out of its range. A mortal would have felt horror or disgust. Otis dismissed the spectacle as normal. He was numb and felt only pain and despair. This, after all, was his world—the only one he had ever known. Grotesqueries were the norm here. Sights that would have driven human beings mad barely raised the eyebrows of the inmates.

Quickly turning a corner in a remote section of The Gates of the Shadow of Death, he scurried behind a huge rock. From long experience, he knew this particular piece of granite to be one of the more stable features of the seventh layer of Hell. At least it hadn’t tried to swallow him yet. The cave-like opening behind its bulk wasn’t large but Otis managed to conceal his six foot three inch frame completely by carefully compacting himself. The thought of anyone seeing him in this condition was unspeakably painful.

Arms clasped tightly around his shaking knees, head bowed in hopelessness, Otis huddled in his little corner, as miserable as a demon could possibly be. The ever-present stench of brimstone caused his stomach to somersault alarmingly and he wondered why the rest of the demons didn’t mind the awful smell. Even his guardian rock reeked but at least it protected him from the censorious eyes of the rest of the inmates of Hell. In his heart, he knew the Master would spot him sooner or later and then.. . . !

Mind whirling, brain numb with fear, he cowered. How had he gotten into such a mess? But then, he reflected, he had spent most of his short existence in a mess. Reviewing his spare six years of life was an exhausting exercise in futility. The pain of those bitter memories only served to increase his deep depression and disgust with his many failings. Trying to hide his scalding tears, he bent his head still lower and buried his face in his arms. Though he could hide his face, his thoughts were not so easily hidden. Like imps from the depths of Avernus, they circled in his aching head. There was no escape. The fears surfaced, leaking an acid bile into his mouth. Quickly, he swallowed and barely managed to suppress the choking cough that threatened to follow. In Otis’s home termination meant just that—Termination!

He sighed and his chin dropped to his cupped palm.

The charm class manual was most explicit: . . . . by entangling the target in his/her own emotions, a demon can then easily turn said target’s thoughts to suicide, alcoholism, murder and other various types of destructive behavior. This conversion is to be done gradually, with exquisite finesse to allow the demon to escape detection and free him for future conquests. The cold tone of the instructions made Otis’s flesh crawl. He sighed and answered his own question.

Seducere, his charm teacher, assured him that he was absolutely irresistible to women. But each time he tried, he thought of what would inevitably follow. So Otis choked up; he froze like a statue when the women looked at him; his tongue tripped over the honeyed words he tried to say. When the instructions in the manual said to clasp a woman to his heaving bosom, he trembled and was unable to control his quivering knees. When the women spoke to him, he lost any concentration he might have had and stuttered like an idiot.

The horrible truth was that his ineptitude was getting worse instead of better. There was no way he could keep up with the class. Already, three classes had passed on. Learning that he had just failed for the fourth time left a leaden ball in his stomach and a paralyzing fear in his heart. All those classes and still he remained, as ignorant and awkward around women as when he started. Failures such as his would not be tolerated much longer, he was sure.

Abruptly, every one of his senses began clanging in panic. Shoulders locked in place, knees shaking even harder under his folded arms, Otis froze as his entire body stiffened in alarm. Icy sweat trickled down the back of his neck; someone was watching him. Slowly, with infinite reluctance, he raised his head and turned. Heaving a sigh, he relaxed. It was only Ashmadai.

The two young demons looked at each other for a long moment, neither saying a word. That was all right with Otis. He really couldn’t think of a thing to say. After all, Ashmadai was his Master’s son and could be expected to agree with his father about Otis’s incompetence. But Ashmadai was also his friend. That must count for something. Surely, it counted for something. To Otis’s intense embarrassment, a hiccupping sob escaped from his lips before he could stop it. From bitter past experience, he knew the telltale red would be creeping its way over his face, the same red flush that never failed to earn him more rebuke and ridicule in class. Demons weren’t shy. Demons didn’t blush. But Otis did. Anxiously, his sea green eyes turned once more to his friend. With intense relief, he saw no derision on Ashmadai’s face, only a strange kind of compassion and deep sorrow.

Before Otis could frame a suitably diplomatic question, Ashmadai spoke. The Crown Prince’s voice had the soothing tone of an adult speaking to a very skittish young child. Well, my friend, I hear you’re in trouble again. Can I help? A warm smile softened the statement.

With a graceful motion, Ashmadai joined Otis on the rocky floor, making it seem like the most natural place to be. How he managed to fit in the cramped space, Otis couldn’t imagine. The very rock seemed to stretch to accommodate him. Like a sleek cat, Ashmadai settled himself, arm leaning negligently over his raised knee and head cocked in sympathetic inquiry. For a moment Otis was lost in rapt appreciation for the beautiful creature who was his Master’s son and presumed heir.

Ashmadai was tall and exceptionally well built. His height, about an inch over Otis’s six feet three, was carried with uncommon grace and dignity. Blue-black hair waved becomingly around a neat, well-shaped head. Compelling eyes of cornflower blue, were accented by arching, expressive brows that were often raised in inquiry or sarcastic speculation. For, if Ashmadai had a fault, it was a tendency toward mockery. There was no mockery in the intent look he now cast on his friend.

Ashmadai’s mouth was generous and mobile and when he smiled the result was strangely innocent and completely charming. Otis’s eyes dropped to the hands swinging gracefully from sinewy, powerful arms. Otis had always admired his friend’s hands with their long, tapered fingers and well-manicured nails. The agility and grace of movement in these hands radiated power and control. Without a doubt, Otis was Ashmadai’s biggest fan.

But enough of this, the Crown Prince was obviously waiting for an answer. Otis drew a deep breath. Then, hesitantly he cleared his throat. Hearing the rusty, croaking of his voice, he cleared his throat again and gallantly dragged the words out of the depths of his shame. Ashmadai, I don’t know what I’m going to do. Seducere told me a few minutes ago that I’ve failed the class again. That’ll make four times I’ve flunked. Because I ask questions, he says I’m impudent. Your father is going to destroy me, I just know it. I’d be stupid if I didn’t realize by now that I’m not worth worrying about. Seducere made that quite plain. You probably shouldn’t even be talking to me. I don’t want you to get in trouble too. Head dropping heavily onto his chest, he was sure it held the weight of the whole Netherworld inside.

Ashmadai sighed in sympathy. Still, his smile warmed Otis. His words sounded tolerantly amused. Well, what, specifically, did you do this time, Otis?

The question sounded almost playful and Otis gaped at him for a moment wondering once more what had gotten into him. Carefully, he answered. Oh, I just asked why they want me to seduce people and then ruin them. I kind of like humans, you know. I’m scared stiff of them but I do like them. Seducere never did answer my question. It just doesn’t make sense to me. His voice trailed off as he waited for his friend’s caustic reply. It never came.

Ashmadai stretched luxuriantly and turned to look closely at Otis. His glance was measuring, considering. You know, Otis, I don’t think you’re really meant for this life at all. I don’t think you should be a demon.

With that startling statement, Ashmadai proceeded to stretch once more, unfolding his lithe body with sensuous pleasure. The little opening behind the rock visibly expanded to allow the Crown Prince room.

Otis felt his mouth open involuntarily. In spite of his astonishment, he felt a glimmer of hope. Tongue clinging stubbornly to the roof of his mouth, he couldn’t get a word out. Admitting to himself that he was mortally afraid to ask for particulars, Otis shivered.

—maybe he’s spying for his father. That’s ridiculous. I couldn’t possibly be in worse trouble than I am already. Boy, am I confused.> Not accustomed to reasoning his way out of puzzling situations, Otis groped for a solution.

Tentatively, he began, watching Ashmadai carefully for his reaction. What do you mean? What do you think I should be? In spite of his skepticism, hope still blossomed in his breast like a resurrected flower. Otis could feel his heart pounding, its echo booming in his ears like a kettle drum. His friend’s answer had suddenly assumed colossal importance.

Ashmadai looked at him closely, once more measuring him carefully before answering. My friend, I think you should be an Angel!

If his friend had told him he should turn green and sprout leaves, it would have made more sense to Otis. Then the horrible truth dawned on him. Ashmadai was teasing! Even as he gulped painfully at the sheer brutality of it, he had to admit the idea made sense. A betraying sob forced its way from his mouth and a fresh tear found its way down his burning face.

Ashmadai looked at him in surprise. The thought hadn’t occurred to him that Otis would believe him capable of such a trick on a friend. Quickly, he rushed to repair the damage, ruefully admitting that he should have known his reaction. Everyone knew how sensitive Otis was. His naïveté was one of Hell’s favorite jokes. The Crown Prince’s voice was harsh with his need to convince his friend of his sincerity. Hey, I meant what I said! I wasn’t making fun of you. Look, I’ve got something important in the works. I can’t tell you right now because I’m overdue for a meeting with my father but we’ll get together soon, I promise you. Please, Otis, don’t mention this conversation to anyone else. I’ll try to cover for you with my father. Just relax. Okay? Remember, I am your friend.

Ashmadai patted Otis gently on the shoulder, rose gracefully; turned instantly and disappeared around the rock leaving Otis with his mouth open in amazement.

Otis felt his emotions, along with his stomach, ride a roller-coaster of alternate hope and despair. He came back to reality with a sudden jolt. With another deep sigh, Otis resumed his protective crouch and proceeded to worry in earnest.

Ashmadai hurried along the rock-lined corridor. He knew his father, Lucifer, would be waiting impatiently in his office. Office—that was a ridiculous euphemism! True, it resembled an office—file cabinets, businesslike desk, lawyer’s bookcases, the whole shebang. But, upon closer examination, it became apparent that the drawers in the desk were empty, the file cabinets held nothing but sulfuric dust and the books were blank. Any records necessary to the running of Hell were safely locked in his father’s head.

As required, Ashmadai knocked carefully before entering. His father was a stickler for rules. The incongruity of that policy amused him. Imagine, Lucifer, the breaker of all rules, insisting on obedience to his own. At the curt, business-like Come in!, Ashmadai took a deep, bracing breath and entered the inner sanctum. Alertly, he scanned the room for other presences but found none. He and his father were alone.

The plush, scarlet colored rug covered every inch of the floor and extended half-way up the walls. The thickness of the nap muted unpleasant outside sounds to an almost pleasant level. The walls were a tasteful off-white with just a touch of pink, giving the room a cheery, rosy glow. Pictures on the walls had been painted by the great Masters. One in particular, that of the Madonna and Child by Botticelli always caught Ashmadai’s eye. The absurdity deeply offended him.

Lucifer’s ornate, ebony desk sat on a stage two steps above the rest of the room. Ashmadai’s father disliked seeing anyone’s head higher than his own and the necessity of rising to his feet to keep this advantage angered him—thus the raised dais. Negligently, he waved his son to a straight chair and Ashmadai smiled inwardly. Something must have displeased his father. If he were in a good mood, he would have indicated the plush, overstuffed chair covered in blood-red velvet. Gingerly, Ashmadai sat down on the hard, unyielding wooden chair and regarded his father steadily, hoping his face wouldn’t betray his inner thoughts. Lucifer looked his son over with a keen eye and something deep inside Ashmadai trembled. But his father’s first words made him relax, at least marginally. You’re late! You know I expect punctuality from you. It is incumbent upon you to set the proper example for the other, lesser, demons.

Lucifer gestured extravagantly while Ashmadai waited patiently. He continued waiting while his father rose to his feet and began pacing before the huge picture window with the faux view of the New York City skyline. Idly, he wondered why his father had chosen that particular view. Perhaps it held some inner meaning for him. Still his father paced and still he waited. Experience had taught him that Lucifer loved theatricality and a certain amount of posturing. Drama had always played a large part in every interview he had ever had with his sire.

During these interminable waits, the young demon had learned to focus his attention inwardly, not only to serve as a needed diversion for his own mind but to keep his father from probing into any unguarded, dangerous thoughts he might be having. Ashmadai’s train of thought was broken and his attention quickly refocused at his father’s next words.

As usual, their tone contained more than a bit of acid. The drought in Africa is taking too long. There are not enough people dying. I want an earthquake! You hear? A good shaker—say 8.5 on the Richter scale. I’m getting very impatient. I want action! The desk shuddered under a blow from his heavy fist.

Pacing once more, he crossed and re-crossed the dais. Then, without warning, he spun on his heel and turned to his son. These abrupt movements, as usual, were intended to startle and catch off guard any inmates of the Netherworld who had the audacity to try to hide anything from their demonic master. Fists clenched and braced wide apart on the top of the desk, he bellowed, Well, no sympathy for your poor pets on Earth?

The sneer in his voice chilled Ashmadai’s blood. Father, I really think you expend too much of your precious energy on that place. Such a minor planet isn’t worth it. I’m sure the drought will work—just give it time.

Breathlessly, he waited. He knew better than to overdo his defensive arguments. That only served to irritate Lucifer and set him off on new excesses of destruction.

Lucifer looked suspiciously at him and Ashmadai wondered once again what he would do if his father questioned him too closely. Resolutely, he made his face bland, innocent, if one could use such an unlikely word in such malevolent surroundings. As he watched, his father ran out of steam. Vaguely, Lucifer waved his hand in the air and resumed his pacing. You’re probably right, son. After all, why should I bother? I’m sure it’s a waste of my valuable time. We’ll give the drought a few more days and see if you’re right. Lucifer paused; seemed to scan some inner program, and continued, this time on a subject Ashmadai would have given much to have avoided. By the way, I’ve been receiving disturbing reports about Otis again. What in the name of all the demons is wrong with that boy?

Spinning on his heel once more, he fixed Ashmadai with an accusing look as though Otis’s indiscretions were his son’s personal offense. Willingly, Ashmadai took on the responsibility for his friend. However, deciding how best to defend Otis without tipping off his own hand would require a diplomacy that would strain Solomon. After taking a deep breath he answered carefully, aware of the very thin tightrope beneath his feet. Father, I know Otis is a little backward but I’m sure he’ll catch on. I have an idea I know what’s wrong, or rather what’s ‘different’ about him, and it could work to our advantage. You know, there are a lot of women who go for the shy, innocent type; who’d want to ‘adopt’ a man like Otis. I really think he could win a lot of women’s hearts if he learned to exploit himself properly. With a little help, he’ll do quite well, I’m sure. Just let him try to pass the ‘charm’ course one more time and then I’ll take him under my wing and hone his skills at being shy and appealing. Maybe it’s just not in him to be aggressive. In fact, we might even consider breeding a specimen of demon like Otis for just this purpose.

Ashmadai tried to hide his own discomfort with the bold-faced lie by pretending to adjust his ornate, brocade vest. He didn’t want his father to realize how important this was to him, how close a friend Otis had become. He couldn’t let Lucifer know that a finer instinct, long buried, had surfaced in Ashmadai, an instinct to protect an innocent.

Carefully, he fussed with the silk rose in his lapel as his thoughts traveled elsewhere. Cautiously, he looked back at his father from under half-closed lids.

Lucifer stood, watching his son with sharp interest. All right. You know best. He’s your friend, after all. I can trust you, I’m sure. Off-handedly, he continued, And I’ll certainly take your suggestion under serious consideration although at the moment I can’t see the sense of having more than one Otis.

With an imperious wave of his hand, Lucifer dismissed his son, and resumed his seat behind the desk. Ashmadai stood, bowed respectfully and with a quick salute, left the office. As he watched his son walk out the door, Lucifer’s long, slender fingers massaged his lower lip. Lost deep in thought, his eyes narrowed in speculation; something was up.

Meanwhile, Ashmadai suppressed a sigh of relief as he exited the inner sanctum. If he breathed carefully, his heart would slow to a normal rhythm soon. Lucifer was very perceptive. Crossing his fingers, he hoped with a kind of quiet desperation that his father had missed the clues. The slimness of that hope caused a sharp jolt of pain deep in his stomach.

Scalp still crawling at his narrow escape, Ashmadai hurried to his own quarters. To give his father credit, Ashmadai’s rooms almost rivaled his sire’s in grandeur. Although he would have preferred more Spartan surroundings, still the sumptuous suite gave the Crown Prince a certain Je ne sais quoi. Quickly, his eyes took inventory of the outer salon. Carefully, every sense alert, he stepped into his bedroom.

Here, the reeking rock walls were discreetly covered by hand woven tapestries depicting Roman and Greek orgies, Bacchanalian feasts and other lascivious delights that made Ashmadai want to retch. Genuine leopard skin covered the stone floor. The feel of the fur on his bare feet made Ashmadai don his shoes immediately upon arising each morning. Just the thought of the number of animals who had died merely to give his room some color appalled the young demon. His bed was a study in overindulgence. Its round contours and lavish fur spread were abhorrent in his eyes.

However, he spent only scant moments examining the arrases, taking time to make sure that they hid no secrets. Quickly traversing the room, he looked behind the wardrobe, beneath the desk and behind the damask hangings shielding the oriel. The drapes concealed a window with a view of an animated sylvan scene, complete with wildlife, some of it human. This vista was as phony as the one framed in his father’s office window and as repellent to Ashmadai.

Finally, relaxing a bit, he gave the marble bathroom a quick perusal, checking the sauna, the hot tub and the shower stall for spies. Everything looked all right. Returning to his bedroom, he sank to his knees at the side of his enormous bed. Reaching under the mattress, he pulled out a sheaf of notes, carefully labeled and tidily stacked. Ashmadai had a soldier’s mind, much like his Uncle Michael and prided himself on his precise, methodical thinking. This slim packet of papers contained their future, if any. Outlined and annotated, indexed and cross-indexed, checked and re-checked, it could still fail. THE ESCAPE PLAN. Without realizing it, Ashmadai thought of it in capital letters. THE ESCAPE PLAN! Tracing the carefully written lines with his finger, he decided he had forgotten nothing. The wild card, his father, was the only real problem.

It was late, as time in Hell is reckoned. Ashmadai crept stealthily down the corridor, nervously flicking glances right and left as he went. Carefully, he avoided the cave wherein dwelt the monster, Leviathan, for it would have surely betrayed his mission to Lucifer. Not only that, but it scared the wits out of him and very little frightened the Crown Prince of Hell. Navigating the labyrinthine passageways of the Netherworld was a challenge. Walls appeared and disappeared; hallways opened and then closed; perspective meant nothing and non-Euclidian geometry was rampant. Lucifer’s office was the only chamber in the lower regions that had straight walls and floors. In this environment, one quickly become disoriented. Not getting lost was an art.

Finally, he had passed through the six upper layers of Gehenna and was in one of the deepest, most remote regions of his father’s kingdom. It was quiet here, in the back of Hell. Almost too quiet. Accustomed to the screams and shrieks of the demons, the total silence made Ashmadai nervous. No one ever came here—he wasn’t sure why. Could it be that they got lost on the way? With a shudder, he wondered what became of them, the ones who got lost.

Quickly, after glancing once more from side to side, he entered an inner chamber and closed the door. There were no windows here and walls of stone, fully three feet thick muffled the sound. The dark was absolute, almost a living presence, and completely confused the young demon. A moment later, a light appeared and Ashmadai saw, with pleasure, that the rest of the group had already assembled.

With a flourish, he removed his dark cape, slung it over an empty chair and walked to the front of the cramped little room. At this point, it was important to ooze confidence. Slowly, deliberately, his eyes traveled over his anxious congregation: Sardonicus, Rationus, Xantho, Deprecarius, Solitarius, Quaero, Vacillarus and Dubitarus. They were all here. In his mind, he quickly reviewed all he knew of his little band of followers and the trouble he might encounter from each.

Sardonicus could be persuaded as long as he could find logic in the argument; Rationus was much the same, listening carefully to arguments and judging them fairly; Xantho was a coward, but Ashmadai hoped his fear of Lucifer would outweigh his fear of this project; Deprecarius was forever finding fault with everything and might come in handy to point out any holes in his plan; Solitarius was a loner and hard to figure out but Ashmadai knew he could depend on him; Quaero was, as his name suggested, a seeker and would go along just for the quest; Vacillarus drove Ashmadai mad with his wavering from one decision to another and would bear watching; and Dubitarus was another doubter who would cast a gloom if no one acted as a check on him. His hands resting lightly on the chair in front of him, Ashmadai leaned forward in a confident and confiding manner.

The urgent need for haste ruled out any oratory he might be prone to deliver. They could keep his father in the dark for only so long. Ashmadai didn’t want to think about the consequences if Lucifer became aware of their clandestine meetings. Quickly, using as few words as possible, he reported his conversation with his father.

Immediately, Xantho was on his feet, anxiety plain in his somewhat squeaky voice. Do you think he suspects anything, Ashmadai? In spite of his attempt at control, the demon’s voice shook just slightly.

Ashmadai didn’t want to lie but, on the other hand, he couldn’t afford to alarm his allies at this point with vague feelings of impending doom. The plan had gone too far already to turn back. Anyone who dropped out at this point was a potential traitor and might go to his father with the tale. It had been known to happen. Lucifer rewarded traitors.

Trying to keep his own voice steady and confident, Ashmadai answered. No, I’m sure he doesn’t. He’s pretty involved in the outcome of the African drought. I’m a little worried about Otis, though. The remark was thrown in deliberately and designed to bring any conflict to a head quickly so he could deal with it.

Sardonicus sprang to his feet. Ashmadai knew the massive demon couldn’t abide Otis, whom he regarded as spineless. What about Otis and why in hades should we worry about him?

Carefully, Ashmadai marshaled his thoughts once more. He was getting a little tired of all the thin ice he had been walking on today. The fact that Otis was a touchy subject with all the demons was general knowledge. It didn’t do much for their own egos to see such a dismal failure in their group. It might also shake their confidence in the failure’s creator. That was the real danger Ashmadai feared. His father might take Otis as a personal affront and he dealt with affronts with swift and unyielding brutality. Ashmadai decided to be direct and hope for the best. I want him to go along, that’s all.

Rising to his full height, he waited for the explosion which was not long in coming. Reluctantly, he found himself raising his voice to a level he considered dangerous to bring the meeting back under control. With a supreme effort, he kept his voice even and calm. That’ll be enough of that. We can’t afford to argue among ourselves. I’ll hear what you have to say, one at a time. I can’t understand you if everyone talks at once. You go first, Sardonicus, since you seem to be the most upset.

The big man flexed his muscles as he stood, clearly demonstrating his desire to do Otis physical harm. His deep voice shook with emotion. Sardonicus was a long-time friend of Seducere and, so, received daily reports of Otis’s incompetence. It beats me why you’re so interested in that wimp. He’s good for nothing and you know it. He isn’t even a full demon!

Another cacophony of voices. Dubitarus won. Ashmadai, Otis is a dead weight, maybe even a dangerous liability. Sardonicus is right, you know, he isn’t a full demon and, at the rate he’s going, he never will be. According to Seducere, he’s absolutely hopeless.

Ashmadai waited patiently for the resultant heated discussion to calm down. He had to appeal to their higher instincts if any remained after all these years in Hell. First of all, I wish you’d all quit quoting Seducere! That particular demon is firmly in my father’s pocket. Giving them time to mumble their embarrassed acknowledgment, he took a deep, calming breath and continued, I know what you all think about Otis but he’s an innocent. He doesn’t belong here. I can’t imagine why my father created him the way he did but it’s obvious that he’s a mistake. Of course, he’s not the first mistake my father ever made but he sure is a different kind of mistake. What you’ve been saying only underlines my own feelings about Otis. Your arguments against him are my arguments for him. He’ll never be a full demon. Otis isn’t evil at all. In any case, I insist he go with us. Folding his arms across his chest, the Prince assumed a deliberately belligerent attitude.

Dead silence greeted Ashmadai’s outrageous statement. Although, he was Lucifer’s son, still the other demons did enjoy a certain tenuous seniority. Not only that but they had understood from the outset that they were all in this together and no one was the boss, no one could insist on anything.

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