Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Perfection is inherent to the definition of celestial harmonies. They are not sound as such, but rather the platonic ideal of music: a praise song, expressing the joy and gratitude of the angelic host towards the Creator, accompanied by the flawless melody of the spheres.

If there is a downside to the celestial harmonies, it is their tendency to run long. With linear time not yet applying to Heaven, this ought to be a paradox, but at the ninety-thousand-and-one'th perfect verse of praise to the vast and unfathomable nature of the Almighty, one might be forgiven for wishing time existed (if only so it could be fastforwarded through). There is the urge in certain listeners to squirm as if their metaphorical posteriors have gone numb in the equally metaphorical pews.

One of the affected angels already has tendencies towards sauntering in ill-advised directions. When the choirmaster Uriel leads the host into the triumphant ninety-thousand-and-second verse, this angel passes straight through the squirming stage into the incorporeal equivalent of a dramatic eye roll and exaggerated 'are we done yet?' slouch.

"It is getting a bit repetitive, innit?" mutters Ba'al at the angel's left shoulder. Their thought is soft, the equivalent of clearing ones throat politely; except that all of Heaven is currently full with perfectly balanced harmonies. An openly shared thought, devoid of praise or reverence, has the same impact as the sound of a soda can exploding all over a manuscript in a research library.

The as-of-yet unfallen angel wavers beneath the onslaught of silent disdain from their surrounding fellows. It is uncomfortable, even though they mostly agree and they settle for a minimally committal shrug, meant to imply support (to Ba'al) and disdain (to everyone else).

Judging by the soft (and harmonious, even in anger) rustle of wings from the audience, they are only partially successful.

One angel neither disdains nor bothers to appear uncommitted. It is a bright angel, who has listened in silence, sunk deep into its own contemplation. Now, it favours Ba'al with its attention, heedless of offended looks or the attempted peer pressure. Born crowned in starlight and flame, petty things like reputation have never worried this angel and before its regard, the pressure, as if the will of a thousand angels is shaped as easily the Word shapes raw firmanent.

"I was just thinking that myself." The angel's light flows out with its thoughts, giving the whole song a new tint; still gorgeous, but a shade off from harmonious. In response, Uriel's voice rises, crisper and clearer, and the chorus follows, until all is as it ought again. "I think," the bright angel says, "that it could do with a bit more… How to put it?"

A hand manifests from the bright angel, It observes the new limb while another dozen verses flow around them. Satisfied, it then puts its fingers together and –

– snaps –

– piercing Heaven with an everything but ethereal noise. The more impulsive among the angelic ranks gasp. A few cry out in protest, which only serves to spread the disruption wider.

These loud angels end up cowering in shame when Uriel’s eyes rake over them, bright with the flame of judgement. Again, the choir master urges their host, and they step up the intensity of the song until the clarity is edging into painful beauty.

This is all getting a bit heavy, the first angel thinks, and tries to position themselves in a clearly a standoffish way, not too close to Ba'al. They stay like that throughout the ninety-thousand-and-ninth verse.

To itself, the angel admits that the snappy… snap? Yeah, snap, didn't sound that bad. As such.

Certainly wasn't as dismissive as when Barachiel got bored with the efforts of the First Hymn, the traditional introduction performance by new angels. That particular concerto is best described as performed with 'more enthusiasm than skill', but they had… Yes, they had remained silent, but the angel finds it tasteless how Barachiel choose to manifest eyelids and prominently close them all.

No, this snapping sound calls attention to itself, but still connects with the celestial harmonies. Bouncing against their chilly perfection, like the beginning of… A word rises through the angel's consciousness, a concept waiting to emerge in the physical world.

"Like it needs a rhythm."

Thoughtlessly broadcasting their disturbance, they become once more the recipient of angry glares. Being neither very bright nor star-crowned, the angel cringes beneath the focused ire.

But Ba'al elbows them, friendly-like, and the Lightbringer humms in agreement. "Exactly. We could all do with a little more rhythm in our lives."

It makes the disapproval less heavy and the angel settles back into their slouch.

Chapter Text

Humanity had been tooting and hooting something like music, ever since Eve hummed the first lullaby to her child.

Technically, they'd started a few months earlier, but Crawley didn't think Adam's attempt at imitating celestial harmonies deserved the honor of being memorialized. The poor man just didn't understand that he could never, due to the wholy soggy physicality of the human windpipe, even get close to the ethereal tones produced by a chorus of angels praising God's creation.

Their kids had been born fond of noise. They remained so, even after they had grown out of the leaking-and-squealing larval stage.

One of them had spent a lot of time playing in the reeds. After much trial and error, he managed to make a pipe, with which he whistled shrill little tunes.

Another graduated from clapping hands to banging rocks on hollowed pieces of wood. After complaints from her siblings, she'd swapped the rock for sticks, and later she'd moved on to carving wood, instead of settling for what she could find.

At that time, Crawly left the main family to go hang with Cain, who had somehow found an ineffable supply of more people. Stunk of favoritism, it did, but nobody ever listened to Crawly's complaints. When he returned, he was surprised to hear the piper, the banger and their aging parents all make noise together. A chorus, but in no way an angelic one.

Even Adam had acquired an instrument: the deep droning bullroarer, that hummed beneath Eve's song. It was an unsettling thing, reminding Crawly of the beginning of an angel's wrath. Except it reverberated through your body, as if it wished to draw everything down into the Earth, and surely that wasn't celestial?

But what fascinated Crawly was that he couldn't even hear the pale echo of celestial harmonies that Adam had tried to reproduce in Eden. The humans weren't trying for that any more, instead they were making their own tunes.

Once Crawly got used to the roughness of the instruments, he didn't even find it too terrible-sounding any more. Limited, yes, but they were working on it.

Eve's granddaughter became highly skilled at carving hollow logs, and started to add decoration. Another human streak Crawly was growing fond of, this urge to fiddle with anything functional and turn it vain and distracting. Her partner figured out that a piece of stretched hide over the hole opened up entirely new venues of sound and Crawly was delighted to precognize the concept of 'percussive instrument'.

Heaven employed drums only for drilling the celestial army. Gigantic drums, shining like mother-of-pearl, each beat steering a myriad of wings into synchronized manouvers. The noise drawn out from these little hand drums, mortal hands meeting stretched skin, was much warmer and friendlier – and so versatile! In no way did it encourage movement in uniform lines.

In the generations that followed Adam and Eve, Crawly would see them shake, jump and wiggle their bodies in a thousand ways, following a thousand drummers' beats and until a long, long time passed, none of them were straight lines striving for perfection. To Crawly, who had embraced his new snake-like nature, the sinuous swaying of humanity came as naturally as their inclination towards chaos.

As the drums improved, so did the pipes. No longer single-toned reeds, they came in many materials and an array of shapes: long pipes, twinned pipes, curved pipes and early horns. Clearly, blowing air into containers of various sorts was where the future was at.

And what they could do with their voices…

Now and then, Crawly taught Eve's lullaby to another mortal. Just to see how they changed it around, built upon the tune. It was always forgotten again, but that was okay.

He remembered.

Chapter Text

Crawly began his day by basking in the sun. He enjoyed it any which way, but right now Uruk was nominally in its wetter season. Unfortunately for everyone, if any clouds gathered overnight, the sun dispersed them and one more radiant day began while the crops were wilting in the fields. Seeing Crawly so obviously enjoy the weather, easily aroused as much ill-will in total as spending a week corrupting one soul; it was just a bit more portioned out.

Except today. His obnoxious sun-bathing hadn't had the expected effect and there was a distinct flavour of hope in the air. Crawly inquired at his favorite sources for gossip and learned from the neighborhood baker that a pair of traveling priestess-musicians had inspired this change in the mood of the city. Twins, apparently, set to perform outside the temple at sunset.

Allegedly, their holy song could call forth the tears of the Goddess.

Crawly had his doubts; if God could cry, she'd sure never shed tears where anyone could see it. But the humans were very eager for this divine sobfest and it wasn't impossible that one of the soppier angels could be persuaded.

As soon as the hottest hour had passed, those who could abandon their workday gathered at the ziggurat. When the shadows began to lengthen, it seemed all of Uruk was there. Crawly was among the throng, drawing plenty odd looks due to his heavy goatskin cloak and wide-brimmed straw hat. Unlikely as it was, if there was a sudden deluge of divine origins, Crawly did not intend to get caught in the downpour.

Crawly miracled away his cumbersome outherwear as soon as the twin singers entered the raised stage. Yes, Israfil could go wobbly-lipped at a well-harmonized chorus, and Abdiel had shed one (obnoxiously perfect and crystalline) tear when Saturn's rings were spun into being… but they were still angels. Stuck-up purists whose understanding of human nature was caught in the pure or Damned Forever dichotomy.

And while the twins had a whiff of piety, they were mostly drowning in a heavy perfume of human flaws and sins.

The first was full of Pride; not just a feeling of accomplishment, but the rock-hard belief that her own vocal talents made her better than most. On its own, it didn't sufficed for a capital sin. But when she was dismissive of the help and generosity life had shown her, instead attributing beauty, success and skill at bedsport to being chosen by the Goddess? Classic hybris; her kind frequently tripped themselves headfirst into Hell without Crawly's interference.

And then there was her twin sister… They were identical in looks, and according to their memories, equally celebrated for their talents. Despite this, the other twin burned with Envy, and it was a fire that could had devoured a primeval forest.

He dove deeper into her mind, swaying as the impressions flowed into him, ignoring the little pushes from the crowd. They thought him drunk, and perhaps he was.

The second twin was a twisting, seething tangle of self-doubt and bravado. Her desire to improve tottered on the edge of a hollow pit of terror – how she feared that there was nothing real to improve. So many fears that she hid so well, and none was deeper than that it would be revealed to the world that she was useless without her beloved twin.

And that sister? Had no idea. She floated high on her Pride, taking their mutual love for granted.

Delicious.

Crawly watched the local priest introduce the twins and go through the rituals of godbothering; putting expensive herbs on fire, sprinkling some fermented juice around, shaking rattles and so on. The citizens of Uruk waited, sweating in the sinking sun.

The priest raised his hands, calling silence.

The bullroarer's drone opened the concert. Two drummers attacked their instruments with the élan of men who know that their next meal is only as safe as the fickle audience. One of the local priestesses chanted and waved at the smoke from the herbs; the crowd was tense and silent. They'd seen this plenty of times, but now there was a thirsty edge of desperation to the whole proceedings.

The sisters stepped forward and opened their souls.

Never had sins been sung into such beauty,

Crawly had heard Satan spin lies into gold; his own silver tongue spoke temptation into the world and made mortals give away everything just to hear another word. Compared to this song, Crawly thought they were both complete hacks.

No literal or metaphysical soul-opening was actually happening, though Crawly was bowed over enough that he took a moment to check. But, once he picked up his jaw and focused, he saw the air displaced by the movement of their throats and tongues. A flick of his tongue, and he tastef the nervous sweat they extruded and the low-quality oil poured into their hair. Plain old mortals, not possessed by angels or demons.

Only flesh and tension and an entirely human effort, so imperfect and fleeting that they looked to be dying before his eyes…

And yet, their music reached a height Crawly could not recall ever having heard. Not among the sterile ranks of Heaven, not in the sullen chanting at the infernal coronation, and certainly not from other humans.

He staggered before their song, and might have fallen if the man at his side hadn't steadied his arm. The man's Belief tingled uncomfortably, but served to reboot Crawly's stunned brain.

What the twins did was to take their desires, fears and beliefs and somehow bringing all into their voices.

They honestly praised the divine while stewing with mortal failings, virtually overflowing with sin! And it was all for the basest reasons, too: they wanted food in their bellies and the adoration of the crowd. Yet none of their prayer rang false.

And the crowd ate it up, responding with their own faith and sin and a jumbled mass of desire.

Crawly rarely got personally invested in his temptations. He walked to and fro on the Earth, planting doubt or lust or avarice, preferably in souls already well-watered with minor sins. As humanity multiplied, Hell was beginning to specialize: certain demons went after holy men and women before they ripened. Others enjoyed exaggerating the deeds of the wicked.

Crawly was turning his yellow eyes to the movers and shakers on top of the pile. It had started as a mission – corrupt the God-born King, they'd told him, shake the faith of the multitudes. Hell didn't listen when he explained that the multitudes cared more about the corruption in their nearest neighbor, especially if said neighbor owned one more goat.

But it wasn't a bad racket. The pillows were softer, the drinks better and there were indications of some fascinating trickle-down effects. And if he lost some? If it was to inoffensive bloke like the Angel of the Eastern Gate Crawly didn't care enough to be bothered. There was a new sinner born every minute. (Though, if it was to one of the proper tossers from Up There, he wasn't above a little long-term retribution…)

No, Crawly didn't need to be invested to do his job and do it well. But when he heard the twins sing, their flawed humanity twanged against every damned part of him. Carried by their song, his spirit soared.

'I want those women,' Crawly thought.

Not in any lust-fueled way, but with a covetousness that shocked him until he rationalized it – he was a demon, wanting was okay. More than okay, encouraged! This was exactly what Mammon was talking about during those inspirational rallies.

He waited until the insecure twin's breath hitched, then reached out with his will. A light hand; there. He drained the moisture from her throat, making her cough and stumble. Not for long, Crawly by no means wanted to damage her vocal cords, but long enough that the audience noticed. That her sister noticed.

She lost her place, her mind awhirl with mortification, until the shame choked her entirely and she froze.

Her sister's voice rose, a futile attempt to compensate and the crowd stirred. But it took only a tiny nudge from Crawly to increase the volume of her song, and to make the audience ignore the silenced twin, before they were captivated anew. Shen finished the song alone, and the attending priest called for a short break.

In that moment, slitted yellow eyes turned to the sky and willed the clouds. The wind picked up, howling over the raised ziggurat, and all the moisture above the land gathered in Uruk.

Crawly closed his eyes when the first rain fell, a serpentine smile spreading over his face.

Once begun, atmospheric conditions took over and it rained on the rejoicing citizens of Uruk.

It rained, too, on two souls that had been kindled beneath the same heart. Now, there was a gorge between them, and at each side of it, they stood alone, burning in the flames of Envy and Pride.

Chapter Text

"Charon, old chap, how's it hanging? Any fun capsizings lately?"

"Serpent?" The ferryman peered at the demon strutting down the Path of Souls. Wearing a body and clothes of earthly origin, the Serpent was a splash of color against the drab landscape.

Hell was surrounded by nothing at all, but since Humanity first began to make their way to its gates, the nothing had shaped itself according to their expectations. Sharp rocks to cut their feet, high black walls to separate Here from Anywhere But There, Please! and a river of darkness, its waters thick and cold.

Into this landscape souls were drawn by the weight of their sins, pitiful even before they crossed into Hell proper.

Charon had been stationed here since the blood of the first brother trickled down into the river of the underworld, and the last ones who had anything like a spring in their step were the Nephilim. He'd won some bets back then, regarding how long it would take Hell to break the 'men of renown'.

But he had never ferried over the Serpent, though he was a regular visitor to Hell. Charon had seen him, sauntering down the winding staircase that bypassed the whole of outer Hell and landed at the gates of Pandæmonium.

While Charon didn't have access to the latest gossip, he did wonder what it meant that the Serpent took the supply entrance. He'd heard grumblings about a reluctance to rub elbows with the other Fallen. The Serpent came in to report, but otherwise stayed topside. He looked it too: lustrous black cloak with heavy red embroidery that mirrored the intricate braiding in his hair and beard. Had it not been for his aura and self-assured smile, he could have been a mortal.

"Just call me Crowley," the Serpent said with a flash of teeth.

Charon glowered at him. He had never been important, before or after the Fall, but he wasn't some idiot imp. Demons were not on a first-name basis with each other and the Serpent was Satan's main representative on the mortal plane. The invitation smelled fishier than Dagon's office.

The Serpent continued talking, ignoring his glare. "Just not Crawly, okay? It's Crow-ley. Feel free to repeat that around the Communications Dept. Bunch of stubborn imps…"

"That is all you wish to be known as? Titles are very much the rage."

The Serpent cocked his head at him, yellow eyes gleaming with interest. "Oh? You must excuse me, I'm out of the loop up there."

Well - someone even later to the news than he? That was a rarity. "It all began with Prince Beelzebub," he explained, "and then his Unholyness the Leviathan."

"Prince?" The Serpent boggled at him. "We've got royalty in the Underworld now? I mean, beyond Himself. "

"Oh, yes," Charon said with a little more enthusiasm. He stroked his own long beard and tried to summarize the current Infernal hierarchy to the best of his knowledge; it was a complex, ever-evolving mixture of titles, many terribly anachronistic and all but one under constant dispute.

"Himself currently prefers to be styled Emperor," he finished. "It's supposed to become very popular up there in…" Charon hesitated; being entirely Hell-bound, he hadn't ever gotten a feel for this whole 'time' concept. "Weeks?"

"Tad bit longer, I think," the Serpent said, but made no move to rip Charon's head off for the mistake. "My department's working on it and you've heard right. It's gonna be a smash hit."

"What does it mean?"

"Uhh… It's like kings, squared. Great tracts of land involved. Ask the ladies in Strategic Acquisitions for details, they won't shut up about how it will get the soul-mills grinding."

Charon nodded. Yes, the right (or wrong, depending on perspective) king could increase the delivery load from a given area.

"Talking about souls…" The Serpent sidled closer, keeping his hands visible and relaxed. When Charon twitched his wings away, he stopped, his smile going even more oily. "There's a particular one I'm waiting for. Set to land any second now. Would you mind terribly if I took him along?"

"Along where?"

"Oh, into Hell, definitely! That's the whole point. I just want to do it at," he wiggled his hand, "a less official route."

Charon considered for a while. You could trust neither demon nor snake, but… "My job is to bring them across the river," he finally decided. "That's it."

The Serpent did a gesture Charon was thousands of years too early to recognizing as 'finger guns'. "Excellent! Ferry us across, but stop at the beach rather than the big docks and I'll snake in the back door."

"Why?"

"Can you keep a secret?" the Serpent asked.

Curiosity prodded Charon to nod and the Serpent raised his wings to shield them. As if they were confidantes now! This was as fascinating as it was confusing. Like the Serpent's black garment, dyed with ochre instead of the gall of a suicidal soul, he seemed infused with the earthly plane. But instead of cringing like a mortal soul, he moved with a confidence Charon only saw in the Princes and Archdukes. Beings who would never have lowered themselves to converse with the ferryman, or dare expose themselves to the wide open space.

It looked like arrogance of Heaven, except none of the featherbrains up there would have dared think of a scheme like the Serpent's. Apparently, he had handpicked certain souls that he wanted for a project of his own – never consulting the Infernal Bureaucracy, or Satan himself.

Why, he couldn't explain, only saying that the soul currently on its way was a proficient player of 'harps', and that he had reason to believe the whole thing would get up Heaven's nose immensely.

"He's not the first," the Serpent concluded. "But my previous attempts were all wrecked by the louts in the processing department. I've sent memos, but they insist on treating everyone the same. It's literally repeating Heaven's mistakes!"

Charon reared back from such dangerous words, craning his head around to ensure that nobody overheard such sedition spoken near him.

The Serpent hissed at him, fangs lengthening for the first time. "Chill, you idiot. I've told them this, and nobody gives a damn – unfortunately!" Then he explained, with lots of emphathic gestures: Because Heaven treated all the humans the same, irregardless of their circumstances and the reason for their sinning, they lost masses of souls to Hell.

"If we want anything but thoroughly pulped lumps of suffering, we've got to start sorting the sinners better. And we could use some of them; you lot have no idea what humans are capable of, and they're just getting started."

"And you've told this to people?" Charon asked with considerable disbelief.

"Yep. Well, written. I'm pretty sure Dagon's just filed it in the nearest fire-pit… but never mind that, it's not why I'm here now."

The Serpent stroked his beard with a self-satisfied mien while looking at the massive black brick walls. "All I need is to deliver one of these souls without having them go on the rack first, and Himself will back me up. And this harpist! They won't hear his like for centuries." He kissed his fingers. "He's invented music of his own, too, and kept it all in his head. Once Babylon falls, the wankers Upstairs will be very put out to discover nobody wrote the best bits down."

"Because…?"

"Oh, I've got reliable sources saying that Uriel's been itching to get her hands on a decent harpists. Even Heaven's chorus master must get sick of the same plinky-plonky tunes after a thousand years. But she's not getting this one!" He rubbed his hands together and beamed at Charon. "Whaddya say then, Charon, my chummy ferryman? Will you land a little before the docks, just this once?"

There was, in the end, only one question that mattered to a demon. "What's in it for me?"

The Serpent didn't smile like a snake; he smiled in a way that would've had the Concept Designer of Snakes go weak in the knees and demand a bit of a lie-down. "One can't help but see that you're somewhat lacking in, call it immaterial comforts? No serving imps, no fancy captain's hats or big imposing staves of office, eh?"

Charon's eyes took on a bit of demonic glow of their own. Just because nobody thought him worthy of servants, there was no need to be rude about it.

"My friend," the Serpent said, "have you ever heard of a waterway toll?"

Hell, a little later

Crowley smoothly prostrated himself before Satan, the Morningstar, Tempter of Men^[1], Emperor of Hell, King of this World, the Greatest Adversary, Leader of the Rebellion, First of the Fallen and Source of All Evil.

There were many advantages in having a highly flexible spine and joint situation going on. Nothing like a visit to Hell to make him graceful for the quirk of un-nature that let him go from a disrespectful slouch to worshipfully flat on his belly without any awkward balancing issues.

He felt those quicksilver eyes rake over him, and pressed his face into the bone mosaic. Satan was one of the few in Hell who could entirely take on his angelic form, though it pleased him to wear a number of monstrous guises as well. Right now, he was a very tall man with silver flame burning within his skin and shining from his eyes, crowned with sharp spikes of gold. His throne was made of obsidian glass with a hundred sharp edges; gazing at it too long would cut any watcher.

Before Satan's throne lay a narrow courtyard, where diffuse shadows danced over mosaics of trampled bone. High, claustrophobic walls leaned inwards, pushing at the demons crowded there. The court of Hell: sharp-taloned, treacherous and eternally hungry.

Crowley despised the whole sodding lot of them, but he'd tried diplomacy from a distance for almost two thousand years without result. Sometimes, you just had to crawl on your belly.

Satan's voice was the greatest change since the old times. Where Lucifer's voice had been beautiful beyond compare, every word spoken ringing as struck from a bell of divine metal, it had deepened into a Hellish rumble. He could borrow voices to disguise himself, but Crowley along with all the Fallen, were twice bound to it: they must hear the truth of him, now that it was too late, while also bow and obey his every command.

"Rise, my serpent. You rarely seek my presence."

"I live to serve, oh Lord," Crowley said, false modesty dripping off every syllable. He raised his upper body just a hand above the ground. "Thy will is my will, and the Great Cause my all-consuming mission. And, just between you and me, boss, I think we know I'm much better placed among the fruit orchards than mucking about in post-processing."

If his heart hadn't stopped when he stepped off Charon's ferry, it would definitely have frozen solid while Crowley waited for Satan's response.

The response came, the laughter Crowley had risked grievous insult to hear.

Lucifer's mirth was terrible these days, the sound rumbling through Pandæmonium and quaking the pillars of the Earth. The humans would feel repercussions for weeks and Crowley's Hell-forged body creaked and hurt right along with the world.

But he'd caused Satan to laugh. In front of the jealous bigwigs of Hell. A reminder that, low of standing as he was, the Serpent of Eden still held favour with the one being nobody dared to mess with.

He only hoped the rest of his scheme paid off as well.

"So self-satisfied, little snake… Why ask for my audience today?"

"I come bearing gifts, my Lord. A soul, but not a common one. I've cultivated this one personally, for your entertainment and dark delight."

One of the current favorites – according to Charon's intel, at least – was Duke Marchosias, currently wearing the shape of a giant winged wolf with foaming green acid dripping from her fangs. She growled at Crowley now, a rumble that echoed through the room. Satan gestured, casting bright-cold shadows. Marchosias marched to the center of the throne room and knelt next to Crowley. Sensing a minute shift in the atmosphere, she then continued to lie on her belly, wings flat on the floor.

Not half as smooth as he'd been, Crowley comforted himself; there were downsides to having six limbs and razer spikes along your spine.

"The temerity of this worm is insult worthy of punishment!" she began. It only got worse. Crowley was a sniveling coward with one lucky strike behind him; he'd implied that they were equals; he had no minions to do his dirty work and was only here to beg for some. And so on and so on.

Crowley tuned her out in favour of paying extreme attention to his Lord and Master's mood, employing all the senses his body and spirit came equipped with. And he wasn't the only one bored with Marchosias ranting – there, that was a minute tensing of his calves, and did that flicker meant that he'd rustled his wings?

A moment later, the great bright wings snapped open. Crowley discovered that if he really tried, he could press his lower body one smidge deeper into the ground.

Duke Marchosias apparently had some withered remains of smarts left and shut her fanged mouth at once.

Crowley dared hope that she'd annoyed the boss into a quick and painful booting from the proceedings, but instead Satan's focus moved to him.

"Why this gift?"

Oh, tricky one. Crowley wasn't entirely sure why himself, but…

He dared look up and meet Satan's eyes, which he hadn't since the post-Garden debriefing. It felt like being flayed alive and then rolled in hot gravel, and the words were drawn from Crowley faster than his mind could keep up. "Heaven doesn't deserve this one, oh Lord. She wouldn't have gone there one way or another, I don't think, and if she did they'd waste her. But we would equally waste her in the torture chambers of Hell." Those eyes burned like glacier ice, fuck, fuck, fuuuuck. "It's not her sins, Lord, they're just run of the mill stuff. Bit of Pride, little Gluttony, and a dab hand with poison, but there's much more interesting sins. No, it, it's this little human detail. They're inventing loads of stuff, and some of it is… Look, I know all the original concepts were blueprinted way back in the beginning." Even this mild reference to Heaven drew a shocked whisper from around them. Crowley would have rolled his eyes, if he didn't feel like his brain was leaking out his ears from the pressure. Bunch of ninnies, acting like angels confronted with the truth behind the celestial propaganda machine. "But humanity is so busy, they're re-interpreting everything, and sometimes their version is – it's just better, or at least more fun, because it can't be perfect and shiny."

Satan didn't strike him down or order Marchosias to take a bite out of his skinny backside, so Crowley forged on. "It – it could benefit us too. The wailing of damned souls and the crying of the damned is awe-inspiring and terrible and shows your greatness, my Lord, but I thought you might enjoy a bit of variety now and then. So I brought one here. A musician, for your satanic pleasure."

"Is not music of Heaven?" Satan asked, and the flames of Hell began leaking out from within his angelic body. "Empty songs of praise to that pathetic god, his glorious celestial harmonies!" His voice rose with each word, shattered beauty and warped divinity that clawed at the minds of all present.

Crowley's eardrums blew out, but he didn't need them to hear his Master's anger. He slithered forward, belly and chin both pressed firmly to the now scorching floor.

Satan might well flatten him into a sad, snake-shaped stain soon but there was a hungry she-wolf at his back and a thousand eager demons circling. He'd rather risk immediate obliteration than to become their plaything.

The foot before him had turned into a goat's hoof as Satan's rage was stoked; black and cloven and the approximate size of a bull. Crowley stopped before it, digging deep into his snakish nature to avoid trembling. Sometimes, the instinct to freeze and cover before a larger threat was useful.

"How dare you speak to me of music?"

Pride was kicked to the curb long ago. Crowley pressed his lips to the great hoof in worship, then lowered his face and babbled into the floor while his corporation blistered and burned.

"It is so different, nothing like the music of Heaven. It – Not sterile, not perfect. Take the harps, I mean they call them harps, but it's all base materials and guts, need to be re-tuned all the time and if it rains they still won't behave. Or drumming! My Lord, there is already one here, awaiting your dark pleasure! It is the most physical, mortal and meaty noise, and, and even when it becomes more, it's all – yes, they do try for the celestial, but they can't reach it, only surpass it. Their music traps them in their bodies, pulls them down and makes them yearn. I swear, I promise, there's not a piece of music on that whole blue marble of a world that belongs more to the bastard upstair than to us, to Your Hellish Majesty! Yes, they will sing your praises, but they will change it and lust with it, never, never those empty harmonies of Heaven."

Crowley waited. The legions of the damned waited too, lusting for his pain, but too vary to draw attention to themselves.

The longer Crowley waited, the more he began to think that he'd committed a terrible mistake. Satan's anger was still broiling and he couldn't explain!

He'd honestly thought it would cheer him up. Like it had, back when…

It was a long-ago moment, buried in clouds of regret and eons gone. But, perhaps, that moment had been why he had requested this foolish audience.

Light-headed with terror, Crowley held out his hand. Everything was silent around him. "Lord? Their music, it is to Heaven, as – "

Crowley snapped his fingers.

The Gates of Hell, once more

It in no way surprised Charon when the Serpent's appearance was changed, as he slunk out from Hell's gate. He was pale, hands trembling, and had lost the ostentatious mantle he'd worn on arrival.

"Didn't like your idea, did they?"

The Serpent gave him a bleary look; there were reddish streaks through his yellow eyes, and he smelled – Charon frowned – neither the blood and bile of torture, nor the sulphuric fire of a remaking. It was like something sweet, yet overripe…

"Wha? Nah, the… got into the stock of wine poured onto idols." the Serpent rasped, and pulled a bottle from nowhere. He swayed a little as he handed it to Charon. "Oh, Manchester-to-be, my head! I gotta get back up to where miracles work properly."

"You were – drinking?"

The Serpent nodded, then winced and grabbed his forehead. "Yup. I was told to gather the lot by the Boss, once I'd sold him on the idea. In-anna and Nin-ann weren't pleased with me at all and whatever they say about women scorned, it has nothing against sisters who've had a millenia to tend their grudge. Then we literally had to turn Dis upside down for Pazer's drum. Percussionists, always so… Drummy. And then Ripaz, him we took over yesterday, was upset because the band didn't have time to practice together. But by now Marchosias was literally nipping at my heels and I thought a little wine was just what we needed to calm everyone down. Himself cracked open the big barrels and said the next round was on him and then – you know how it goes. Suddenly Dagon is dancing on the table while you're trying to keep everyone playing vaguely the same thing." He smiled vanly at Charon, who had lost the thread somewhere halfway. "Anyway, figure a tip to the doorman doesn't hurt? You missed quite a party yesterday."

"No. I mean, yes, appreciated." Charon accepted the bottle. It reminded him of the Serpent's earlier advice.

A few souls had passed through since he'd received it. They had all been most put out when Charon demanded a part of their funeral offerings, though they had paid. He wasn't entirely certain what he'd do with the tool models or perfumed oils, though the sacrificial food had been tasty. But the idea had… merit.

Weighing the bottle of wine in his hand, Charon gave the bedraggled Serpent a once-over. "If you want," he said slowly, "I could take you upriver. Just two bends, but it'll save a day of walking."

"Sssssweet. You don't mind if I – ?" And with that, the Serpent transformed himself into a serpent, and slunk into Charon's boat to fold himself into a hungover pile of scales.

Chapter Text

Crowley was growing more and more fond of the Romans. The roads were useful in his line of work and they understood hedonism and intrigue in equal means. And some of the emperors, yowza!

Hell had sent Crowley to hiss in Heliogabalus’ ear a while ago. He'd counted on eventual success, idly hoping to beat Ligur's half-year record for turning Caligula. But Crowley barely had time to arrive before the new emperor began to mess around with the state religion. Chopping off heads? All on his own. Didn't stop Crowley from taking credit, though he refused to do so for the, even by imperial standards, eccentric sexual practices. Marrying Vestal Virgins? The things people came up with.

It was probably the chap's religious background. He'd been a priest and they always fell deep once they went down; one of the rare points of agreement between Crowley and Lower Management. Unfortunately for him, they thought he should focus on the ones who were intensely into god-bothering, which could take decades! And even if they fell into complete depravity (and/or became nutcases; religion did not, in Crowley's opinion, foster a stable mind), most kept their sinning close and personal. Tasteful torment, perhaps, but so slow.

Compare to young Elegabalus or his unctuous cousin Caracalla. Nothing slow there! In, out, temptation done and then they'd spread their sinning as far as the Roman empire reached.

Inefficient use of resources, that’s what it was. Especially serpentine resources! Who had far better things to do than get a rash of holiness while nagging some would-be saint into breaking just one rule, come along now, it's hardly a real sin.

Also, Michael kept an unnervingly close eye on her handpicked saints. Kings only mattered if they were literally prophesied to rule Judea, but saints were open season year round. And Crowley had suffered enough confrontations with that smithing bastard of an Archangel to last till Armageddon.

Which was why Crowley was currently doing everything but tempting the priesthood of Pannonia. This north-eastern province was hardly the most happening part of the empire, but had excellent thermal springs and all comforts an infernal agent could demand.

He had to put something in his reports, so he'd taken up curse tablet writing for a lark. He had a flair for it, and it allowed him to order people to dig through graveyards for mucky things, heh. One purchase of a piece of cursed lead would only leave a minor tarnish on a soul, but it did something more: it convinced them that they had been Very Naughty And Got Away With It.

Surefire ticket to Hell, that first sweet taste of success.

Talking about customers, he could sense one of his repeats approaching. Crowley rose from his bench, and shook his hair into a fashionable updo, while his snake-bracelet remade itself into a brooch to keep the stola in place.

While the temples provided some acceptable curse tablets, the sort that Crowley sold were altogether illegal. It would have overdrawn his miracle account to make the earthly authorities ignore that. Thus his store nominally sold glassware of unspecified but luxurious provenance. The pièce de résistance of his front parlor was the oversized goldfish bowl, home to four shimmer-scaled beauties. A sight that properly gasted the flabber of all visitors, and gave Crowley plenty of time to deal with any who might have awkward questions.

So far, it had only been two. The tax inspector developed other priorities in life after spending a month as the fifth goldfish.

To convince his other curious guest to stop asking inconventiont questions regarding 'anachronistic displays of animal cruelty, you didn't really bring those poor fish all the way from China, Crowley?', he'd taken him on a tour through the best restaurants in Aquincum.

The young woman who entered had seen Crowley's fish before. She'd seen his back room too, which you could only enter by… well, honestly, by being Crowley. His visitors thought it had something to do with pressing a specific pattern on the amazingly lifelike statue of the rearing Hydra. Were anyone ever foolish enough to try the same pattern, without being Crowley, they'd learn a new definition of lifelike.

Her name was Sabina, and she was a musician and aspiring composer. They'd met at her father-in-law's funeral; she'd played a very nice variation on the classical tunes and Crowley had put his hair up like a proper lady and introduced himself. When Sabina and her husband became embroiled in an inheritance feud (Roman law, almost as nice an invention as Roman roads) their friendship had been cemented. Much as what happened to the brother-in-law's tongue, once Crowley's curse took effect.

Today, Sabina wore her most expensive blue dress. She'd also – oh dear, oh dear – put on a large cloak, and pulled the cowl unusually deep. The veil she wore was winter-thick despite the swell of spring outside; in short, she might as well be wearing a sign proclaiming that she was up to No Good.

At least she'd parked her slave outside instead of leaving him at home. Nothing drew the eyes as much as breaks against both habit and decorum.

Which is why Crowley always aimed to be obviously shameless.

"Why, if it isn't my dear Aelia Sabina!" He clasped her by the shoulders, and they exchanged a kiss.

"Salve, Antonia Crowley," she purred. "How is business?"

"Can't complain. New consul on the way, that always stirs things up."

"As it happens, the new consul was exactly what I wished to discuss."

"Oh? Going for the welcoming concert, are we?"

He could help her out, if she thought she needed it. Crowley had kept an ear open for an outstanding water organ player since he'd first encountered the instrument in Greece, and Sabina was absolutely in the running for the top title so far. He loved that bloody instrument: water and air trapped in pipes that could be manipulated with levers and pedals to produce a whole new family of sound. Bloody clever!

Unfortunately, as Crowley had been painfully reminded, Hell didn't appreciate technological marvels for their own sake and they'd take any mistakes out on his scaly hide.¹

So he'd played it cool regarding the water organ. The instrument in itself was brilliant, no argument, and he had three pieces squirreled away. But none of the organists had quite had that little… extra. Sabina, while a damn sight better than her husband, the competent but unexiting T. Aelius Iustus, wasn't quite up to his standards. Yet.

She was steadily improving, and was an entertaining friend. It helped that her vindictive streak was wide as the Forum Magnum.

So Crowley led the young woman into his back room, accepting her compliments about the new floor – yes, it was real red marble, and yes, he had designed the pattern of undulating snakes himself! – before he poured them a glass of chilled white wine that stood patiently waiting in a sunlit alcove.

She fidgeted, worried, and he realized the sunlight was turning his dark glasses into mirrors. People generally weren't too keen to see themselves when speaking to Crowley, so he leaned forward. Adding a little of her favorite sister's perfume to the persona, he asked: "So, the concert?"

"One would think so, but… I'm sure you recall that Iustus was to be given a bonus, for that latest victory march he composed?"

"Yes, the one about that ruckus down the coast? 'S a good one. Really encourages you to go out, trample barbarians. He's catching up on you." Instead of accepting the praise for her husband, Sabina grimaced, and Crowley felt her frustration swell. "Ah, don't tell me. It was yours, wasn't it?"

"Yes. And – he told them. Once we knew it was a success, he thought it only fair."

Of course he did, Crowley thought; he wasn't without ambition, but if Sabina fluttered her eyelashes at him, he turned into a complete sap.

"Then, suddenly, the Tribune 'forgot' all about the bonus. And today, what do I hear? That Novius Pollux has been hired to compose for the new consul. Novious Pollux! A stuffed-up Greek relic who hasn't composed anything decent since his slaves died of the summer flux!"

"Terrible," Crowley agreed. "Want me to give the Tribune boils? Oh, or make his sword go limp. That always gets the military man."

"No! Well… If you're willing to offer a discount, he certainly deserves a round of boils. Pustulent ones."

Crowley hid his smirk with the rim of his glass. "Consider it done. No charge. Though, I take it you have further arrangements in mind?"

Tugging at her pearl earrings, Sabina looked away. Crowley waited; sometimes you needed to speak. Sometimes, you just had to let people talk themselves into it. And given how his guest drained her wine glass twice, she was having a very intense discussion with herself at the moment.

After Bacchus had shared his bravery, Sabina squared her shoulders. "You are more than a curse-peddler hiding as a glass trader, aren't you, Crowley?" She gestured at the surroundings; conspicuous in Rome, beyond possible out in the provinces. "Did you know that nobody dares speak a word against you? Nobody! Neither the bath attendants nor hairstylists have anything to share, the priests don't seem to know your name –"

"I'm outside their jurisdiction," Crowley cheerfully interjected.

"And then, there's all the oddities… Like that mysterious husband of yours. People don't seem to recall anything about him, only that his toga is always black – except when it is always white.² You keep no horses, yet everyone knows the sight of your black carriage race past. And the slaves keeping this house…" She gestured around her at the perfectly polished room, one wall full of curse tablets and the other with empty perfume bottles, both dust-free and perfect. “Nobody sees them nor hears them, and yet you have a credit with all the wine merchants."

"Well spotted!" Crowley said, thoroughly amused. "I don't do slaves. You never know when one of them turns out to be a holy martyr in disguise or something disgusting like that. Not to mention the bother of feeding them."

Sabina's hand holding the glass was trembling now. Crowley filled it up with a thought, and she jumped when a few drops spilled over the edge. "I knew it. You, you are a magus of great power. Aren't you?"

"Magus? My dear Sabina, I'm a little more than that!" He let the shadows swell in the room, and the elegantly sewn curls on his head heaved like a nest of disturbed snakes.

The scales, as it were, fell from her eyes. Her eyes flickered between the serpents on the floor, to the scale-like pattern covering his roof, and then back to his dark glasses.

Obligingly, Crowley's hair reared and hissed at her from dozens of fanged mouths.

"Gorgon…"

"Perhaps, my dear. They sssssing often of me and my deedss, though they rarely get the name of me or my master right."

"And, and what should I call you? I wish no offense."

She had pluck, he had to give her that. Though she'd gone ashen, Sabina was still sitting up, even when he presented her with a fanged smile of his own. "Crowley will do."

"And your master's name?"

That was the right question. Not that it would tell her anything. "His true name would mean nothing to you, but he shan't be insulted if you call him Plouton."

She hadn't expected that, he could tell. "The - the Lord of the riches of the soil?"

"Am I not a woman of wealth and taste?" Crowley ran his fingers down his black stola, falling flawlessly over his dress. "All the riches of the underworld are at my hands. If we come to the agreement your heart is burning for, you might enjoy them as well."

Sabina shook her head. "It's not riches I need. We can earn those, on our own."

"Then do tell, how I can be of assistance. And I'll tell you my price."

Because Crowley didn't actually want her to pass out before they struck a deal, he changed the content of the glass into water, just before she drained it. Though she sputtered a little, she was too focused on her desires.

"I want memory everlasting."

Crowley made a show of cleaning out his ear, while the snakes peered curiously at her. "I'm sorry? This is a taller order than I'd usually take."

"Why, it's perfectly simply. I wish to be remembered. Forever. I do not know if the blind bard from Ionia ever sung the truth of you, but his songs are alive today. Sappho, too, is known as the Tenth Muse. That's what I want – the elventh muse, glory eternal for my music!"

"Oh my... " Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. "There are several issues with this request. Wait, hear me out. It's not as simple as you think. Even their melodies have been warped, even though the words remain. No, really, I was there, and you wouldn't believe what's happened to the scansion over time. Second, nobody's invented standardized musical notation yet, and I can't cheat on that without the greater powers noticing. Sorry."

While Sabina clearly didn't understand the exact details, she refused to back down. "Is that all?"

"Well, there's the price – it's gonna be steep! And, frankly, I don't know if you're good enough."

"I am! I will be, if only I can make them listen!"

"See, that? That we can arrange, no problem whatsoever. You, having the ear of the new consul, the most sought-after composer in all of Pannonia? Piece of cake. But everlasting fame, mhm… The problem with you humans is that you don't really have a perspective of how long eternity is."

Sabina took a moment to ponder this. "How long could you do then? If I rise to the occasion, which I will."

"Well… until the stones of the city crumble, at least. Tell you what, convince your husband to join in the deal, and I'll make sure you're recalled a year and a day beyond the city's death. On my oath."

She thought – she really did – that Aquincum would stand for ever. Crowley almost felt sorry for her.

"You spoke of a price. What is it?"

"Well, for one, you'll learn what eternity means, whether you want to or not." Crowley reached over and took her hands. She flinched, at first, but he let his human aspects take over, becoming once again her witty friend. The sunlight warmed them again, and his hair was red and well-behaved. "Tell me, Sabina, have you ever wanted to play for an emperor?"

"That is your price?" She gave him a measured look, and when Crowley nodded, a small smile broke upon her lips. "I've always wished to play for an emperor. I do not see how you can consider it a fee?"

"My emperor does not sit in Rome. He is the Lord of the Netherworld and rules for time everlasting. He is tetchy and demanding, his punishments horrors beyond what your mind can concieve. If you falter before him, we will both suffer. But… I will slither away while you burn for disappointing him, burn eternally as your soul shatters."

"Sounds like proper emperor. I'll take my chances."

Chapter Text

A man ought not have so many enemies, Giuseppe Tartini reflected, that he must suspect every lingering look of hiding ill intent. Yet, ever since Cardinal Cornaro's desire for Giuseppe's new bride had manifested in enmity, he had been haunted. He had left Elisabetta behind to save them both and sought refuge in a monastery, but cold eyes still appeared to follow him.

The violin, his beautiful, bewitching and most vexing of companions, helped soothe his nerves. All worries but those regarding correct handling of his bow fell away in practice. Only Giuseppe and the agony of the music, disobedient and bewitching, remained.

Giuseppe did not consider himself a fool. He had taken sensible measures against spies and assassins, to no discernible effect. The news from home told him that his family was well, and the cardinal's ire was fading.

But as soon as he laid his violin down, he again became aware of those unblinking eyes.

He had the protection of the good brothers, had confessed his sins, tried to find comfort in prayer. The brothers did not, he knew, entirely believe that he was followed. Not after so many quiet weeks. Shadows in the mind, caused by an ill-fitting marriage and a scandal… Wordly stuff, they had told him. Do not let it cloud the light of Heaven.

It was why he had dared to go down to the market square again. He'd been a few times already, but always in company, first with the brothers, yesterday with an elderly pilgrim. Nobody had bothered him and today Giuseppe decided to dare the world on his own.

He had a task too, to send a response to an enquiry hinting at future employment. Nothing decided yet, but if God willed, the shadows would lift and Giuseppe Tartini would become the master of his own school of music.

He only need to conquer his fears first, and his beloved, vexed violin!

"Pardon me," someone said from behind him. "I believe you dropped something."

Giuseppe whirled around, fear gripping him. Was this the moment, had an icy dagger already slipped between his ribs?

But he felt no pain. The burghers around them hurried past, unbothered. There was nothing to see, only one gentleman who had stopped another with a mild enquiry.

"Say, is this your prayer book?" He held out a small red book in his well-manicured hands.

The words, spoken in slightly foreign-tinted Italian, were perfectly polite and ordinary, but Giuseppe's heart was thundering.

Was he losing his mind after all? Before him stood an ordinary gentleman of middling age, dressed in fine gray justaucorps, albeit bedecked with unfashionable ribbons. His cheeks were rosy and the white feather in his hat waved joyfully, despite the lack of wind. The most harmless lamb on God's earth could not have smiled more sweetly at Giuseppe…

Who nevertheless wanted only to fall at the stranger's knee and beg for the Lord's mercy. Or perhaps to run; just run without rest, until they buried him in heathen lands.

"Oh dear, oh dear," the pale man said. When his eyelashes fluttered, Giuseppe trembled, as if shook by a gallow. "A bit psychic, are we?"

"Hngl…"

"More than a bit, I see. No wonder he foisted you off on me."

Snap.

A man ought not have so many enemies, Giuseppe Tartini reflected, that he must suspect every lingering look of hiding ill intent. Yet, ever since he had aroused the anger of the cardinal, he felt observed. Even leaving his home and new bride had not helped against the feeling that stormy eyes followed his every step.

The whole situation was playing tricks on his mind.

Today, Giuseppe had planned to visit the main square and respond to an important letter. Easily done from within the monastery walls, but it felt fortuitous to start afresh. Yesterday evening he had written it, then put out his cane and his best shoes.

He recalled his breakfast and the calm of the morning prayer. He knew he had dressed, though the details were vague. And then…

He had been down to the square. No? He must have, the pears he had promised to pick up for old Brother Raphael lay on his table. But his letter! It was also still on the table, unsent and forgotten.

Even more vexing, he could not recall going to the market, nor returning home. He had a vague memory of greeting the abbot on his return, but beyond that? It seemed he had stumbled home in a trance and then fell asleep on the wooden chair in his cell, a thin prayer book in his hand. He couldn't believe it! No letter sent, no violin practice, nothing at all accomplished today?

He didn't even know whose prayer book it was and he dearly hoped he hadn't absconded with a personal possession of one of the brothers. The book had been badly scuffed when he startled awake and dropped it.

Giuseppe continued to grumble at himself while he changed out of his town clothes. Useless mind to go to pieces just because of that damned cardinal! Tomorrow, he'd find the owner of the book - hopefully it came from the monastery's library - and he would send his letter!

But tonight, he would care for his violin, let the scent of resin and cleaning polish calm his nerves…

While Tartini meditated over his instrument, the angel sitting on the roof above his cell finished the stern letter he was sending to An Acquaintance c/o Drakenburg, Utrecht, the Netherlands. Postal workers in three countries would look at it, frown, then miraculously know where to pass it on,and nobody would open it until it reached the intended recipient.

It regarded the previously not mentioned matter of a certain violinist's psychic abilities.

"I should just drop the whole matter," Aziraphale said to himself, sucking on the tip of his feather pen and considering how to conclude, to best profess his irritation. "One man more or less…"

Unfortunately, he had already accepted the swap. This century's Dutch cuisine agreed terribly with him, while Crowley enjoyed the whole political machinations. They both had clear orders – peace in Europe, and a quota for Crowley. If Aziraphale skimped on tripping some (moderately) virtuous souls into Hell, the demon was apt to set the whole peace agreement on fire.

No, now he was being unfair to his counterpart.

That was the true bother of it. Crowley had given his word to force through a peace agreement between the recalcitrant European powers and he was sure to manage it. And then Aziraphale would hear about it for hundreds of years! He could picture it: every time they had Italian, there'd be that little tut, an offhand remark about that violinist, oh, what was his name… The one that got away, how ever did I fumble it, do you recall, angel?

Aziraphale so liked Italian.

Most of the time, he liked Crowley too, but he could be… vexing. And had much too good a memory.

He hadn't stopped dropping the odd gibe regarding Uriel hardening Pharaoh's heart ('A fine racket, innit? Let them go, I'll stop all this – No, sorry, my PR team have one more surprise, wouldn't want them to have wasted all that effort!'). Not to mention the literal eons it took before he stopped saying 'Oh look, a rain-bow' in that treacle-sweet voice he used for murderers, madmen and Popes.

But Tartini's psychic senses were infuriatingly in tune to the true cosmic harmonies. If he hadn't been so devoted to music, Aziraphale bet he would've ended a prophet or a warlock. Clearly, he had sensed Crowley's preliminary investigation too. Two days ago, a puzzled Aziraphale watched him jump a foot as a harmless slowworm crawled past.

Letting people like that get a close look, without a Divine or Infernal plan in place – well! It just wouldn't do. He'd be no end of trouble, whether he ended up Downstairs or not. Not to mention what management would say if Tartini let slip what his tempter looked like!

Clearly, extraordinary methods were required. Aziraphale waited until the music stilled and Tartini took his evening meal, in the privacy of his cell for once. He had a decanter of wine to go with his chicken (Aziraphale had a taste too; just a thigh, it was a bit overcooked). Nothing excessive, it held about two watered servings of last year's harvest.

But this one night, the wine was sweet and fragrant even without the usual spices. It had a beautiful clear color, a full body and a lavender bouquet Aziraphale fondly recalled almost a thousand years since he'd had it.

After the sixth glass, the violinist stumbled into bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow.

Nothing like a drop of Bacchus's best to dim those over-tuned spiritual senses, Aziraphale thought as he wiggled into a more comfortable spot on the roof. He wished he had a blanket – oh, piffle, what did it matter, it was all going on Crowley's account anyway – he snuggled down beneath the down comforter, two plump pillows beneath his head, and closed his eyes.

Angels didn't need to sleep. Once human literacy caught up with their general level of creativity, Aziraphale found himself with much better things to do at night than plain sleeping.

This didn't mean angels couldn't snooze like champions, if they had a good reason for it.

Aziraphale did end up hearing about Italy for centuries, though not as he had first feared. But Crowley had been endlessly delighted by how Aziraphale's one-angel version of the celestial harmonies, translated through dream into a miraculous violin solo, made Tartini forget every bit of faith and piety.

"I work weeks, if not months on some of these cases, but you just walk up and – wham, bam, thank you ma'am, one formerly pious soul for Downstairs! Angel, I am impressed! Really, truly impressed."

"Oh, stop going on about it, I'd no idea he'd react so enthusiastically."

"Of course you didn't. 'S just your natural talents coming out to play."

"Crowley!"

"Tell me again how he offered you his soul as soon as you'd stopped playing, before you had time to bring the suggestion up yourself? It's like music to my ears – a devil's trill sonata, to be specific."

Chapter Text

"'Sup, Charon!"

"Crowley." The ferryman flared his great dark wings, partly in greeting but mostly to awe the soul following him.

Because Hellish non-geography had developed a sense of drama, the path now curved around a knife-sharp mountainside and so the souls saw the river, the ferryman and the grand gates leading to their Final Destination in one swoop. Charon had learned to work with it – impressed souls spoke of him to mediums and necromancers, keeping the coins of passage coming. Now, he snapped his wings aside at the perfect moment and swept his barge pole towards the black river.

Beyond it rose the walls of Hell, rough-hewn basalt stretching three leagues high with a pock-marked copper gate in its middle. Curved above the gate was written, in eternally glowing iron: Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate.

The soul gasped, suitably impressed. Male-appearing, not very impressive in an ill-fitting wig and rather threadbare crimson coat, he nevertheless had the audacity to grasp Crowley's arm.

"They truly speak Italian in Hell?" he asked, and Charon realized that the gasp was perhaps more delight than terror. "And you never told me? No wonder it is the language of opera, ahaha!" His voice cracked mid-laugh, but when Crowley held out a black handkerchief, he declined. "No, no, I'm just – adjusting. Travel, dying, it all takes a bit out of a man. And I had so much work, right up until the end."

"I suspect it was the drinking and whoring, rather than finishing that bloody requiem, that took the most out of you," Crowley muttered and slipped his arm free, though he did not move away from the soul.

On this visit, Crowley wore a sleek black coat and knee-length breeches of oxblood red. Where the soul's wig was frizzy and patchy as had he fallen asleep in it and forgot to apply fresh powder in the morning, Crowley's ponytail didn't allow strand out of place. His main concession to the fad of powder, was dampening the red to a darker, ashier tone.

Charon could sympathise. He'd never fallen for the bewigged fashion, even when a number of the Dukes began to adopt them. If made of matter, they were damned difficult to care for in the corrosive air of Hell. And, as the legions of minor demons proved, putting parts of another demon on your head was inviting spontaneous combustion, explosion or a number of unpleasant curses.

No, a black toga and a long gray beard had served Charon well, once he'd amassed enough wealth to upgrade his hell-scorched rags. He did keep an eye on the serpent's style, though. While frequently a bit… out there, Crowley was a good indicator of what wealth looked like in the world. Much more reliable than the dead (who'd appear in whatever they felt the most comfortable in) or the Lowest Court, which lagged anything between decades to millennia behind.

Charon was brought back to the present by the unusual sight of Crowley and the court musician to-be arguing.

"I was hard at work up until the very end!"

"On what, finding the pearl between Fraulein Antje's thighs?"

"How dare – you were at the premiere of the Magic Flute! Don't deny it, I'd know those silly glasses anywhere!" The soul sniffed in an exaggerated fashion, his voice rising as he continued. "And you didn't come to say hi, though I know you brought flowers for Emmanuel, and Josepha, and probably half the company. And none for me!"

"Maybe that was because the last time I brought you flowers, you got piss drunk and used them to demonstrate what I can do with… " Crowley caught himself, and gave Charon an ill-boding glare from behind his dark frames.

The ferryman busied himself unmooring the gondola. But he had excellent hearing, and caught the hissed whisper: "Stop whining. People who fellate my roses don't get any more."

"It was a joke!" the musician protested. "You're a devil, have you no sense of ribaldry and fun?"

Crowley sputtered.

"He does," Charon filled in. He was starting to wonder just how good this fellow was for anyone to put up with his attitude. "Compared to the lot in there, the Serpent is easy-going. I'd watch my tongue if I was you."

"Right," Crowley said, and smacked the soul over the head, mussing up his wig even worse. "Hear that? Charon's been taking your lot across this river for over five thousand years, so pay attention to his advice."

"I'd rather watch your tongue," the soul answered with the beginnings of a leer. "It's fascinating, really, especially when you…"

"Wolfgang!"

"Oh, all right. Are there any nice lady demons in Hell?" Now his grin was downright filthy. Impressive, considering he didn't possess (or inhabit or otherwise control) a body at the moment.

"I don't know if I'd ever call them nice, but they'll only be interested in hanky-panky with well-behaved composers, who do not fuck around when it comes to being respectful to Satan."

Really, Charon though at Crowley when the soul rolled his eyes, succubae, that's what you bribed him with?

"Didn't have to lift a finger with this one," Crowley replied, not even bothering to be discreet. "Most of the work went to keeping him alive long enough to finish his stuff. Now, Wolfgang, pay attention. How do we greet our new Lord and Master?"

"Hail Satan," he parroted, agreeably enough.

"And what do we not say to our new Lord and Master, unless we want our entrails being turned into piano strings for new demons to practise infernal scales on? I will remind you that demons lack all sense of both rhythm and pitch, and that the dead can't go deaf, even if their ears bleed for the rest of eternity."

The soul shuddered, flickering a moment into his death-visage; gaunt and ill, not yet middle-aged. Apparently even the serpent's powers stumbled before human self-destructiveness.

Wolfgang's soul sighed hugely, as if he had been asked to take over Sisyphos's job. "We don't call him Michael's bitch, Loser-Lucifer, Sir Goatface or Asslicker Extraordinaire."

Charon spluttered, but Crowley only nodded with grim determination. "And if we fuck up, then –"

With a graceful flourish, unlike any of his earlier movements, the soul produced a violin. He gave both demons a brilliant smile as he set the bow to the strings.

The plains around Hell were vast, rocky and arid. Since they had been spun into being, they had accumulated detritus from above; once-proud banners stained with tears and shit, weapons broken in the hands of those who died cursing God, and false relics and idols by the cartload.

The sulfuric wind that swept from Hell blew too hot. The icy mist that rose from the river chilled even those whose bones were moulding in the ground. It was a place made tolerable only because, while stained by Hell, it was not entirely of Hell. It happened that the wind died and the mists lightened and for those familiar with the landscape, there were spots to rest, where the stones would not cut too deeply into sensitive places.

When the music of Wolfgang Mozart poured forth from the instrument of his soul, Charon saw for the first time the austere grandness that lay hidden in vista. His gaze followed the distant path that winded up to Earth and it occurred to him that he may, one day, like to follow it to see what lay beyond.

But the tune was no longer on Earth, but here, at the edge of damnation. And the serpent was smiling at it, something entirely undemonic in his face, though he gazed toward the entrance of Hell.

When Charon turned too, following his line of sight, he saw the great gate shudder and then slowly slide open.

Nothing came out. No great beast or furious demon appeared, not even a fussy imp to complaining about the racket.

Instead, the gate opened widely, and the wind turned inwards while Hell fell silent.

They listened.

Chapter Text

Crowley rarely worked the United States. Neither the accent nor climate appealed, and he'd done his travel for the sake of travel millennia ago.

But orders were orders. Mammon had demanded all hands on deck for his big project, and Beelzebub had signed off on Crowley's temporary transfer.

He'd reluctantly packed his favorite suit, filled a briefcase with the good tea and then took himself and his Bentley to the ex-colonies.

The work was his style, admittedly; the whole economy was overheated and with just a little bit of infernal nudging, everything crumbled.

But by late 1929, Wall Street no longer needed Crowley's attention. Mammon was reaping souls by the dozen and Famine had come to town.

One glance at the nearest unemployment line and some wretch would try to sell his soul to Crowley, or he could flash his ostentatious watch and count on someone trying to stab him for it in the next alley.

Finally, Lower Management agreed and gave Crowley leave to return to his usual projects. But first, he thought he deserved a vacation.

Not that Hell granted vacations.

He took it step by step: the SS Leviathan sailed in a few weeks and with a name like that, nobody could fault his choice.

Prohibition was also (for once) useful. Manifest a bottle of single malt filled his quote, leaving plenty of time to unwind.

There was his ongoing project too: work, but more engaging work than damning the pre-broken. I'm looking for suitable musicians was always an excellent excuse to hang out in bars, but it wasn't just an excuse. Music flourished when everything else fell apart, and right now, the old colonies were proper greenhouses.

He had first stopped by Chicago, but so had half the other active agents of Downstairs. Sharp-dressed demons haunted every corner of the city and the damned outnumbered the undecided in the speakeasies.

Most actual demons were low-ranked, come for violence, lust; the obvious sins. They left him alone to establish some lucrative deals (most of which would leave the poor sods involved unsatisfied in life as well as death; record contracts came with sharp teeth even before Crowley's special clauses), but he disliked the crowd.

Despite being an urban demon since the invention of cities, Crowley had felt the call of open spaces. The new music was full of nostalgia for the freedoms and dangers of the road, and so he had filled the boot of the Bentley with the latest jazz and swing records, then turned south.

A week had taken him far from Chicago. Tonight, he rolled up to a juke joint so shabby it out-shabbed old London's gin houses.

It was amazing what assholes humans could be to each other, Crowley reflected. Not only did they lack scruples about using each other like drudge beasts treated worse than imps, then they wouldn't let people drown their sorrows.

Luckily, this no booze rule was one they were good at breaking. When Crowley entered the juke bar, the barkeeper took one glance at him – flashy suit, white skin and expensive eyepieces – and decided to serve whatever he requested, or stop serving anything at all.

While Crowley could have pretended to be an Earthly authority drinking alone was dull, even if it spread Envy. Grumpy, sober humans didn't go with fine liquor (not even if it started out as moderately awful moonshine), and he'd rather everyone forgot about the whole concept of representatives of the law. None of those would pass by tonight, not when Crowley had more fun tweaking the emotions in the cramped bar.

He fanned the flames of jealousy between two cousins, in love with the same woman – a classic that always went down well downstairs. Then he focused on the card game in the corner. Nobody was cheating (much), but it was easy to adjust the probabilities until it appeared one player was. When tempers stretched, he whispered to the most pious of the lot: it's not Wrath if it's righteous...

A bad job done well, Crowley sat back with his bottle.

He was considering ordering another when a new taste filled the air – another demonic presence. Not a visitor like Crowley either, drafted to spin the recession into a huge dividend for Downstairs, but someone with proper roots in the area.

Seeking confrontation had never been his style, much less on foreign ground. Crowley snapped his fingers at the barkeep, who brought a bottle of rum older than the paperwork for Memphis city.

"Care to share a drink?" Crowley asked in a voice not meant for humans, whole affecting his most nonchalant slouch.

The other demon entered his field of vision. A big fellow who'd been out of Hell long enough to learn how to blend in. He was black, like everyone in the juke bar, with tight curls piled into a high crest and three fiery streaks across the dark hair. Where Crowley wore a sharp three-piece suit and snakeskin shoes, his shirt and overalls were faded gray, and he wore no shoes at all. Most eye-catching was the collar of glossy rooster feathers circling his neck and the corncob pipe emitting a sweet smoke, like boiling molasses.

"Snake," the demon said, voice carefully neutral. "You're far from your gardens."

"Long time no see," Crowley replied and lifted his glass. "Still going by Lafayette?" He drained his drink, the smooth burn of truly excellent rum incongruous in the simple surroundings.

The other demon's nostrils flared, and he joined Crowley at the rickety table. A glass appeared before him, and at Crowley's wink, the rum tipped itself in.

"Always a free hand with the miracles," Lafayette said dryly, but took a generous swallow. "They don't keep track of your spending?"

"Oh, they try." Crowley practically invented false modesty and liked to use it. "But I know people who know people, and those people know the best bean-counters."

Tax-evasion and fraud had been a science on Earth since before the first Pharaoh. The department of Infernal Accountancy might regularly attacked Crowley's miracle checkbook, but they'd yet to nail him with a charge he couldn't slither away from.

Lafayette topped up his drink, seeming to relax a smidge and they talked shop for a while. He was a canny one, Crowley recalled. Had he been foolish enough to bet against another demon on their turf, he'd have put a pint of miracled rum on the rooster having celestial contacts of his own.

As the evening wore into night and the full moon rose in the sky, the juke bar became louder without input from the demons. The old man who'd played the banjo put out his hat one last time and retired.

Lafayette nodded at the tiny elevated platform that counted as stage. "They say you know a good tune when you hear one."

"One tries," Crowley said noncommittally.

"Mm… Do you know anything about the blues?"

"Heard a little on this jaunt, but would hardly call myself an expert. More of a classical man, myself, although I've just had a crash course in jazz."

There was a snort of amusement from Lafayette. "Jazz is the melody of sin, but the blues is the wail of the soul itself."

"Sounds a bit heavenly to my ears."

"Maybe where you're stationed. There's nothing of heaven in the land of cotton."

Point; Crowley looked at their bottle, which refilled itself.

A young man in simple dress and unassuming manners took to the little stage, guitar in hand. His instrument was cheap and despite careful tuning, he obviously could've done with new strings. But his voice was captivating and he pulled more out of the instrument than Crowley expected.

He played the same folk songs and evergreens Crowley had heard since New York, but he added a new yearning to them, which affected mortals and the damned alike. And how he handled those worn strings – these were hands to play the melodies of fate, if they only found the right instrument.

"Yours?" Crowley asked, when there was a break in the music.

Lafayette's eyes, unlike many other demons, weren't entirely black. The pupil was inhumanly large and the brown iris swallowed the rest of the eye, like Crowley's own when he didn't concentrate. Now, they gleamed.

"We're dealin'," Lafayette said. "He needs a new instrument."

"That he does."

"But he's a funny one. Hasn't asked for more talent…"

"The ones that do aren't worth cultivating anyway," Crowley said with absolute certainty. "That part has to come from wherever mortals get it."

The other demon made a noise of agreement. "Nor great fame or endless wealth. All he's asked for is to freely play the blues for the rest of his days."

"Well, if you're not interested, I'd be happy to take –"

Thunder rumbled in the distance and the table between them shook. Crowley hurried to save his full glass. To give himself a moment of reflection, he made a show of putting its contents safely inside himself, before giving Lafayette his most charming smile.

"Just a friendly business suggestion."

"The deal's mine."

"Absolutely spiffing. I've no intention of encroaching."

The young man began another song.

Crowley listened in silent appreciation. He hadn't known one man could acquire a range like that, with or without a bottleneck guitar.

"I don't know," Lafayette said, as the song bridged into a religious tune altogether too popular in the South, "that I think Acquisitions deserve this one." His voice was contemplative, but the black feathers around his neck had risen high and looked sharper than before.

Hell would break the mortal's hands, just because it could be done. It would try to wipe the rhythm from his soul – although musicians were a hardy lot – and while the young man might see guitars again, he'd never be allowed to play one, not if he ended up in the punishment pits or soul-grinding mills.

Crowley thought of Chicago and Harlem, of all the states he had yet to visit; the jazz musicians he'd only heard for one set, one night. He'd had his regrets while plundering record stores already. This new music didn't lend itself to be captured, not in note sheets nor recordings and he just couldn't keep up from London.

"Let me hear him at his best," Crowley demanded.

Lafayette sent a glass of the fine rum to the musician who accepted and took a quick sip. Both demons grinned when he jerked as if kicked by a donkey, and stared down into his glass, before hurriedly downing the rest.

His eyes found their corner, growing wide as Lafayette allowed him to pierce the veil. But, though tense, he raised his glass in a polite thanks, before he settled back into playing position.

Calm fell over the bar, like rain flattening a dry field while two demons focused on the plucking of the guitar and that single voice.

I got to keep movin', I got to keep movin'
Blues fallin' down like hail…

They listened throughout the set, after which the calm splintered apart from mortal excitement. Lafayette ordered a round for the whole juke bar, turning the tide from worry to cheer.

The singer was first to be served, and the first to call for more.

"He's mine," Lafayette told Crowley in a no-nonsense tone. "I'm trading him a guitar I'm building myself; ain't no changing the deal at this stage. And we present him together before the Boss."

"We do? What would I get from this deal, then?"

"They say you like to give mortals gifts to hang themselves with. Can't you hear the rope in every chord? He's singing the devil's tunes and you know what to do with those."

The worst thing was that Crowley could hear it, easily. He wasn't a musician himself, but the potential in this young man's guitar… He might feel hunted now, but he'd come to drive Hellhounds before him, or Crowley was an earthworm.

"Deal." Crowley spat in his hand and held it out. "As long as you make sure someone records him. I need something to work with. And you tell him… you tell him to always keep two coins in his pocket for the ferryman. Then we'll set him up."

Lafayette spat in his hand, but before he held it out, he asked: "Where?"

"Where do you think? At the Devil's side, where he deserves to stand."

They clasped hands, wearing matched grins as they sealed the deal. Then they settled in to listen, the rooster and the snake, while Robert Johnson played the opening chords to Cross Road Blues.

Chapter Text

Crowley leaned against the hood of the Bentley, the smoke of his cigarette curling around him as he waited.

He was parked behind the tower that reached from All the Way Downstairs to Up Above. In a rare effort of cooperation, both sides agreed to streamline things in the 1950ies, when half of Europe had to be reconstructed from rubble anyway, and stuck the supply passage in the same building as the main entrance.

Well, at the back. Couldn't have souls getting too high an impression of themselves.

That had hardly been the last reconstruction. Crowley had last taken the escalator down about twenty years ago, just after they turned the front into a glass skyscraper lifted right from the City. He was pretty sure the front had grown even more shine since then.

The back was less up to date. If he turned his gaze upwards, demonic sight piercing through things like clouds, atmospheric refraction and dimensions, he could just glean the angels remaking the tower. They were working their way down, leaving behind silver-blue glass where they had passed.

Hell wouldn't lift a finger to update their end, despite the hangar full of irate memos from Uriel about split budget decisions and contracts signed in blood¹.

If there was one thing angels couldn't abide, it was messily abandoned projects and while they might whine, loudly, Lower Management had enjoyed free hardware updates for going on six thousand years by resolutely ignoring that.

Also, heavenly memos inflicted nasty cuts on lower demons. With the amassment of so many in one place, Dagon had devised several punishments around them. They all boiled down to the unfortunate demon that angered the Lord of the Files being made to search the whole heap for a memo dated July 1066: Are You Aware Your Paint Is Chipped, Again? Sincerely, Sandalphon, Dept. of Smiting and Undersecretaries.

So while the front and top of the tower was a grand glass edifice, the lower sixty-six floors around the back were brick, equally blackened by the furnaces of Hell and the chimneys of the Victorian age.

Crowley adjusted his sight, tuning in on the souls walking through the heavy doors: black iron, that had once reminded the damned of the poorhouse and the blessed of a church. Today, it mostly made both categories think of fancy old buildings they probably couldn't afford to live in, if they considered the surroundings it at all.

Most of the dead walked with tired steps, no matter where they were headed and Death walked at each soul's side, until they reached the gate and faded away.

The dark skeleton nodded at Crowley who tipped his nonexistent hat back.

Their interaction, minor as it was, caused one of the souls to look up from its trudge. Then it squinted, as if it could see the Bentley.

This wouldn't do; Crowley had wheedled Death into their special Arrangement by agreeing to very firm limits, and he had no interest in overstepping them because a passed on psychic got curious. The waft of smoke he blew their way, heavy with his will and smelling of sulfur and old regrets, made the soul turn away instantly. One that knew where it was heading and tried to ignore the knowledge? Processing would have their fun with the poor bugger.

Thinking about that infernal reservoir of petty annoyances, Crowley hoped his latest acquisition would turn up soon. Time was iffy this near head offices, but he'd waited long enough that his cigarette was still burning only by miracle. If they could sneak in while the bureaucrats were busy with that soul…

Sanctioned project or not, Crowley was as eager to avoid Processing as they were invested in tying him down with red tape. He still wasn't over the debasement of having to appeal to Satan himself regarding a Bach, just because he forgot a 'Johann' on page fifty-three of the contract.

Then he heard it, the unmistakable psychic rhythm he'd been waiting for.

Not a soul to drag his heels, this one, to be fettered to the world by the unfulfilled dreams. But he wasn't settled, oh no, his soul still ached with desire.

That had been the flavour that drew Crowley in, back in Manchester of '73. He'd been in town to ensure nobody got any bright ideas about the Arndale Shopping Centre, such as allow natural light inside, or consider pedestrian access, when he'd passed by a concert hall. There'd been such a lust for more – of everything, the music, the bright lights, an adoration of the world. At first, Crowley thought it came from the crowd, which was enough to interest him professionally.

Once he'd joined the throng of sweaty humans, he realized he was mistaken. It came from the band, their music and their singer in particular.

"Evening," Crowley called, when he was certain the soul was near enough to notice him properly.

Death, always busy, faded from the man's side to take care of his next charge.

Crowley and the soul faced each other; they hadn't seen each other in years, busy with work and scandal (embroiled in and manufacturing, both took their time). And, on the one side, with dying.

Call him a coward, but Crowley much preferred to wait until souls were free of their mortal coil, wearing once more familiar garb. Flamboyant in this case, though the exact cut and colors shifted around him, as if he had never found one thing he was perfectly comfortable in. Perhaps he hadn't. Crowley could sympathise.

"Why, this is a surprise!" the soul drawled, cocking his head as if they'd run into each other at a club. "The bloody plague did you in too, darling?"

"Oh no," Crowley said, and tipped down his glasses. In this space, people did not mistake the yellow for contacts. "I'm the welcoming committee, darling," He spun the glowing tip of the cigarette in the air, the doors to his Bentley opening at the gesture. "I hope I don't have to explain where you're heading?"

The answering laughter sounded more than a little shock, and went on too long. Crowley didn't begrudge anyone that moment of uncomfortable realization; Voltaire himself reacted similarly, back in the day.

"And I honestly thought you were always wearing those damn glasses as an extended fuck-you to fashion," the soul said, the campiness of his voice only a tiny bit forced. A good showman to the end, and beyond. "Really, Anthony, you had us all fooled – wait, is it Anthony? Or maybe Ahriman?"

"Jussst Crowley. The rest is smoke and mirrors, to fit in."

The soul's laughter was less hysterical now, and his outfit settled at last: a yellow jacket, the buckles done up protectively. "Even your sort have to bother putting on a pretty face, eh?"

Crowley shook out another cigarette and offered it before he answered.

"My sort invented all kinds of pretty varnishes to put over… considerably less pretty truths. By the by, you ever run afoul of Azazel, ask him about lipstick and he'll soften." That earned him disbelieving look, though the ciggie was accepted. "Really. Why would I bother to lie at this stage?"

"I don't think those are cat eyes, Crowley who hasn't actually denied that he is Ahriman yet," the soul muttered and patted his pocket. Because he expected to find his lighter, he did, and then drew deeply on his smoke. "One hears a lot about forked tongues and lies. Mhm, fucking amazing – they didn't taste the same this last year, you know?" He blew out a long stream of smoke. "When you can finally indulge in the cancer sticks, they let you down."

"Life's annoying that way."

"No, darling. Life's a bastard all right, but dying is the real cunt. Don't think I'm done with you, though." He shook his head, and his hair grew longer, the years falling off until he looked at Crowley in the same way he'd spotted him from the stage, over and over again. "You've always been good at evasion. I remember when Brian tried to figure out how you knew all that about –" He snapped his fingers, looking for the word.

"Cosmic background radiation?"

"Yeah, that. And oh! What a slithery thing you turned into, suddenly."

Crowley shrugged, a little embarrassed by the memory. "You boys nearly drank me under the table, I couldn't be expected to keep the current state of scientific knowledge in mind."

That had been a slip-up, although nothing had come of it in the end – a flourishing rock career and all the excitement surrounding that left little time for infernally inspired breakthroughs.

He'd grown more careful around them after that particular party. It lasted all the way to the big tour in, what was it, 1979? '80? Whenever it was, the mood had gotten the better of Crowley and he left caution behind together with all his good (bad, safe, whatever) intentions… But damn if it hadn't been fun. The not at all random meetings, the endless parties, their sly arguments and half-sincere flirting. The one-upmanship, too – they all had competitive streaks. The real miracle was probably that he hadn't slipped up more than once.

And of course, what led him to ignore his decision to keep a distance: the concerts. Crowley had stood in the crowd, hearing the songs, drinking in all the emotions of the audience until he was reeling from the intensity of the moment. Worse than drugs, it was, to be a demon at a rock concert.

The reminder of how things had escalated before, made him back down from their current verbal sparring. "It really is Crowley," he admitted. "You know the story of my one-hit-wonder too: the apple, the snake, the first woman." He showed off his tongue, not just forked but inhumanly slim and long. "I never lied to her, and I remain a demon of my word."

"Bloody hell! The Christians got it right?"

He looked appalled enough that Crowley had to laugh. "Right? In the broadest sense only. Most of your religions got some rough bits mostly right, and all the details wrong. But don't ask me what it's all about, not even the Serpent is privy to those details."

"I've always known what it's about. Aim for the stars and fuck the critics," he said, scoffing at Crowley, while his face aged and his clothes turned sleek and white. He dragged the last out of his cigarette with the passion of a long-time smoker long denied and flicked the butt away. "I don't have any regrets. And while you're a surprise, the general destination isn't.”

"Good to hear. Since you never signed anything, I am contractually obliged to inform you that there is an appeals department. But, between you and me, their waiting line is its own Hell. Also, it's on fire."

"Nah, I've run my race," he said and plucked the package of cigarettes from Crowley's pocket with an exaggerated motion. "Ta; I expect the smokes aren't top-notch where I'm headed?"

"You'd be surprised. They're more expensive than in your worst nightmare, but on the upside, we've got every brand in existence." He made a show of brushing some lint off his sleeve; he didn't want to brag, but that had been a long game Hell had played, and Crowley had done his bit. "We're still haggling the booze out with the Opposition, but tobacco? Solidly ours."

"Good thing I wasn't planning to bow and scrape for duller accommodations, then."

"That's the attitude. Hop in, now – I'm taking you down in person." Crowley vanished the remains of his own cigarette. "But don't get a big head, you're not the first I bring personally. Won't be the last."

Although this was the first time he'd involved the Bentley. But that was more about the car's own preferences, and Crowley knowing to honor them.

The soul leaned on the roof of the car, letting the memory of his fingers play a twirl on the backrest. "Always did wonder how you kept this thing spotless, especially with your driving."

"I drive like you lived. Faster, higher, better. Pop a cassette in, would you? We've quite a journey ahead."²

Another little hesitation, as the soul took one last look at the unspace surrounding them. Crowley idly tuned into the right aural wavelength,curious how this one might perceive it.

To Crowley, the tower had been surrounded by a field in ancient times, which turned into an eternal construction site with the rise of Rome. To the soul, it was an empty parking lot – though that might be due to the presence of the Bentley, because on the horizon, the empty seats of a stadium rose impossibly high.

Curious, Crowley tasted the air: Yes, the sweat and pheromones of a roaring crowd were present , but so was the stench of disinfectant and phlegmy illness.

"Good fucking riddance," the soul concluded, then slid into the car and settled into a slouch rivaling Crowley's own. He grabbed a handful of cassettes and pulled out a collection of rock classics that hadn't been played in the last thirty years. "Well?" he demanded, staring fixedly ahead. "Use that lead foot of yours for something useful."

Crowley took his seat without comment. The engine rumbled to life and with it, the Bentley filled with music.

Tonight, I'm gonna have myself a real good time…

"Are you fucking with me?"

"Most of the time," Crowley admitted without shame. "But this is a tribute from your greatest four-wheeled fan."

The black gate swung open as they approached, and by a miracle the Bentley just fit between them. A winding and rocky path lay before them, until Crowley's will rolled out a smooth layer of asphalt in front of the wheels.

"Don't worry too much about where we're going," Crowley said, pretending he hadn't heard the muttered curses about his ancestry, his genitals and how he regularly combined the two. He'd heard worse on this last journey, and as opposed to Wolfgang, he didn't fear the sentiment would be repeated to the wrong Entity. "The management is hopeless, everyone's entirely unfashionable and the food will, quite literally, try to kill you on bad days. But they know how to throw a hell of a party."

I'm a racing car, passing by like Lady Godiva
I'm gonna go, go, go
There's no stopping me

"Sounds terrible," the soul drawled. "What about the rumours about your boss's collection of tunes? Those true?"

Crowley leaned back, folding his hands behind his neck, and considered his answer while the Bentley roared down hairpin turns, the speedometer spinning madly.

There wouldn't be anyone like Freddie on Earth again; that was the beauty of it, Crowley had long since concluded. There never was two with the exact same rhythm.

None of them had, in six thousand years, matched the celestial harmonies in perfection and elegance; not with voices born from flesh, their music squeezed out from wood and metal and electric amplifiers. But they didn't need to. Each flawed melody created a world of its own, richer than the songs of praise that had come into existence wholly complete and perfect, to remain in that unchanged state until the end of time.

"As a matter of fact, yours truly has worked long and hard on that," Crowley answered at last. He didn't expect to stop working on it either, not as long as there were new humans born and new songs written. "You'll be in the best company. Or maybe I should say, they'll be in the best company, now that you're there."

"That's the spirit!" And Freddie threw his head back, and sang along with his song as they raced towards Hell.

Oh, I'm burnin' through the sky, yeah
Two hundred degrees
That's why they call me Mister Fahrenheit
I'm traveling at the speed of light