Simmer

Contrary to popular belief, angels were not pretty. Ten feet tall with three pairs of wings, they were surrounded in holy fire with a singular large brown eye in the middle to give judgmental glares at the poor individual who had the misfortune to be in their presence. The Fallen weren’t any better, without the holy fire, they just looked like a giant eyeball with too many wings. Azazel was the Watcher at the gate of Hell, guarding any demons from escaping to the world above and wreaking havoc. He would only let people through either by permission by the Lords of Hell or if he could be bribed.

She had been trying to bargain with him for years. Ever since she ended up in Hell as a child, she had pleaded, cried, and shouted at him to let her through. He didn’t budge. What was a child’s misery to an immortal being? It was only when she was nearly sixteen she realized she never directly asked him what he wanted.

His answer surprised her, "I want Lilith’s head."

It was a difficult request but not impossible. He might’ve thought because she was partly human that she would balk at the thought of murdering her demon mother but that was not the case. She would’ve given him every head of every demon in Hell if he’d asked for it. She realized after years in Hell that no one was coming for her.

No one was going to save her. She had to find her own way out.

Lilith’s blood was inky black. It stained the bottom of the burlap sack, blood dripping down to the red sand at her feet. Death had rendered her demon mother from her terrifying form to her human one. Lilith looked like an ordinary woman with dark hair, not the Queen of Hell. She pulled the head out of the sack by the hair and tossed it to Azazel who caught it between his middle pair of wings.

"Ah." Azazel’s voice was neither male nor female, an echoing sound that never failed to make her shiver. "My Lady is truly dead. The Lords will be fighting for her throne. You have just started a civil war in Hell, witchling."

"I don’t care." She had no love for any creature in this God-forsaken land. "I did what you wanted, now open the gate."

Azazel dropped Lilith’s head to the red sand beneath them. "It has been a while since you were on earth, witchling. You may not like it there anymore."

"Any place is better than here."

"Perhaps." Azazel turned to the gate, a stone archway that was a hundred feet high. The usually empty space ignited into a wall of flame, hellfire. He remarked, "It’s good that you don’t shy away from pain."

She used to but that was before she came to this place. Lilith’s welcoming gift was to burn her skin, layer by layer. She was too pretty for this world. Her demon blood assured that she healed each day only to be burned again the next. Lilith only stopped when it became tedious. Lilith hadn’t liked it when things were tedious.

She had been through the gate before. She remembered the searing heat along with the pain of betrayal and abandonment. She still felt the searing heat, the kind of which could never be found elsewhere. This time she felt the triumph of success and the lure of freedom. It lasted only seconds but felt like days before she stumbled into the blissfully cold floors of a basement.

She lied on the ground and closed her eyes, a sob stuck in her throat and wanting to escape. She did it. She was free. Her skin was charred black and all hair was gone but she had never felt better.

Healing was never pleasant. Her wounds were raw and itchy. She had to resist scratching and making them bleed. She was able to move as her muscles repaired themselves and made her way upstairs.

The mansion had been abandoned for some time. The floors were covered in a layer of dust. Mildew was eating through the walls. The wallpaper was faded and peeling. The roof had caved in the dining room letting the elements in.

She walked up the staircase to the second floor and the wood creaked beneath her feet. The wood was rotting and would probably break under her weight if she wasn’t careful. She made her way down the end of the hallway to her old bedroom. It was a dusty mausoleum.

The porcelain dolls she had adored were still on the shelves. Her bed was still unmade as she had left it the day she was banished to Hell. She opened the bedside drawer and the wood creaked as she forced it open. There was the blade her father had given her for her tenth birthday. It was the last thing he ever gave her.

She had been using it as a bookmark. She threw the stupid book away, some drivel about war tactics, and traced the sharp edge of the knife delicately. She had loved this knife, loved the weight of it in her hands. She had learned how to keep it sharp and how to use it effectively.

She had wanted dozens of knives to replace the silly dolls that would break when she dropped one. One of them had looked like her with blonde hair. The face was cracked on one side permanently. Her father hadn’t been pleased. She put down the knife on the bed and looked around the room.

There was still her grandmother’s portrait facing the bed. Her father named her after her grandmother. Calypso Dubois had been lauded as the most beautiful woman in her time with an enviable elegance her son admired. Her father told her where the name came from, a sea nymph in myth who tried to trap a hero on her island because she’d fall in love with him only to be abandoned by the will of the gods.

Her father insisted it was a lesson she had to learn.

"Do not love anything more than it loves you,” he told her. "Or you will give them the weapon to hurt you."

"But I love you, Papa," she replied. "Why is that a bad thing?"

She had been too young to know of her ignorance. She had worshipped him like an old god and she would’ve sacrificed millions in his name. He found her affection amusing. If she could go back in time she would’ve killed him just for being right.

She needed a plan. She couldn’t stay in that decaying mansion forever. There had been one thing that kept her alive in Hell. She promised she would get revenge once she escaped.

She would find her father and send him to Hell. She would let the demons have him. They could spend millennia torturing him until they decided to kill him. Demons enjoyed misery like nothing else.

She needed resources. With no money, her options were limited. Even magic had its limitations and she went over her options. She couldn’t access her father’s money without him noticing so she would need to get it elsewhere.

She stared down at the knife in her hand and grimaced. Desperation was such an ugly thing. She pressed the sharp edge to her palm and let the blood drip to the wooden floor. Kneeling down, she dipped her fingers in the droplets and drew sigils on the floor.

It hadn’t even been a full day and she had to see another demon again. The summoning circle burst into flames, ghastly screams echoing in the room before a tall dark-haired man in a grey suit appeared in the middle of the circle. He was handsome but she knew it was a façade. Demons disguised themselves when they went to the mortal realm as their real form was too distracting.

He narrowed his dark eyes at her. "I know you."

"Hello,” she said. "I want to make a deal."