"They need to be dragged into the open street and raped as the others look on. Do you hear me?"

"Yes..."

"Every survivor in this town needs to see your red Crusader's cross as you are raping the women and children. Do you hear me?"

"Yes..."

"Then go."

The knight turned and headed for the village square.

All in a day's work. But was it possible for the First Fallen Angel to be queasy? Gastric distress? The Lord of Darkness' graceful hand came to his abdomen. When he frowned, a hedgerow of budding pink flowers died at once.

The White Stone, he realized. Of course. He chuckled aloud, and the sound rattled across the continent. All that G.o.d in me right now. Of course it makes me sick...

There'd been seven such stones, set into the Twelfth Gate of Heaven, the highest gate, so high that only a handful of Angels were allowed to pa.s.s through it. Seven stones to exist as the perfect number, and all white: the color of perfection.

Lucifer had pilfered three of the stones just before he'd been cast out.

A great shadow fluttered at the tree tops. Then he knew-it wasn't the stone in his belly that was making him sick, it was the sudden presence.

A blond angel-a Hermaphrim, part man, part woman-floated on great white wings above the trees, looking down. Its lambent face, at first, looked sad, then it glowered at Lucifer.

"You're a disgrace," the angel said, the voice a deafening hush.

"Not enough of one!" Lucifer blared back. "But soon I will be! Soon I'll show you disgrace!" The concussion of the Morning Star's words shook the birds out of every tree in the forest. The birds fell dead at once.

The angel maneuvered closer and cast a hateful glance at the Oni. Then came the strangest grinding sound. The Oni shuddered, and turned into black-flecked salt. A moment later, it collapsed to a pile of granules.

"Do that to me!" Lucifer yelled upward.

The angel just glowered back at him.

"You can't! It's because you cant!"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Better for you to fester in your infinity."

"I adore my infinity! You're jealous of it!"

A rabble rose aside. "An angel!" a voice cried out. "An angel's come to bless us!" and several villagers straggled out of their homes into the street. Two men hauling a death-cart stopped, looking up. They all stared up at the angel.

One woman held a dying child in her arms, her smudged face shiny with tears. "Help my daughter, I beg of thee," she wept up to the angel.

The angel smiled in spite of the distress on its incalculable face. "Your daughter will live to be a hundred," it said softly.

The child squirmed in the mother's arms, dropped to her feet, and scampered off, laughing, clean. The woman fell to her knees before the angel's great shadow. All the villagers in the street were staring up.

"It's G.o.d," someone whispered.

Lucifer gagged, ran out, pointing. "That thing is not G.o.d!" he roared. Houses shook. "I'm more of a G.o.d than that!" Lucifer's eyes brightened in their hatred, or was it really just despair kept hidden for millennia? He challenged the angel: "Heal them all! Make them all clean-all of them! Heal the continent!"

"Heal us, G.o.d-"

"Save us from the plague-"

"We believe in you..."

The angel's aura lost some of its l.u.s.ter. Was it crying? "I'm not allowed. But you will all be saved, through your faith in the Almighty Father..."

"Bulls.h.i.t!" Lucifer raved, still pointing up. "That thing can't heal you! If G.o.d's so powerful, so benevolent, how is it that He even let this happen? Answer me that!" Then Lucifer rushed forward-"Watch me!"-and approached the death-cart. He looked at it and shouted, "Get up!" and the dying were restored and the dead came back to life. He looked at the crowd, and at the many more pouring out onto the street, and he shouted at them, "You're ALL HEALED!" and their festering bubos all disappeared, their infections were cleansed, their eyes cleared of hemorrhage.

"Worship me," Lucifer beseeched them. They all circled around him and fell to their knees. He held out his hands of light. "This entire town is healed..."

"Deceiver. Light of the Morning, you're weakest in your darkness," the angel spoke. "I can't wait to watch you burn for a thousand years."

Lucifer smiled up at the ent.i.ty, yes, a smile just like Christ's as He prepared to begin his Sermon on the Mount. "f.u.c.k you," Lucifer said.

The angel was flying away.

He should feel victorious, shouldn't he? Lucifer felt crushed. With the angel gone, his pride felt useless. There was no one to show off for. He pushed through the throng of his new followers, ignoring their praise, not even seeing them, and he staggered to the pile of salt that had once been the Oni. The stone, he thought, the stone. He mustn't forget the stone. He dug through the salt and found it at the bottom. It was tiny, smaller than a marble, and pure white, perfect white. From the pouch on his belt he withdrew a pinch of Enguerraud Dust-a cosmic emetic agent-and placed it on his tongue. In a moment, he vomited into his hand, and the instant the second White Stone was out of his belly, Lucifer opened his eyes- Take me back...

-and found himself standing in the great Scarlet Hall, before the open balcony at the 666th floor of the Mephis...o...b..ilding in the heart of downtown h.e.l.l.

"Welcome back, my lord."

Sherman, with his elongated cranial transfigurations and implanted horns, stood timidly in black hexated armor. His pinkened face seemed to burn above the same beard he'd stroked while watching his troops, upon his order, rape and kill everything that moved in a city called Atlanta. "We were concerned."

Lucifer didn't hear him, didn't care what he had to say. He sat down on the throne of pure quartz, looked out into the crimson sky. "Lord of Darkness, what a joke," he sputtered and sighed. A lack of self-esteem was not his element. He felt puny and weak.

"Did you say something, my lord?"

Lucifer stared. I don't want to be the Lord of Darkness. I want to be the Living Lord of the World. A mile in the distance and down, he could see the ill-colored surface of the Lake of Great Mistakes, where he'd scored his greatest victory against an army of anti-luciferic insurgents, reducing them all to putrefaction with one viral spell. It was not water which filled the lake, but pus. Gazing out now at this achievement, the man in the crystal throne should've felt contentment.

But he didn't.

"My lord," Sherman said, "you're disconsolate. What can I do to allay your despair?"

"Go down and out and have yourself quartered in the Square, where I can see."

Sherman turned to leave.

"Stop." Lucifer put his head in his hand. Can't anybody take a joke? They do anything I say because I have willed them to do so. Is that really power?

No.

"Shall I order 50,000 Imps to be summarily drowned in the lake, my lord? Perhaps that would improve your spirits."

The idea sounded tantalizing but even the monarch of all of h.e.l.l had to be sensible. "We need them for the Atrocidome-for the next Merge."

"Of course."

He handed Sherman the two White Stones, whereupon the general gave them to an underling demon dressed in a cloak of flensed skin. The stones were then locked up in a Psychic Vault. Lucifer looked at Sherman, almost as one would look to a friend-even though Satan had no friends.

"I want power, General. I want what I've deserved for eons."

"You shall have it, my lord. Soon. And I have good news."

Lucifer's eyes widened in black light.

"While you were away, the Unholy Bearers arrived, just moments ago."

Was it hope that flared in the First Fallen Angel's heart?

"The Merge is done?"

"Yes."

"Was it successful?"

"As your Mancers swore, my lord. It was more than a success. It was a triumph."

Lucifer was shaking. "And Zeihl is-"

"Dead by his own hand, Lord Lucifer, as he too swore."

Cloaked and hooded Levitators advanced into the room at Sherman's beckoning. They'd cut off their own feet upon their own ordinations from the Conditioning Academy. They floated across the onyx tile, a scuffed container like a small suitcase floating behind them. Red lights blinked on the edge of the suitcase, an electronic lock.

"Such technology," Lucifer remarked.

A Fourth Level Biowizard garbed in white stepped forward. "Open it," Sherman ordered. The Sorcerer merely looked at the case's sophisticated lock mechanism. The light went out. The case opened.

Please, please, Lucifer pleaded.

"Zeihl is a hero to history," Sherman uttered. "He's made the ultimate sacrifice, for your glory, my lord..."

Yes. And better him than me, the Morning Star thought. He'd promised his most loyal Fallen Angel that he'd never forget him, and with that promise, now, Lucifer would forget him forever.

Lucifer rose, levitating himself in his bridled joy, when he looked into the case ...

(III).

Walter awoke about 10 p.m. He felt sh.e.l.lacked in sweat, and exhausted from the evil dream. He'd slept all day, hadn't he? After seeing that man get killed by the drunk driver yesterday, and the continuously grim revelations about Candice, his mind and body had shut down. He'd missed some cla.s.ses but didn't care. I'll be dead tomorrow so what's the big deal? By now, yes, he was certain. Without Candice, there was no reason to go on living.

But he at least had hoped that the long sleep would leave him feeling better, if only topically. Instead, he felt devitalized, drained. He struggled out of bed and took his iron pill, but they never really made him feel better either. He thought that eating something might help but he knew that if he did he'd just throw up.

An accidental glance in the mirror showed him a skinny, dorky eighteen-year-old, with dark circles under his eyes and clown-orange hair sticking up. Skin pale as vanilla ice cream. Slack Fruit of the Looms hanging off his bony hips.

"Yeah, you're a real prize," he said to the reflection.

The message light was blinking on his answering machine. Not really caring, he pushed the PLAY b.u.t.ton.

"Hey, Walter, it's me, Colin. Haven't heard from you in a while so I thought I'd give a call. Just wanna make sure my Buddy-bro is okay-"

Please, Walter begged the fates, please don't say anything about Candice- "Hope you're not still boo-hooing over that pea-brained hose-bag jock-f.u.c.king blond b.i.t.c.h. Forget about her, man. s.h.i.t, I just saw her blowing some guy behind the bleachers at the baseball game. Gimme a call, Buddy-bro."

BEEP.

The next message: A voice he didn't recognize, some guy's voice. "Hey, geek, listen to this, I recorded it last time I was giving it to her," and then he heard a switch pop, someone no doubt pushing the play b.u.t.ton on a tape recorder. First the faintest hiss, then a steadily rising crescendo of moans and shrieks. It was clearly a woman in the throes of o.r.g.a.s.mic bliss.

Walter knew at once that it was Candice.

Must have been one of the jocks, Walter reasoned. Why would somebody do that, something that cruel? he wanted to ask himself. But he didn't bother. People were cruel, that's why. Candice was cruel. Reality had set its teeth now. He knew. All Candice cared about was having s.e.x with as many empty-headed college sports stars as possible. Never mind how he felt. Never mind that Walter was the only one who truly loved her.

His despair was growing vibrant, it made the hairs on his arms shiver, like static. He eyed the shotgun in the corner, then eyed the framed picture of Candice which he'd propped up on his study desk. There was also a picture of Colin on the wall and he supposed a good thing to do would be to see his brother one last time before he did the deed, but he couldn't contemplate that. He didn't want to see his brother ever again because there'd just be more wisecracks about Candice. Next he spied one of his textbooks lying opened on the bed, Measurements of Sheer Viscosity: Principles of Fluid Dynamics. Quite unlike him to be impulsive and disrespectful, Walter peed hard on the open book. What did it matter?

His appet.i.te remained non-existent yet he left the dorm anyway, and headed for the Student Union snack bar. A last meal seemed appropriate, even conventional, and Walter was certainly a young man devoted to convention. It was late now, the mixer parties could be heard from afar. Parties that Walter never had been and never would be invited to. He trudged on through the night, along the curving sidewalk lit on one side by the lights from the undergrad library, dark on the other. Walter took intermittent glances over into the dark side ... and swore he saw things. Shapes. Figures that seemed to be following him, that seemed to be smiling, drifting along, but when he strained his eyes he saw no figures.

The snack bar raved in fluorescent light; Walter shielded his eyes. Why would he not like the light all of a sudden? Given his mood, perhaps, and the foreknowledge of what he'd be doing to himself in a little while, darkness seemed more fitting. He'd have to remind himself to turn off all the lights in his dorm, later, when he put the barrel of the Remington to his forehead. Yes, the darkness seemed more fitting. The darkness would comfort him.

"What do you want?" the heavyset, hair-netted woman behind the counter asked testily.

I want Candice, he thought.

"Come on, kid, do I look like I got all night?" she sniped.

She seemed in a hurry but when Walter looked behind him he saw that no one else was in line. Why was she being mean to him? Suddenly he wanted to drown her in the vat of steaming chili sauce, just dunk her head in and hold it down. He wanted to stick up for himself for once, at least snap back with a retort, like: "Grow a d.i.c.k and blow yourself, Aunt Beau," or "Why don't you bend over and pound those chili dogs up your fat a.s.s?" But all Walter said in response was, "Sorry, miss. I'd like one chili dog please, and a Mountain Dew."

She smirked and sloppily prepared his order which he then paid for and took to a table. The snack bar's seating area was empty save for one couple, a guy and a girl, obviously late-night studiers. Walter looked wide-eyed at them as they smiled happily at each other and began kissing.

Walter looked back down at his dog; it was the only company he was due tonight. "The last meal of the doomed man," he droned to himself. At least the chili dogs were pretty good here. He picked it up-some sauce dribbled off the sides-prepared to take the first bite. Walter didn't notice that the shadow pooled around his feet was moving independently but why, after all, would he notice that?

The first two bites were good. On the third bite, however, his eyes flicked to the plate-gla.s.s window that formed the front wall of the snack bar and he saw two people walking by, a guy and a girl. They were holding hands.

Then they stopped.

They were kissing.

The third bite fell out of Walter's mouth.

It was Candice and some football player in a letterman jacket.

Walter was tempted to curse G.o.d. Was there no peace? Not even in the last moments of his life? Why couldn't fate leave him alone in this waning hour? Why was G.o.d grabbing him by the back of the hair to give his face one last rub in the pile of sad c.r.a.p that was his life?

She was wearing a lavender tank top that only accentuated her 38DD bosom. Also a short, tight denim skirt from which her long tan Brooke Burke legs emerged to end on stiletto heels. Her waist-long blond hair shimmered as she and the letterman kissed more ravenously, clenching. Walter watched through the dark pane, to behold the guy's hand plow up under the back-side of her skirt. Candice's hand was occupied as well, foraging around the guy's crotch. Yeah, I need to see this, Walter thought. If he had the shotgun now-right now-what would he do?

Kill them too?

Hmm...