Chapter 14 – May 2026

Lamia

I gotta say, I was on a high last night after the light show with the Chrysolite, which then turned into a real low because of the waterworks from Nuriel’s bud, Anahita. I’d forgotten that her special affinity was with water.

She’d been around a lot of years. Well, since nearly the dawn of time, obviously, but she’d made herself known to the Persians as the divinity of the waters, and was associated with fertility, healing and wisdom, yada yada yada. I guess the ancient ones often mistook an angel for a goddess. It happens more often than you’d think. But I’d never given her much credit because I’d always thought she was so wet.

Teehee! See what I did there?

It never occurred to me that she’d come out swinging to protect poor ole now-he’s-human Nuriel. But the way she dealt with the Chrysolite warrior has gotten me thinking: this smack-down of the holier-than-thou angelic host might not be as easy as I’d thought. If just one angel who dresses like a nun on summer vacation can sweep away a warrior angel in a flood like that, I think that I might have been a tad optimistic about being able to kick off the Apocalypse.

Which was why I didn’t feel like going back to the dumb high school party right awa.: I had things to think about. So, I sat outside and watched the stars, brooding about everything that had happened instead of mixing it up at the Blizard Ball and sowing unrest, envy and misery, as usual.

So, when the Managing Director paged me to come down for a meeting, I kinda knew that I was in going to be in hot water—and I mean that literally. Have you heard of the eighth circle of Hell? Dante described the barrels of boiling tar pretty well:

‘I beheld it marvellously dark.

As in the arsenal of the Venetians

Boils in the winter the tenacious pitch

To smear their unsound vessels o’er again.’

Although, if I’m honest (which I prefer not to be, obvs), Milton’s Paradise Lost has the edge.

‘The dismal situation waste and wild,
A dungeon horrible, on all sides round
As one great furnace flamed, yet from those flames
No light, but rather darkness visible
Served only to discover sights of woe,
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace 
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all; but torture without end.’

Or as I call it, home, sweet home.

But that’s beside the point. I suspected that the MD was going to revoke my permit to roam Earth, downgrade me from my hard-earned Grade 2 Minion position, and possibly flay me, boil me in hot tar, and send me back to my desk job in Hell’s Call Center for the rest of eternity. It’s hard to choose which would be the worst punishment.

Nah, definitely the Call Center.

You know, there are quite a few Gateways to Hell all over the world, also known as Boca del Infierno or Hell Mouth. It was so cool that Buffy, the Vampire Slayer was set on a Hell Mouth. Man, I loved that show! I was so bummed when the reboot got cancelled. Oh yeah, I’m looking forward to the day that the studio exec who pulled the plug falls off his perch, and then we’ll get real well acquainted. He just made it personal. And being a minion of the Managing Director, I’m not particularly forgiving.

But I digress. I do that a lot, since I have nothing but infinite time and I’ll be around until the world ends—possibly even beyond that. I’m a little fuzzy on what happens after the Apocalypse.

As I was saying, there are a ton of Hell Mouths all over the world: the Binagadi Asphalt Lake in Azerbaijan; Pitch Lake (not a very imaginative name) in Trinidad and Tobago; Lake Bermudez, Venezuela; Talara Tar Steeps, Peru; and of course, La Brea in Los Angeles, which is the nearest and pretty much a home from home. When I miss the smell of sulfur, it’s my go-to place for a weekend vacation.

‘Los Angeles’—city of the angels—that’s a misnomer if ever there was one. The Tongva people who were there before the Spanish were much smarter: they called it Iyáangẚ which means ‘the valley of smoke’. Yeah, they knew.

The boiling tar bubbles around my ankles pulling me down into the sticky darkness. My Louboutin pumps will be ruined, but I’m not going to turn up barefoot for a meeting with the MD either. I’m not a peasant.

The sound of screaming rings through my ears. Home sweet Hell. It’s comforting. Or perhaps ‘familiar’ describes it more accurately.

I won’t admit it, but I’m actually kinda nervous. I don’t know which way the boss will swing, but I’m 99% sure he’ll be pissed about last night’s shit-show. I know he likes surprises, but only the ones where Hell comes out on top, so to speak.

A Grade 1 Minion meets me at the gateway to the MD’s office. The air is hot, burning hot, and sulfurous clouds of smoke billow from beneath the door.

I cast covetous eyes over the Grade 1 Minion’s snazzy shoes and super-cute outfit.

“Oh, wow! I love your dress!”

I do. I really do. It’s the color of pewter and shot through with a silver thread that glitters in the low light.

“Prada,” she smiles smugly. “Embroidered silk and wool—perfect for a warm environment. Retails for $9,000. It’s not even been seen on the catwalks yet.”

“How did you get it?” I ask enviously.

She laughs, her eyes burning red as long, glossy locks cascade around her horns.

“Connections.”

I want to ask who her supplier is, but bite back the words as she ushers me towards the vast wrought-iron gate, ten stories high.

Heated air blasts from within as the doors swing open with the faintest whisper that sounds like distant moans, and the stronger stench of sulfur catches in my throat, making me cough.

The MD is seated at the head of the long, polished table, with the Anti-Christ on his right hand and the False Prophet on his left.

I must have interrupted a board meeting because there are a number of Grade 3 Minions there and all the senior management, as well. And I’m shocked when I spot my mother, Lilith, among the throng, a smirk lighting her snake-like eyes when she sees me.

To say that we don’t get along would be akin to saying that Hurricane Katrina was a gentle breeze.

I look away from her, instead keeping my gaze on the MD as he sits smoking in silence, then I drop to my knees before him.

“Lord, Prince of Darkness,” I begin nervously. “I prostate myself before you. Um, I mean prostrate, definitely prostrate.”

And I fling myself to the heated flagstones, castigating myself for that embarrassing slip of the tongue.

A heavy silence descends over the room and I hardly dare to breathe. Then I hear a gentle rumble of laughter usher forth.

“I say, Lilith,” the MD begins in a dryly amused voice, “your daughter is quite a card.”

“Indeed, sire,” she replies. “Quite the Joker in the pack.”

My body tenses at her usual spite, dark malice dripping from her blood-red lips.

My mother is the first demon, as in The First. She’s as dangerous as she is beautiful, as impressive as she is lethal. We hated each other from the moment she spawned me: loathing at first sight. I’ve always tried to live up to her—I mean down to her—but trying to match perfect evil isn’t a walk in the park, I can tell you.

“Oh, do get up off the floor, Lamia,” Satan sighs. “You’re giving me a crick in my neck.”

“Thank you, my Dark Prince,” I stutter, shuffling to my knees, then standing up cautiously.

He’s still smoking as he peers down at me, wreathes of smoky spirits wheeling and spinning around him.

A raven caws loudly making me jump.

That sign of my shot nerves isn’t missed, and the senior management all cackle at my obvious discomfort.

Satan raises his bejeweled hand and strokes the bird’s black plumage as it caws again.

“Thank you, Morrigan,” he says to the raven. “You have been very helpful and I will not forget this. You may leave us now.”

The bird caws for a third time, circles the room once, growing higher and higher, then vanishes from sight.

I’m even more uneasy now that I know the raven is Morrigan the White, a warrior from an ancient Celtic clan; goddess of battle, fate, and prophecy, choosing which soldiers will die on the battlefield, sometimes appearing to witness the destruction … and sometimes to cause it. But she is not a minion of Satan—in fact, she is a guardian of the land and its people.

I have absolutely no idea what she’s been doing here.

“Lamia,” says Satan, peering at me as if he’s short-sighted. “Come closer.”

I swallow hard and take tentative footsteps towards him. I love my Louboutins, but I cringe at the sound of my heels ringing on the flagstones. I try to straighten my back, but the closer I get to the Dark Prince, the hotter it gets and I’m struggling to breathe.

“Damien, would you mind?”

The Anti-Christ stands immediately, gracefully, and offering me his chair.

Satan waves his hand, candle light glinting from the diamonds that adorn his fingers, a gesture of thanks or possibly dismissal—it’s hard to tell, and the Dark Prince is impossible to predict.

I don’t know if this is a good omen or a bad one, but I have no choice in the matter.

I force a smile, trying to hide my nerves and take the seat. I’m glad to sit down because my knees are shaking so badly.

I know that I’ve failed to hide my fear, but as the saying goes, ‘You’ve failed: congratulations, because most people don’t try’.

I have no idea what’s going to happen here.

“Well now, Lamia,” says Satan, crossing his legs and appraising me as a snake might appraise a mouse. “A little bird tells me that we have a problem.” He leans closer, his crimson eyes swimming in blood. “And you are that problem.”

“I … I’m sorry, My Lord,” I grovel. “I don’t know what I did to cause your displeasure.”

His eyes narrow and his gaze burns me. The flesh on my left hand starts to sizzle, but I know it’s a test, so I try not to move as the smell of cooking meat fills the room.

“You don’t know?” my mother hisses at me, her forked tongue dripping disdain.

“No!” I snarl. “I don’t.”

“So, you didn’t make a deal with the Chrysolite angels?” Satan asks, one eyebrow raised as my right hand starts to sizzle as loudly as the left.

“Yes, I did make a deal!” I whimper against the pain. “The Chrysolites hate humans even more than we do, and they’re going to clear the Earth of the pestilence of people. They’re totally on board with starting the Apocalypse.”

My eyes water with the pain of my cooking hands, but suddenly the burning stops, and I force my eyes open as Satan stares at me, his head cocked on one side in puzzlement.

“Explain,” he commands.

So, I tell him about the bet I made with Nuriel and how I tricked him, which made God mad and how he sent Nuriel to live on Earth for one human year. And I tell him about how I’ve been messing with Nuriel and making his life a living hell at high school, besetting him with every mortal sin and the seven deadly sins, and realizing that I was onto a winner with his carnal lust for the human Esther.

That makes Satan smile and the rest of the unholy throng of senior management laugh quietly in the background.

“But that seemed like kind of small stuff in the grand scheme of things,” I admit. “So, I started to think outside the box.”

I clear my throat, wishing that I could have something to drink to cool the burning, but instead, I keep going.

“Well, one night, I was watching The Godfather, and there’s that scene where Michael Corleone says, ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer’…”

Satan grins, showing off his sharp teeth.

“Marvellous movie. It made me a lot of money. In fact, you might say that I made a killing.”

The senior management again laugh loudly. Ass-licking sycophants. Damn, I’d love to be one, sitting at the big table in the Number One Boardroom.

Satan could be joking about the movie, but then again…

“Uh, yeah, great m-movie,” I stammer. “And it got me thinking that if there’s going to be an Apocalypse, it would only work if it was inside job.”

Satan’s head whips towards me, sparks shooting from his eyes and setting fire to the tablecloth.

Everyone jumps backwards away from the flames that engulf the room. But I can’t move, because Satan’s hand grips mine, his talons digging into my flesh.

“Are you saying that I, Lucifer, need help to start an Apocalypse?”

I want to say, Yeah, dude, ‘cos last time, God kicked your ass down to Hell, and the angelic host whipped your butt.

Of course, I don’t say that because I like my arm attached to my shoulder.

“I j-just thought that the Chrysolites could, um, do all the heavy lifting. You know, do the grunt work.”

For a second, I think it’s back to the call center for me, minus an arm, but then he lets me go and leans back on his throne.

“So, your plan, Lamia, is to have the Chrysolites bring forth the Apocalypse which will wipe out the plague of humanity and end the Earth. Do I have that right?”

“Uh… yes, My Lord?”

“And then what, Lamia?”

I blink rapidly.

“Excuse me?”

“And then what?” he repeats, his foul breath blowing over my face.

I don’t know what or who he’s been eating, but the Dark Dude shoulda flossed.

“Uh, well, then the world would end?” I offer meekly.

He nods slowly.

“Exactly. The world would end. And then what?”

“Uh … nothing?”

I hear the hesitancy in my own voice and hate it.

He taps his talons on the table impatiently.

“Remind me how old you are, Lamia?”

“Nearly 5,000 years old, sire.”

He sniffs loudly.

“A mere child. Well, let me ask you this, Lamia: do you have any idea how boring it is to have nothing, to do nothing, to be nothing? Have you any idea how utterly tedious un-life would be after the Apocalypse? No more souls to burn in tar for eternity; no more humans to entice with greed, envy and gluttony.” His expression darkens. “Just a whole damn lot of nothing!”

“I’m so, so sorry!” I stutter. “I thought an Apocalypse would be fun!”

A smile cracks his stormy face.

“Ah, the folly of youth. Yes, I remember when I thought the same thing once upon a time.”

He leans closer.

“But an Apocalypse would not be fun. Because afterwards, it would be very, very boring. Well, Lamia, you started this Apocalypse so now I want you to stop it. Stop the Chrysolites.”

I try to wet my cracked lips, but my tongue is as dry as a piece of old bacon.

“I don’t know how to stop the Chrysolites, sire,” I whisper, my voice trembling.

He looks at me for a very long time, then he smiles.

“You make another deal,” he says.

“Uh … with the Chrysolites? I’m not sure they’d listen to me…”

“No, you idiot,” he sighs. “You make a new bet with Nuriel. You make him stop the Apocalypse. And get that tiresome friend of his, Anahita, to help him.”

My mouth drops open.

“But … but how?” I gasp.

The Dark Prince, my Managing Director, leans back against his throne of onyx and gold.

“That, my dear Lamia, is your problem.”

Oh, shit.