Chapter 22

The silence suffocating the hall thickens until it congeals.

Minutes ago, everyone would have considered Azazel’s dismemberment statement a tasteless joke. But after he gratuitously maimed many of us as an introduction, everyone must believe he means it.

I have no doubt he does.

The buzz of panic mushrooms all around like a high-voltage current. But though I feel he has lifted his compulsion, no one can move. Not even to save themselves or others from bleeding to death. No one will risk being singled out by this monster.

This is the reaction he meant to provoke. That was his purpose for that opening act of wanton violence.

This guy is a lunatic!

Or maybe this is just what it means to be Fallen.

He feels on par with the archangels in power, but while they felt somewhat detached from the world, this guy is very…present, very…fleshly, what I mistook for having human qualities.

But then again, he does. He radiates the cruel cunning of a sadist, and the insectoid energy of a serial killer.

And they made him our teacher!

Those archangels are more out of touch than I thought.

Even if this place were the best place on earth, this Azazel guy is enough reason to get Sarah out of here, at any cost.

Azazel suddenly cackles. “Kidding!”

Tension becomes stifling as I feel everyone’s confusion rising. They don’t know what to believe, must be hoping against all hope that he didn’t mean the havoc he caused, or for it to go this far, that he isn’t as monstrous as the bleeding evidence proves.

He shatters any wishful thinking when he grins. “You’ll die in one piece.”

As gasps tear around the auditorium, Azazel’s smile widens. “My tests are designed with only two possible outcomes. Pass—live. Fail—die. You’re training to become soldiers of Heaven, and in war there is no place for weak mediocrities and foolish failures. The archangels want only the best, even if they are inane cowards who can’t announce their terms in such clarity. And no, not them, not anyone else has any say in my curriculum, nor have they approved my tests. I have full autonomy, according to my personal clause in the Armistice Accords. So don’t think you can run to them complaining. My only concession to their idiotic qualifications is making everything fair. As if anything in this cosmos is ‘fair.’”

He frowns, his angelic-blue eyes darkening, and with it the auditorium, and my mind.

The horrors I can suddenly see, the curdling blood and burning flesh I can taste, almost make me hurl once more.

I’m somehow seeing the contents of his mind, his memory. Being forced to exercise fairness in an unfair existence bothers him so much, he’s bleeding horror and siphoning light and hope from his surroundings. Involuntarily, it feels. I can’t imagine the brunt of his darkness if he cast it out on purpose, and in full force.

But the most disturbing thing is something else I feel. That not all the terrible appetites I’m sensing are issuing from him…

Sarah squeezes my hand tighter, bringing me back to the moment.

I find myself still staring at his eyes, now clearing to their vivid blueness, as if at another thought that pleases him.

Choking sounds echo all around as light floods the auditorium again.

Azazel grins. “In observance of said fairness, you’ll be given the knowledge and tools you need to pass. And this ain’t no lie, since we Fallen only tell the brutally ugly truth. If you fail, your gruesome death is on you.”

With that final cruelty, Azazel turns from the podium, extending an arm to the man two steps behind him. The man who’s actually a demon. I can always tell.

Failing that one’s classes probably comes at a worse penalty than dismemberment. Maybe he’ll sell us an organ at a time—while keeping us alive till the day he auctions our hearts.

This really keeps getting better and better.

Azazel leans in over the podium, as if speaking confidentially, and being louder than ever. “Now I turn you over to one of your many useless professors—the lackluster Astaroth. Look him up, too, and yes, he’s that Astaroth. Though, a word of warning—the online information on him comes from your asinine human ‘sources,’ and they make him sound impressive and important. Since he’s neither, he’s going to be teaching you the supreme snooze fests of Preworld: Basics of the Pre-Apocalypse, and Afterworld: Introduction to the Post-Apocalypse. Also since he’s a weakling, his classes don’t come with death attached to failure. I expect many of you will flunk them, for lack of motivation. But inattentive, truant brats are the least he deserves. While you will get what you deserve in my classes.”

Really? The demon offers a kinder fate? Where’s the catch?

Azazel smacks Astaroth on the back, in that way obnoxious bullies belittle and have fun at weaker men’s expense. The crack of his palm is an explosion that has us all jumping in our seats. If Astaroth were human, the front rows would be splattered in his body parts and fluids.

With that last put down, Azazel walks through Astaroth, slamming him in the shoulder and head. Just like that demoness did to me what feels like a week ago.

As soon as Azazel clears the podium, giving us his back for the first time, I see the red engulfing the bottom of his icy-white wings. At first glance, I think his wings are turning red, maybe as a consequence of being Fallen. Then I realize it’s blood. And it’s still dripping.

I feel my shudder echoing in Sarah, and throughout the auditorium.

The demon takes the podium, but no one pays him any attention. After being freed from Azazel’s threat, the auditorium explodes in the panicked efforts he suppressed, to save themselves and others.

The demon clears his throat.

The sound isn’t as loud and encompassing as Azazel’s voice, but it still snaps everyone’s attention to him, in anticipation of another nightmare.

“Cadets, please remain seated,” Astaroth says, his voice the very sound of calm authority. “Those of you who are injured, or trying to help the injured, please refrain from further action.”

So the angel cuts us up, and the demon stops us from helping ourselves? This is that unlikely duo’s evil plan?

As panicked objections rise, Astaroth raises a hand. “I have alerted the Sanatorium, and a team of healers are on their way. Please don’t compound your injuries by any ill-advised efforts.”

Silence descends on the hall. This is also the last thing I expected a demon to say.

But true to his word, in under a minute, the locked doors are thrown open, and six angels and six nephilim enter the auditorium.

They descend on the scene, dealing with all injuries in mouth-dropping efficiency, no doubt aided by healing magic. They bundle those with severe injuries for transfer and take them away, leaving the others bandaged and obviously high on pain-relieving meds or incantations.

Meanwhile, another team who look human, probably Angel-Graced, has swept in to tackle Azazel’s bloody disaster scene. In under ten minutes, everything is restored to its previous pristine condition.

Man, I would have loved those cleaning/clearing spells during my years in Demonica.

Once everyone is gone, the cadets whip out their phones again to research Astaroth.

For once, I’m not feeling left out without internet. I already know Astaroth. Of him.

Living in demon territory, you hear a lot about the higher ups in the hierarchy. And this demon isn’t any higher up. He’s supposedly the Great Duke of Hell, in the first hierarchy with Beelzebub and Lucifer, a part of the trinity of evil.

His appearance suggests none of these things. Contrary to the outdoorsy, Wild-West-outlaw look of Azazel, this guy appears cultured and suave, a perfectly put-together, outstanding late-thirties/early-forties. When not standing next to the massive Azazel, he’s a very tall, very handsome man who fills his three-piece suit exceptionally well. With his slicked back thick black hair and monocle he resembles some aristocrat or inventor from the early nineteen hundreds.

When everyone raises their eyes from their screens, disturbed, but also confused after he helped us, Astaroth clears his throat again.

“Now that the—disruption has been dealt with, let me at last welcome you to Celestial Academy.” Astaroth flicks a graceful gesture to encompass us, and a calm descends. Not over me, but clearly over the others. I didn’t know demons could do that. “I hoped I’d be the first to address you, but my—colleague ‘called dibs’ on giving you your introductory speech. I hope it hasn’t disheartened you—too much. I urge you not to dwell on it. In previous years those who didn’t heed that advice, suffered greatly. Some with breakdowns that ended in suicide.”

As that generalized gasp I’m getting used sweeps around the hall, he sighs in regret as he takes off his monocle. He wipes it for moments, before rearranging the crisp white handkerchief in his breast pocket with utmost care. It’s as if he’s pondering what to say next.

Once the monocle is wedged back into his eye socket, Astaroth sighs again. “I hope you’ll prove Professor Azazel wrong, and excel in my classes without needing lethal incentives. Now, let me take your minds off all that unpleasantness, by applying them to practical matters you can control. I will start by outlining your coursework for your first semester.”

For the next hour, I’m sorry to say, I prove Azazel right.

Without the threat of execution hanging over my head, my attention soon wanders away from Astaroth, before it blinks out completely.