Angel's Demon

5. Conversions

5. Conversions

Four hundred and twenty-seven people were crammed into two large, dark, and damp holding cells in the bowels of hell. One person had a cell to himself — the man of God. Asmodeus couldn’t stand the stench of him, and knew the other mortals would stink of him as well, unless they were segregated. Remove the smell and take away hope to make them ripe for converting.

Eighty-four of the passengers were given to the lesser demons to play with, and of the rest, two or three of them would be taken away every few days, never to return. Some lived, some died, none escaped.

Asmodeus cursed the mortal who had managed to elude him. He had not anticipated that his command would not be heard by all. Next time, if there was a next time, the command would be sent directly to their puny minds, an inner dialogue they could not avoid. It would be as if they were giving the command themselves. He laughed to himself. He was thousands of years old, and still had a lot of learn. Knowledge was a powerful weapon that could be used to destroy nations, if wielded by the right hands — his hands.

The smell of fetid, unwashed bodies assailed his nostrils long before he reached the place they were being kept. After months of effort, a third of those he had to work with had been converted and a dozen died. So far none of them was what he was looking for. Asmodeus was growing impatient. He didn’t want to spend all of eternity trying to find an earth-bound angel. The harlot was a thorn in his side, working its way deeper into his body. It tormented him ceaselessly, a putrid sore, festering away. He wanted her dead. He wanted to erase all evidence of her existence, and he could not wait forever to do so. The rage was getting harder to contain, and that itself posed a danger.

Lost in his thoughts, Asmodeus almost walked past the holding cells. He cursed himself silently for the lapse in concentration. It was all her fault.

“Six today,” Asmodeus told the demon who was charged with their care. That care was limited to enough food and water for them to survive — no lighting, no slop bucket. “Make sure you hose them down before they’re sent to me. Mortals stink enough as it is without the added stench of s**t and piss clinging to them like a pauper’s cloak.”

The demon grunted in acknowledgement of the orders he had been given. Asmodeus turned to walk away, then stopped. He turned back to the demon. “On second thoughts, give me one now. You can have the others delivered after they’re clean.”

The demon unclipped a large keyring from his belt and sorted through the keys until he found the one he wanted. Asmodeus, who was not known for his patience, clicked his fingers. The door creaked and opened slightly.

“Get me one, now,” he bellowed.

The demon hurried into the cell, grabbing the first mortal his meaty fists touched. His hand closed around a thin arm that lacked any muscle definition — a weakling. The demon wondered why Asmodeus was interested in trying to convert a mortal who was not likely to survive the process. Even if they did survive, they could do no more than whisper in ears, spreading the seeds of doubt, hatred and discontent.

The mortal — a young woman who appeared to be suffering from some wasting disease — was thrust in front of Asmodeus. He turned his head away from her and sneered. This one was particularly pungent.

Asmodeus walked behind the woman and pushed her roughly in the back. She lost her footing and fell to the floor. He could hear her crying softly.

“Get up and move,” he said, kicking her in the thigh to emphasise that he would brook no nonsense.

The woman wailed a little louder and rubbed her leg before slowly getting to her feet. Every fibre of her being was telling her to run, but to where? They were trapped down here, wherever here was. That man, the religious one who was in the cell next to where they were being kept, had told them to have faith and pray to God. He’d said that God would answer their prayers. She looked in to the eyes of the vile man — she didn’t know his name — who had kicked her. They were cold eyes. She had seen eyes like that once before, on a dead man.

“Please don’t kill me,” she said in a shaky voice. “I’ll do anything you want.”

Asmodeus laughed before replying, “Of course you’ll do anything I want, and if you prove worthy, you won’t die. Now walk, before I change my mind.”

The woman turned around, afraid to have her back to him, but more afraid of what might happen if she didn’t do as he said.

“May the Lord have mercy on my soul,” she whispered, so softly that Asmodeus was not sure of what he’d heard.

“What did you say?” he demanded.

Her mouth was dry. She desperately wanted to swallow her fear and couldn’t. She focused on setting one foot in front of the other, to keep moving. Her heart was beating fast, her hands were clammy, and she thought she was going to throw up.

“I said, May the Lord have mercy on my soul,” she replied, only slightly louder.

Asmodeus took two long strides towards her, turned her around and placed his hands on either side of her head.

“We shall see if He is as merciful as you believe Him to be,” Asmodeus said slowly, through gritted teeth.

Before the woman could reply, he twisted her head sharply until he heard a snap. Almost immediately he regretted what he’d done. Once again he had let his anger get the better of him. What if she had been the one he’d been searching for? He had frittered her life away, purely because she had been poisoned into believing in a gracious God. He should have known better. He could have shown her the truth of it all, which was proving to be a useful tool during conversions. If that old demon Rahab could see him now, he would shake his head and call him impetuous.

“Six,” Asmodeus yelled to the guard behind him. “I still need six, and be quick about it.”

Asmodeus headed towards the heart of the Pleasure Dome. He would wait in one of the inquisitorial chambers for the delivery of the freshly cleaned mortals. He knew they didn’t stay clean for long. Once conversion commenced, the evacuation of bowels was quick to follow.

Inside his chamber of choice, the tools used during a conversion had already been laid out neatly on a table for him, near the chair the mortal would be restrained in. There was never a shortage of grovelling lesser demons to prep the chamber for him. Everyone had an agenda down here, and if those beneath him thought they would benefit from being his lapdog, who was he to discourage them?

Asmodeus checked each of the instruments for sharpness and cleanliness. He would tolerate much if the equipment he employed was sharp and clean. Of course, at the end of a hard day’s work, they would need to be cleaned and sharpened again. His minions would see to that, as well as cleaning the blood, s**t and piss that inevitably fouled his workplace.

Out of place in a room purpose-built for torture was a plush, crimson-red, velvet divan. It was placed against the wall, to the left of the only door. When the door opened, whomever entered the room would not know if anyone was reclining on the divan. Indeed, if it was the first time they’d visited the room, they wouldn’t even know it was there. Until they closed the door, or entered the room far enough to see it from the corner of an eye, it was hidden from view.

Asmodeus sighed and walked over to the divan. He lay down on it and closed his eyes. There would be little time for rest once the mortals had been delivered to him. Now was as good a time as any to take a breather and meditate on what needed to be done. Conversion was a fine art, that required great skill. Many potentials had died while Asmodeus learned, then perfected, the art of conversion. Now only a handful died, and those were usually too weak to survive the process to begin with. That didn’t stop Asmodeus from trying. He liked the challenge.

When the door opened, and a mortal was brought into the room, Asmodeus was feeling well-rested. He had forgotten all about the woman who had provoked his wrath.

Another woman, though this one seemed feisty. She struggled against her bonds, her mouth pursed and a look of grim determination on her face. If she was going to die, she would die fighting.

Asmodeus stood up, took a deep breath, and cracked his knuckles. The sound echoed eerily around the room.

“I do not wish to hurt you,” Asmodeus began. It was part of a speech he had polished and refined over the years. He used it to lay the blame of what he was about to do squarely on the shoulders of the mortal he was about to torture.

“f**k you,” the woman spat back at him. She wasn’t having any of it.

“Come now, do you think I would waste my precious time doing this?” Asmodeus picked up what appeared to be an ordinary boning knife that had several micro fractures along the edge of the blade. He looked at the blade admiringly, before pressing a small button at the end of the handle. The knife opened along the micro fractures, revealing metallic teeth. These were designed to cause more damage once the blade was embedded in warm, living flesh.

“I’m not afraid to die,” the woman said, head held high.

Asmodeus laughed, “But are you afraid of living in pain?”

The woman swallowed reflexively. Asmodeus could smell the fear begin to take hold. Fear worked in his favour. Those who were afraid were more likely to comply. He would continue down this path until this woman’s fear was at fever pitch. Then he would strike.

“Tell me, when you were young, and thought you were in love, did you carve the name of your lover into your arm, to show them how much you cared?”

“No,” the woman replied. “That’s sick.”

“Believe me, you’ll be begging me to carve my name into your arm by the time we’re done. Be thankful my name isn’t Neomniaspheaim.”

“Or knob guzzler,” the woman whispered between clenched teeth.

Asmodeus smiled and placed the knife back on the table. He walked over to the divan and slowly undressed, carefully folding up each item of clothing before placing them in a pile on the divan. His eyes remained focused on the woman, whose face was no longer red with anger and bluff, but pale as alabaster.

“Perhaps you shall carve that in your arm yourself, so all will know that you are happy to render services that are much desired here.”

The woman struggled wildly against her restraints, the ropes biting into her wrists and ankles.

“Do I frighten you that much, or is it the thought of what I might do to you, naked as I am?” Asmodeus laughed again. He was quite enjoying himself. He had to focus though, lest his body decide he should enjoy the feel of her flesh surrounding his. He would rape her, as was his due, when the time was right. After all, he would not be a slave to his work. Pleasure, his pleasure, was part of the reward for all his effort.

The woman closed her eyes and began to chant something under her breath. Asmodeus moved closer so that he could hear what she was saying. It was … a curse. The woman was a witch. Perhaps she was the one he was seeking.

“You do realise where you are?” Asmodeus asked. The woman continued to weave the curse she wanted to place upon him. “I asked you a question, and you will answer.”

Asmodeus picked up the closest knife and slashed the flesh above her right breast. It was a long, shallow cut, that stung, causing the woman to gasp. She continued to build the intricate curse. Another s***h, this time across her left cheek.

“Asmodeus,” a voice rang out from behind, laughing as it spoke. “You’re clenching your buttocks again.”

He quickly turned around and bowed at Satan, who had entered silently, and was reclining on the divan.

“Does she really think that curse is going to work?”

The woman opened her eyes and looked in the direction of the second voice, her lips continuing to move as she neared completion of the incantation. Satan smiled at her. This should be an easy conversion, as half her soul was already his.

“Would you bless her?” Asmodeus asked.

“Of course,” Satan replied. He did not stand and walk over to the woman. He simply wished himself to be next to her, and he was. A small display of power, but impressive nonetheless. He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. The skin sizzled, blistered and burned, the outline of Satan’s lips visible for all to see.

A flicker of recognition crossed the woman’s face, mixed with the pain of cuts and burns.

“Yes,” Satan said, “it is I whom you sought aid from in the form of the curse you wished to place on Asmodeus.”

The woman’s eyes widened briefly, then she nodded in understanding. She knew exactly where she was, and what would become of her.

“My lord,” she said, “if it can be done without pain, then I submit freely to your will.”

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?” Satan asked. “Would you have me rob Asmodeus of his pleasure?”

“If his pleasure lies with the knife, then yes, I would ask this of you. If his pleasure is to take my flesh, then so be it, I will submit.”

Satan looked to Asmodeus. “Old friend, the choice is yours. I shall not interfere with your conversion, however you decide to proceed. Though from the looks of it, your body has made the decision for you.”

With a flick of his wrist Asmodeus released the woman from her restraints. Kicking the chair out from under her, he grabbed her by the throat and pushed her up against the nearest wall. Satan turned and left the room. He had no wish to watch something he was unable to derive pleasure from himself ... unless he had Helena.

As the door closed behind him, Satan heard the woman scream.