7. Chapter Seven

7

CHAPTER SEVEN

I do not know if it was an actual place or something Hell itself conjured for me, but it sprang up from the ground the way the church had where the lesser demons had impaled me. The dry path stopped abruptly, and the red grass shivered and danced in an unnatural wind I could not feel. Then, emerging chthonic, a white dusty stone rumbled out of the earth. Layered stone slabs as tall as myself began to rise, packed upon one another in the way of towering cathedrals, and within several of my panicked breaths, the structure rose to great heights. It was a spiralling monstrosity of nonsensical architecture.

I craned back, trying to see the top of it, shielding my face from the sudden storm of rock dust that was dredged up by the movement. When it finally subsided, an open archway appeared in front of me.

If ever there was such a definitive answer to a prayer for guidance, this was it.

I walked inside without fear.

It was not a structure that could have ever existed on earth. I could describe it as a set of ruined cathedrals stacked precariously upon one another, a building that required no natural laws to be in place. Gravity did not affect it, and nor did it seem structurally unsound, though there existed very little in the way of supporting beams. The arched doorway led into the lower level, a foyer-like expanse with cracked black and white tiles flecked with green. Scattered wooden desks lay about, suffering through various states of decay. It was only when I looked up and became confronted by the strange mishmash of levels, floating bookshelves, suspended rocky platforms and the like that I understood it to be a library.

Though, of course, like none I had ever encountered before.

The foyer had a staircase, one of those incredibly gaudy styles that split needlessly, both sets of stairs reaching the same landing. I climbed one side incautiously, drawn forward by an unnameable feeling. A familiar scent wafted to me. Books, aged leather, amber, the mildewed rot of tomes long left unattended. There was no sound save for the wind outside.

Level upon level of information spanned like this. Briefly, I was overcome by the sheer size of the place, and I could not comprehend what I was to learn in this collection of knowledge. I picked up the first book I came to, its red cover so worn the title had bled into the fabric, and when I opened it, I was confounded. I tried the next and the next, and only a few books had any sentences I could read fully.

Philosophy, astronomy, rhetoric, logic—there were sections dictated by signs in perfect Italian, but the books were hostage to an infernal language I could not comprehend. In fact, when I read, I felt the letters running from me, and if I was ever on the verge of understanding the words, they would shift and change to escape my comprehension.

I put down the tomes. I was only here for one thing—I had asked to understand the next rank I was to encounter on my journey to Asmodeus. So, as ever before, I kept that impetus in my mind's eye and let my body settle until I felt the pull of direction.

I climbed. It was no easy task. The stairs that existed in the foyer did not exist on other levels, or at least in no helpful way. Some stairs floated aimlessly and led to nowhere. Others were upside down or placed along bookshelves, or shrunken as if for ants to use. It meant that, as my body felt called deeper and deeper into the chaotic structure, I was clambering up bookshelves and leaping to new platforms, and I was not by any stretch of the imagination a wildly athletic man. Coupled with my nudeness, I felt ashamed of how desperately I moved. But this was what I wanted, what I had committed to, and shame was God's domain.

The structure somehow settled in the upper reaches. Clouds surrounded me, and I could no longer see the bottom, which had been swallowed up by a thick nacreous, fog. The ceiling of this place was vaulted and supported by multiple cross-beams, so it resembled a barn, though the roof and walls were made of the same white stone as the rest of the place. The floors appeared to be a deep mahogany and the bookshelves were scarce. Most of them were pressed against the walls, leaving the centre of the room exposed. It was there I saw a sigil, very similar to that in Malphas' territory:

Cautiously, I walked to it. A plain-handled knife had been left in its centre. The blade appeared clean, and the sigil was dry of blood.

My understanding of seals and sigils was exceptionally limited, given their occult nature and the church's fear of such teachings. I knew vaguely of the Lesser Key of Solomon but had always been too frightened to read it. Holy men who had encountered demons or were scholars of demonology often had their expertise called upon, but I was too lowly a don to ever encounter them. Seals, as I understood them, should have warded demons off. But my blood had mingled with Malphas' and called it forth—a summoning, a covenant, a deal with a devil.

I stepped away from this seal. Was I in the Knight's territory, standing in amongst all this knowledge? When I had thought I wanted to know it, had I been led directly to it instead?

I turned and let myself move to the bookshelves, dragging my hands over the tomes until my fingers paused. It wasn't a natural decision. My whole body ceased moving over one particular tome. I pulled the book free, a thick thing inscribed with Latin, De Daemonibus In Circulo Asmodei.

On the demons in Asmodeus' circle.

I tried to open it from the first page, but the tome refused. It was as if all the pages were a singular piece, a thick wad. I tried the back cover and was met with the same resistance. But when I pressed upon the middle, the tome split open like ripe fruit. Unseen air flicked through the pages and settled upon a spread.

I read:

Furcas, eques inferni, cujus statio ei singularis est, qui viginti legiones daemonum sub eius imperio habet.

Furcas, the Knight of Hell, whose station is unique to him, who has twenty legions of demons under his command.

Nothing else appeared on the page. I had no compulsion to read further, and the knowledge settled in me that this Furcas was who I was after. Indeed, whose seal it must have been, spread on the wooden floor before me.

I went to it. I lowered my body before the sigil in supplication. I held the demon's name and title in my mind and rolled it over and over on my tongue. Furcas, the Knight of Hell. Furcas, I summon thee.

I reached into the circle, picked up the small knife, and dragged it across the palm of my hand, where I had made the same cut for Asmodeus—the scar remaining as the only blemish on my body—and for Malphas, though with much firmer pressure. Warm blood trickled like syrup down my palm, and the instant the first drop hit the waiting grooves, some force of magic seemed to pull it out of me. My blood fell quickly, almost eagerly, like the seal craved it. My vision blurred, and a haze of dizziness descended. Woozy, I lay down, waiting for the summons to be done.

I awoke to the clopping of hooves. Wearily, I blinked my eyes open. I could see nothing but the legs of the horse upon which the demon sat. Sandy-white, pale as the stone that surrounded us, the horse's colour reminded me of bone. Indeed, it seemed at odd places that osseous growths protruded from the flank, reminding me of sprouting fungi. I scanned for the feet of this newcomer, who undoubtedly was the Knight, if the horse was an indicator of this demon's rank. But there were no human feet in the stirrups, and, indeed, no stirrups nor saddle at all.

My voice caught in my throat. It was not quite a scream, but not an easy, happy sound either. Delayed in my understanding, the full sight of Furcas terrified me. I sat up in a rush, choking on my quick intake of breath. My palm, stained as it was with blood, slipped back as I scrambled away from the bloody seal. I almost prayed. I almost invoked God.

The muscular legs of the horse gave way to human flesh. Indeed, the flank of a human man seemed to split forth from between the horse's hair and then rise up into a man's torso—equally as pale as the horse's flank.

Furcas, Knight of Hell, took the form of a beautiful but intimidating centaur. Its human half was strong, big-bellied, with a long white beard that covered its navel. Muscle bulged in its arms and around its shoulders, and its unkempt beard and long white hair masked much of its face. Its eyes were a dazzling icy blue, and clutched in its clawed hand—fingers long and nails longer—was a spear.

Words failed me. I stared. I think this was the one that shocked me the most, out of all the forms of demons I had seen thus far. Every other form had been unknowable before the moment of my seeing them. But this? Centaurs were a myth to me, something confirmed as an impossibility—and here I was before one, staring at the sutured flesh between human skin and horse flank. The uncanniness of the human part of Furcas, with its all-seeing eyes and hollow cheekbones, only made its lower half more confronting. Its tail was like that of a human skeleton, without any flesh about it at all. It was forked at the end, and it whipped through the air like a cat's. I could do nothing except drop into a low bow, and with my forehead pressed to the ground, I hoped that would be enough to avoid any wrath.

I squeezed my eyes shut. With only the sound of its hooves clopping and my heavy breathing, I could vaguely tell it was circling me. Hesitantly, I craned to look at it. Furcas was not looking at me. It glanced around, seemingly confused, its eyes darting down to the seal where my blood stained the grooves. Furcas cocked its head and bore its sharp, shark-like teeth.

"Lord," I croaked out. Its eyes shot down to me then.

"The summonings I am used to drag me up to Earth," it said. Its voice was unlike anything I had ever heard. It felt ephemeral, somehow abstract, and not wholly physical. I could describe it like a whisper in the wind, a shadow out of the corner of my eyes. It spoke, and I could not be sure that it had. The end of its sentences felt to me like distant memories. "Rarely do I have requests to teach students already condemned to Hell."

Near delirious with confusion, feeling somehow like it had finished its sentence hours ago, I dragged myself upright, hoping this more grounded position would help me focus. "I have not been condemned." Surprisingly, my voice came out harsh. Defiant. "I have entered Hell of my own volition."

Furcas' eyes slid towards me, expression dazzled like it was seeing me for the first time. Its horse body moved around me, eyes never straying as it took me in.

"I see a naked, decrepit human man. Plagued by lust, apparently, if you have fallen into Asmodeus' domain. But, if you have wandered this far into Hell without any of my infernal brethren stopping you, that suggests a mark of wit. A savvy nature. Do you know who I am?"

I recall being frightened to admit how little I knew. From the way it circled me and its talk of summonings, I gathered it assumed I had summoned it for—well, because I wanted Furcas and not as a means to some salacious end. I opened my mouth and regurgitated the titles and honorifics the text had bestowed upon Furcas, the Knight of Hell.

It narrowed its eyes at me, and I knew that it knew I wasn't truly here for it. In a desperate scrabble, I looked about, pointing at the rows of books. "Is this your library?"

Though its expression remained cloudy, Furcas nodded. "Rhetoric, logic, astronomy. . .I teach it all. All the knowledge I craved in Heaven that was denied to me was given to me here. Is this what you wish to learn?"

I hesitated. My eyes dragged over its body and lower to the cock between its equine legs. I shuddered, unclear if I was feeling revulsion or attraction, or that strange mix of both, if taboo was lighting a fire in me, if I could imagine that thing sliding into me, gaping me, splitting me apart.

My cheeks were burning up. I bit my tongue and looked away.

"Tell me why you are here, little human," it said with preternatural calm. "Before you anger me."

I believed wholeheartedly that Furcas' rage would be destructive. It frightened me more than Malphas had; this pared-back desert of a building, these empty halls echoing with lost tomes and dust and silence—a demon whose knighthood was exclusive, who chose to live seemingly isolated.

So, I told it everything in lurid detail, sparing nothing. I invoked Asmodeus as if calling upon my great Lord might spare me from any harm.

When I was finished, Furcas leaned forward. Its curiosity wafted off it, and a grin pricked at its lips.

"You," it said, disbelief clouding its eyes, "summoned Asmodeus?"

I didn't understand its tone. Was it astonished at my bravery? Was it disbelieving that I had managed it?

I opened my mouth to clarify, and it leaned down, human fingers ghosting over my lips. The claws, which were overgrown yellowed nails sharpened to a point, stung as they pressed into the tender flesh of my face. It peeled my lower lip away from my teeth, then dragged those claws across my cheek firmly enough to leave a mark.

"A priest turned expert summoner," Furcas murmured. "Asmodeus is not any easy force to pull from the dredges of Hell. Do you understand? Either you are lying to me, or you intrinsically possess the skill plenty of your mortal brethren try to perfect over decades of study, failed summonings, an, on occasion, covenants made. They make deals with lesser demons before they can summon someone stronger. They gain a little knowledge in exchange for their soul. A gift for a gift." It assessed me, eyes raking down. "But perhaps the well of your lust was so deep even Asmodeus could not deny you."

I did not want to jump up and exclaim, " Yes, precisely!" when it seemed to me that Furcas was implying my soul to be so dripping with lust and longing it had had enough power to call forth Asmodeus. Thinking back on it, I did not recall that first summoning to be difficult. I had longed for a master of sexual depravity to have me. Asmodeus had answered. Was that because I was powerful? Or because Asmodeus had taken pity on me?

With a bravery I had so rarely possessed, I stood at my full height. My head barely came up to Furcas' chest. I could have walked forward and had its pinkish nipple between my teeth, its long white beard a pillow upon which I might rest.

Again, like many of the demons I had encountered, its attractiveness was not native to it—unlike Asmodeus, whose human-like body had incited a fever in me, Furcas terrified me more than aroused me. Yet, locked in that complex string of emotions, I saw myself doing things that might have once disgusted me. I could see my mouth encircling the oversized equine cock, engorging myself on it, turning my body and slipping back onto it, ruining my insides, feeling it in my guts—Furcas' hand slipped beneath my chin.

"You wish to survive this place in order to reach our Lord Asmodeus, King of this Circle, Prince of Lust?"

I nodded pensively into the support of its palm. Furcas pressed its pink tongue to its teeth; the flesh bulged between the filed canines, spilled out between them like minced meat.

"I can impart my wisdom onto you, little priest," it whispered. "For a price, of course."

I'm ashamed to say my eyes wandered, dipping down to that place where, on a human man, a cock would sit. My eyes moved to gaze over a horse-like flank. But Furcas saw me staring. It chuckled low in its throat.

"I am sure that is the price you would like to pay," it said and then seemed to stop itself from finishing the thought. Its fingers drifted from my chin, and I swayed without the additional support.

"The price. . .?" I murmured, hoping to clarify.

But it curled its lip and hissed something too softly for me to hear. Those strange eyes darted to me. "Later. Let me impart my knowledge upon you first."

I did not fight it. It moved away from the circle and sat cat-like on its haunches. Its tail—serpentine, bare-boned and forked at the end—rested gracefully across its hooves. I pointedly did not look at what I knew to be between its legs and sat in a way I would not be tempted to see it, for I feared to anger Furcas.

Like this, we began to talk. Furcas taught, and I listened and learned. Hours passed, and perhaps days, too, sat before it in the abandoned library. It seemed to take pleasure in teaching, and since I was there to give pleasure, I couldn't deny it. When my attention wandered, its human mouth hissed at me and demanded my attention return. Quickly, I gathered all my focus, and gave it to this centaur demon before me.

At first, Furcas taught me more about the hierarchy of Hell—that it had been given the distinctive title of Knight for its chivalry and loyalty during the Fall. When I asked to whom it had been most loyal, it clicked its tongue at me.

"Questions are an inevitable consequence of my tutelage, but I do not always have to answer."

Which was the politest way a demon could have told me to shut up. It had an honour about it, or a belief in itself and its goodness, as if being confined and condemned to the hellish pits hadn't undermined its honour. I came to understand that it did not revel in wrongdoing nor encourage such a thing in the way many of its brethren did. It had taken a deal of sorts, chased knowledge, and refused to give up that pursuit. It had been a servant, no archangel nor favourite of the Lord on high. All it had done was refuse to serve humanity without earning something in return.

"You believed you were above humans?" I clarified.

It said immediately, without emotion, "I am above humans. Anything that fell from Heaven is."

In truth, this did not frighten me. I understand God had made us in the image of his Son, and then declared us above the angels. I had been taught Lucifer's defiance of this had sparked a war. That pride had corrupted Lucifer Morningstar, the adversary, Satan, who had exclaimed:

‘I will ascend to Heaven;

above the stars of God

I will set my throne on high;

I will sit on the mount of assembly

in the far reaches of the north,

I will ascend above the heights of the clouds;

I will make myself like the Most High.'

Isaiah 14

"Our great Lord Satan had been made perfect," Furcas clarified for me. "The greatest beauty, the most perfect angel, formed just so. Imagine a thousand years passing where you are one thing, only for your father to take it all away. To bestow status instead on undeserving mortal life. God's decision enraged my Lord. It enraged a third of God's angels. When I learned that I, too, would need to bow before humanity, who might summon me to answer their questions of rhetoric, logic, or astronomy and provide me nothing in return, is it any wonder I chose to fall and carve out a new life here?"

I did not answer. Something about considering Lucifer, who had been my greatest adversary for most of my life, frightened me. I'd been an agent of God, and thinking of Satan , let alone speaking of him so candidly, had always seemed akin to invoking him or begging him to turn his eye upon you. To think of him like this—a being scorned, a role reversed, an identity confused—made me near empathetic. I baulked at that realisation. My heart began to race. I was sure Furcas noticed, for it stopped talking and leaned forward.

I did not open my eyes. I tried to find comfort in that dark nothingness, hoping I could regain my composure even as nausea twisted in my stomach. Clawed fingers pressed into my soft palate, and only when it began to sting did I blink my eyes open.

Furcas had grown exceptionally close. Its nostrils flared, and the white whiskers of its beard tickled my cheek. It was inhaling me. My body shivered, like some essence was being willed out of my flesh through the pores. Furcas sucked its teeth.

"Frightened, are you?"

I might have laughed if my body could have moved. But I was locked in a trance before it, too nervous to shift away lest those claws slice my throat. Sweat I hadn't noticed began to drip into my eyes, and very gently, Furcas leaned forward and licked my brow clean.

"What have my brethren done about you?" it asked me, pressing for more details. "You mentioned lesser demons and Malphas—who did not enter you?"

It turned my chin this way and that. It did not bother with pretence, not hiding its assessment of me as its eyes raked over my face and body. I opened my mouth to reply, and it squeezed my cheeks together so hard my lips pursed and my face practically distended.

"How did you enter here, little priest?" it whispered, and only when my eyes widened did it release the pressure on my face.

"W-what?" I gasped and then coughed, sliding back ever so slightly on the wooden floor to put even an inch of distance between the two of us. Furcas allowed this with only a raise of its arched brow to suggest it knew I was frightened.

"I believe you heard me clearly."

"Yes," I said, "Yes, I heard you."

Frustration gleamed in the demon's eyes. "How did you come to be in Hell as you are?"

Stop talking back. Who do you think you are?

Blushing, I explained, "I—my Prince told me to find it. To walk into Hell. I tricked a bishop and had him lead me to the Cave of the Sibyl, and there I performed a ritual. The gates opened. But I also. . .I stabbed myself."

I didn't say the rest, but Furcas, with its great knowledge of rhetoric and logic, could hear the unspoken words. It tipped its head thoughtfully. "Ah. . .you can't tell if you're dead or alive?"

I thought of the numerous notes on my scent the demons had given me. That I reeked of the light and of life, like godliness and incense and oxygen had knitted into my skin. I thought of the hags in Malphas' territory who had fed me to settle my stomach and keep me grounded in this realm.

I told Furcas, "I think I am alive."

It nodded thoughtfully, standing and walking to the bookshelves. "I believe you are. Some humans have entered Hell before, you know. Entered being the crucial term there. Plenty of humanity's souls have haunted the abyss for a long while. But, of the way you entered, you are not the first."

My stomach twisted, and heat fired behind my eyes. My heart raced, and I realised I did not know what I was feeling—except terrible, and worthless, and barely alive. "Who?" I demanded. "For Asmodeus?"

Furcas looked at me over the shelves. The milky white eyes unsettled me from this distance, blurring as they did into the demon's beard and hair. It bore those sharp teeth at me and began to cackle. The laughter went on, distended and elongated and entirely unnecessary. I baulked standing before Furcas, whose old face bobbed oddly as if decapitated, body hidden as it was behind the shelves. Then, Furcas' jaw cracked and inexplicably began to lower. It dropped uncomfortably wide and then wider still; I saw the yawning chasm of its tar-black throat, the slate grey of its tongue like meat about to turn. The sharp teeth were rotten in places, and the gums were green. The jaw lowered and lowered until the impossibility of the mouth was near hilarious—though I could not laugh. I could not even dream of laughing. Pink fleshy tendon knitted the top and bottom rows of teeth together, and as the jaw stretched, so too did this poor suture, which at times began to snap.

I became so dizzy with fear that I began to scream.