Work Text:
Beep… Beep… Beep… Through the heavy wooden frame of the door, slow rhythmic tapping of a heart playing a tune on borrowed time beats against the back of Lilly’s brain. Sweat drips off her quivering brow and splashes against the tile floor of the suite’s private bathroom, which would be black as pitch were it not for the five candles illuminating the finer details of her face in a warm, amber glow. Blending into the dark, her hair rests messily upon slumping shoulders and tickles unsteady hands. Each subtle, yet thunderous chirp penetrating the door causes chitin fingers to clasp around her throat, crushing tighter and tighter with every imagined arc of the readout before she’s nudged to breathe. Then it begins again. The events of bygone hours keep playing back in her mind like a video set on repeat as the girl twists a golden ring embracing her finger.
“At this point, short of a miracle, there isn’t any more that can be done for Elijah.” A blurry visage had told the young lady quite sternly. After countless visits from useless doctors she had begun to stop bothering to remember the little details: it was never long before one left and yet another came to replace them. She was fairly certain they had a nose, an ear or two likely, probably even a mouth (after all, she had seen it moving), but the words coming out were nothing more than meaningless gibberish. “His condition… worse… treatment not working…”
“You should exchange your goodbyes.”
Those harrowing words caused the singed black book in her arms to be pressed even closer against her chest, bumping gently against the rapid pace of her aching heart. For a moment, she could’ve sworn her precious tome felt warm to the touch, inviting even. Or were those the tears silently rolling down her face and wetting her hands? It’s difficult to say, really.
Goodbye. Lilly hated that word: Goodbye, Goodbye… It always felt wrong in her mouth, and it still does. ‘Why should we say goodbye?’ She thought to herself. After all, Had-a-face M.D. told her everything she needed to know to save him. Elijah, still deep in his slumber, needed a miracle, and if Lilly were to be damned one way or the other, she would make her own out of blood and tears. That’s why when the staff were preoccupied, Lilly placed the copy of ‘Solomon’s Modern Key’ – a gift from Elijah for her twenty-sixth birthday; he knew the occult was of particular interest to her and wanted it to be special – on the bedside table where they locked away the extra surgical masks and tongue depressors, planting a faint kiss on his cheek before slinking into the hall. After so many repeat reads, she felt confident the contents were engraved in her memory. ‘A piece of cake!’ came to mind more than once, spoken frantically under her breath.
You see, Fortune played favorites with young, determined Lilly “Of the Valley” Gallows. She was known to stack the deck in favor of the bold, and Lilly was certainly more bold than she’d ever care to admit. Was it pure luck? Destiny? Perhaps Fortune truly had no stake in the matter at all. Perhaps someone, or something, had been ‘counting the cards,’ so to speak; what would happen then? Surely, skilamalink foolery of that nature would be inconceivable.
The poor, sweet, orange-haired nurse with the worn gray Skechers, who had been unrelentingly kind to the couple during their week-long stay despite their unfortunate circumstances at work (they were on their last strike, as fate would have it), left the supply locker door open just a crack. Barely enough that the automated alarm wouldn’t be set off, and Lilly could slip in unnoticed. ‘I’ll take what I need and be right out!’ was her main thought, having recalled one particular (and peculiar) page in the Key that wrote of an unnamed healer. Lilly, desperate as she was, did not take note of three crucial details:
Demons are not known to be practitioners of medicine, never the righteous sort, and they are rarely depicted without a name. Invoking nameless forces, unholy or otherwise, is tantamount to self-martyrdom.
“Dapsone, Dapsone… Where the hell is Dapsone–?” She growled in hushed frustration. One, when picturing a hospital, would picture an organized, precise, and easily followed storage system. Shelves of labeled vaccines and medications, finely pressed linens, conveniently accessible surgical tools.
One would be very, very wrong. Saint Michael’s Teaching Hospital was famous – or rather, infamous – for a number of things, efficiency was most certainly not one of them. Such hubris, to name an institution this incompetent after the Archangel of justice.
“It’s gotta be somewhere… Yes!” The woman yelped, her agonizing twenty minute search finally come to an end. Initially, she had not realized that the cry hadn’t been in her head, but her eyes grew wide as she became conscious of what she had done. One minute passed, then another, then a last before the courage to peek out of the room could be mustered. A benefit to being in such a remote corner of Saint Michael’s was that with each rotation, the staff took far longer to wander down this hall. The last ingredient of many was hidden behind an unmarked box of stethoscopes, but she had gathered everything asked of her:
- One tube of Dapsone.
- Two vials of Lorazepam.
- An unused roll of gauze tape.
- A scalpel.
- A fresh set of linen sheets, to be set aflame.
- And an IV bag of Morphine.
Beep… Beep… Beep…
Returning to our most present moment, the wretched sound of the monitor made it difficult for Lilly to focus on the incantations and specificities of the ritual before her, notwithstanding the items surrounding her. The vapors beginning to catch up to her, she asks herself, “This… This isn’t crazy, right?” Scalpel in hand, the girl draws blood. Believing herself to be barking at a knot, she harks back to the stunned countenance of her mother.
“Lilith, you were raised better than this!” Spoke mommy dearest, fumbling the silver cross wrapped around her neck up and against her lips to calm her nerves; an occurrence so frequent any professional would mistake the violet tinge upon her lips for cyanosis. Visions of futures where her daughter became just as devout as she – shattered after our subject’s poorly hidden copy of Lemegeton was found under the bed, filling her with an angst so tantalizing, one could taste it. Certainly, Evelynn Gallows viewed herself as moral and upstanding, but what are sins if not vices concealed by the cloak of the righteous?
“No child of mine would be caught dead reading this… this sin!” – Anger. One most common, but alas, the pursuit of knowledge is no more sin than eating a tender, home-cooked roast – the kind that Lilly had come to sorely miss. She places the blade back down, atop the leftmost edge of the sigil.
“It’s that boy you’ve been seeing! I knew he was no good. Out… OUT! If you want to learn so badly, you will learn when you stand before His kingdom and fail to explain yourself to the Lord!” – Wrath. Towards her own child no less. Of course, shock is to be expected, but nonetheless quite unbecoming. Lowering one of the candles, Lilly ignites the linens, which will soon spread to the circle of adhesive material.
“Why couldn’t you have just been like your friends from church? Why couldn’t you be normal? At least they understood the consequences of straying away from His light…” – Envy. A final nail struck into the proverbial casket. Does her daughter know of the lies her mother still spins to the other parents about where she’s gone off to? Or that whenever she bakes a Betty Crocker chocolate cake, she dumps a slice into the garbage disposal for her, wishing she could have brought it up to her bedroom to apologize?
That she still prays for her, hoping that they can both find forgiveness?
Finally, Lilith Gallows shakes herself out of the stupor that entranced her and redoubles her effort, dripping blood upon the smoldering silk sheets. Another ace drawn in her favor, for the fire safety system was conveniently malfunctioning that day. Truly a pity. Were Evelynn here to support her once-beloved daughter, who still spun the heirloom rosary beads gifted to her when she turned sixteen, in her most desperate time, mayhaps she would not have given in to the very temptation she had so foolishly sought to dissuade.
The feeble, tepid embers began to accelerate into a rousing blaze, kindling the strips doused by the spare ampule of sedative to form a near perfect circle. Within the center of that rousing circle, a pentagram engulfing the requested items and tainting the air with a putrid miasma of sulfur and brimstone – so sour it took all of little Lilly’s strength not to faint.
Say the words, Lilith. You know them oh so well.
Panicked eyes dart around the room, attempting to locate the dulcet, mellifluous voice, like honey blighted by venom, that had made her surroundings closer resemble the claustrophobic nature of her namesake: Gallows. ‘I’m going crazy…’ She thinks to herself, but I don’t think you’re crazy at all, my dear. Steel yourself, you’re too close to permit your fortitude to waver.
Hurry now, darling Elijah hasn’t much time.
Say the words. Grant me ingress.
“O-oh great entity unknown–” Stutters the newfound witch, “Whether t-thy be… God-cursed or God-given, prince or p-peasant, I seek an– an audience.” God-cursed would be an apt elucidation.
Proceed.
She hesitates. Many would, but many aren’t nearly as deserving of my gifts as you, wouldn’t you agree?
“...I grant you ingress.”
A plume of smoke extinguishes the candles, rousing the dancing starburst flame to erupt in a mighty pillar from the abyssal depths of Hell itself, radiating a nauseating heat through the entire room. Behind the acrid pyre looms the towering, lanky silhouette of a three-headed beast, praises sung by way of gnashing teeth, snarling growls, and wails of anguish. He lumbers forth, and from the bounds of the inferno emerges not a beast, but a man, skin sun kissed and reminiscent of Athenean olives – quite the handsome chap, if I may be so prideful.
Donning a charcoal grey billycoat with seams of gold, the bizarre gentleman straightens his crimson red tie and tightens the equally grey leather glove upon his left hand. Bizarre, to Lilly, does not come close to describing the being standing so casually before her. Where one would anticipate human ears instead were those of great Taurus, matching the protruding horns atop his head. He inhales deeply, as if it were his first breath in years, then bellows a stream of smog from under his surgical mask, where a nose should be.
“Ahhhh…” Exhales this strange man, “Good morrow to you, Earth. And an especially good morrow to you, madame. To compare your beauty to that of a flower would be… cliché, I am quite sure, but alas–” Lilly could feel the entity’s eyes crawling through the very threads that stitch her soul, despite the pair of darkened goggles obscuring them. Contrary to the way he looks, he speaks with the voice of an Irishman.
“Who are you, and h-how are you doing that?!” The girl asks. Unbeknownst to her, the kindly individual that had been so graciously invited to this plane had also played Virgil to her Dante, manipulating the cards as guide from the very beginning. The ‘Modern Key’ read Lilly just as much as Lilly read it, meaning…
“...I can intuit your thoughts and desires with ease.” He snickers deeply, “Oh, but I’ve been a boar! Please, you may refer to me as Doctor O’Dey. The pleasure is all mine.” The good doctor places an ash-stained wooden case on the ground and bows gracefully towards Lilly. A stringy, silver beard hangs from his chin, unscorched by the flame.
“I– I don’t need you!” Lilly cries, stepping backward.
“Don’t sell me a dog, child.” O’Dey approaches one step forward and snaps, manifesting a clipboard out of thin air and embers, “I’ve the same list of names that Death intends to claim, you know. Your beloved is soon to be grinning at daisy roots… tut tut, Ragged Red Fiber. Genetic, chronic, and incurable by mortal methods, but you already knew the severity of the lad’s condition.”
“That’s not true! We were told he had more time… that, that things were getting better!”
“Did you produce these candles from the wax glutting your ears, or are you purposefully dense? Your experiences are just as much mine. The prognosis was bleak, else we would not be engaged in this little soirée.”
She grips her arm tightly, reluctant to admit the reality of the situation to the semi-omniscient (and vulgar) daemon. Lilly sighs, “Fine, fine! You’re right. I need your…” The doctor kneels down and props open the case, revealing a litany of multi-color glass decanters resembling stained glass.
“What’s all this?” She gestures vaguely towards the odd liquids as O’Dey takes a rather hefty swig from one filled with a rich, auburn tone like it were the only thing keeping him alive. He lifts a finger up to pause her. Gulp follows gulp until the liquid is gone.
“Mmph– Whiskey. If there’s ever been a mortal creation that would exceed that of the divine, it’d be this decadent Scottish ambrosia. Samael – the stingy peeler he is – never allows the stuff downstairs, lest I’d fill the whole ninth layer with oaken kegs.
To be on a first name basis with a demonic king is a privilege oft unseen among even the highest of the underworld’s rank and file; to treat it as something akin to dirt would be unforgivable even to the denizens of the Abyss.
“Righty-oh, time to get to work. Mind the grease, yeah?” He says, shooing Lilly aside as if she were but a tot, new to the world. Though, compared to someone as ancient as him, you’d find an easier task in naming those older.
Exiting the bathroom, Elijah still sleeps peacefully, wholly unaware of the seven foot tall monster looming above him, taking note of every individual atom and sketching it on the unholy clipboard from Hell. Though still reluctant to accept the demon’s help, what other option does Lilly have? She isn’t ready to let go, even at the price of her very being.
Removed from the stench of burnt fish and rotten eggs permeating the bathroom (likely forever), Lilly begins to mimic the actions of O’Dey, studying him just as he studies Elijah. He speaks like a Victorian thug at times, yes, but his movements are far softer than he’d ever admit. Gentle notes of roasted walnuts and warm cinnamon waft from him, and were she to observe really closely, Lilly would notice that he can still hear her thoughts. The doctor swivels his head to stare back at his summoner – cheeks arched high in an unseen, shit-eating grin – before resuming his work.
“Enough with the teasing, do you know how to cure him?” She fumes.
Standing upright, O’Dey’s back cracks in four different places, “How demanding. Were I not of a nobler breed than the rest of my ilk, you would sooner be wading through the Styx than having your desire fulfilled. But yes, I do.” He opens the tantalus that had been left in the bathroom, now beside Elijah’s bed, and begins mixing three concoctions – one purple, one green, one red – into a murky, brown mud.
He pours the concoction onto a thin, curved seashell. It made Lilly think about the remote, sandy beach her and Elijah had sat on together just two years prior. Azure waves crashed onto the shore, sweeping old shells and debris into the watery dustpan and in its wake a new selection. Night had already claimed the bay, but radiant moonlight played understudy to the Sun, resting away. He gently slid an engraved, golden band upon her left annulary. Alone they may have been singular, but they had made plans for a future together that evening; one where they would be more than their family’s target of ire. However, drawing blueprints for the future truly is a fool’s errand.
“Stop… Please.” Lilly begs of the demon, those warm tears streaming down her face once more. He does not turn.
My apologies. You see, it is not always intentional. Even an immortal leviathan such as myself is not infallible.
Doctor O’Dey, using the shell fragment like a spoon, pours the thick fluid down Elijah’s throat and forces him to swallow. Without waking, he winces at the taste and his expression becomes far more pained, but just for a moment. The readings printed on the monitor begin to stabilize, becoming the most normal they had been in weeks. More stable than before they had been moved to dastardly Saint Michael’s, who would certainly take credit for my handiwork.
“It… is done.” He says, a self-satisfied pride lacing his silken voice. Pressing his fingers together, he turns and approaches his quarry. “As you will no doubt already be quite aware, a debt is to be repaid in exchange for my services. Miracles may not be limited to angels, but I am clearly no angel, neither am I selfless.”
Lilly bites the inside of her cheek… “I suppose I should say goodbye?”
“I suppose you shall.”
Dr. O’Dey had not been summoned to the mortal plane for some time, centuries passed before the opportunity to answer the call would arise in the form of Lilly’s desperate sorrow and pleas for a miracle. Love so pure would generally appeal to the domain of God’s winged infants and all-knowing golden rings, but instead, the call would be answered by a Duke of Hell.
Dr. O’Dey had no obligation to answer, of course. Why would he? There were lives to claim and sinners to torture. What was a paltry insect, crying out in dolorous agony, to the lord of scarabs?
Kissing Elijah on the forehead, Lilly backs away, savoring every remaining moment she could hold his hand before inevitably releasing. Those chitinous digits began to claw at her throat once more, and in that moment, something shifted.
Dr. O’Dey felt. Felt something not unwarranted, nor unfamiliar or unwelcome, but something he had not felt in a thousand years. Not since before he had been given charge of Hell’s lair of the lustful.
“Okay,” She steadies her breath, holding back further sobs, “I’m ready.” This was a lie, unsurprisingly. Someone so helplessly in love that she would offer herself so prematurely would never be ready, not until the end of all things. He would not relay her thoughts to her in the same way he had prior, no. Instead, he would twirl his beard around his finger and do what his kind does best:
Lie.
“Lilith Gallows, for the summoning of a Duke of Hell, and the exertion of my curative prowess, the price shall be…” He bellows. Lilly holds her hand out and shuts her eyes tight, unprepared for what may come.
“Your puzzling, rectangular stone.” Eyes slowly peer open and into his own, as if the roles were reversed, and Lilly had now been able to see into his soul – were it still there. “One of the cornucopias of information that your kind consumes ceaselessly! While unable to maintain the function of one for more than a few fleeting hours, I’ve come to deeply enjoy those ‘Maladjusted Avians’ you humans command to commit acts of violence upon swine.”
“Uh, y-yeah. More than fair.” Lilly, unconvinced, passes off the metal device from her back pocket, a miniscule crack within the glass. Engraved in the exterior is an icon of the first sin – the apple consumed by Eve within the Garden of Eden. Ironic.
“I would say goodbye, my dear, but I have come to understand that you are not fond of them, so I’ll say– how is it… See you later, alligator?”
She giggles, and Doctor O’Dey smiles once more. He could come up with another lie; that he intends to claim her soul when he returns her cellular telephone, or that the good doctor would rather Lilly continue to sin in multitude ways so that he may reap a juicer reward when Death comes calling.
But for once, Doctor Ashe O’Dey, or Asmodeus, or Ashmedai – the unceasing cacophony of names bestowed upon him by mortals was always a subject of amusement – decided that he would not continue to lie. He pondered to himself, ‘What harm would arise from letting something so beautiful persist for what is a fraction of a moment longer to my kind?’
Snapping his leathered fingers, Asmodeus dissipates into a cloud of sparks and ash, leaving the couple to enjoy themselves for just a bit longer, and those cloddish amoebas that call themselves practitioners to figure out how Elijah came to overcome his ailment. Why did he answer her pleas? Why did he take nothing more than a trinket that would melt to slag the instant he reached Hell?
Magnanimous miracles were the work of angels, not sinister nobility. That much was always known to be an undeniable truth. Malphas would sooner unleash their legions to scorch the Earth to glass. And the matter of convincing Belial to sow wickedness wherever he roam? Trivial.
Asmodeus, however, does not judge, nor does he forgive. The work of those above him is not his to know; but perhaps Fortune would deal an ace or two to young Lilly of her own volition. Perhaps the family Gallows would reconcile. That in the time he had given back to her, she would find her own entry into a place far better than the wastes below.
He could only hope. After all, before he became the Great Prince – before there was a Lord of Torment – he was an angel.