Poor Son of Hell
“You’re late,” Duke Zapporo said.
From an alley, a gangly man in a trench coat stepped into view. “Never can be too careful.”
Zapporo raised a cigar to his mouth. The Charleston Gold ignited on contact with the devil’s mouth and he inhaled, savoring the flavor. “We’re clean. And lateness is no excuse.”
Norman West glanced up, inspecting Zapporo’s devilish visage. “Not when the Imperial Bureau of Investigation has been cracking down hard on the Black Market lately. Emperor Theodore sent Special Agent Elliot Ness to shut down Capone’s outfit.”
“Then it lies in both our interests to finish this business quickly,” Zapporo said. Interesting. Ness’s involvement is going to complicate further business here in Chicago.
“You got it, Zappo. You’ll excuse me for bringin’ a couple of my boys along,” Norman said and he snapped his fingers. More shapes materialized from the alley, shambling like stunted men. Tattered flesh hung from the vacant faces of the zombies, and their hobbling gait wouldn’t win races anytime soon.
I hate necromancers. “Far be it for me to forbid you your security,” Zapporo said. “Did you bring what I require?”
“Yeah, I got the thing. Tricky business, getting’ hold of it. All the dough’s there too.”
“Give it here.”
Norman’s hand vanished into his coat, reappearing with a fist-sized bag jingling with coins. He tossed it to Zapporo who snatched it from the air.
Sixty-sixty golden American dollars sat inside, but the newly minted 1929 coins were chicken feed compared to why Zapporo was here. The reason sat in an isolated pocket of the pouch. Zapporo drew out a gray pendant and held it against the brilliant light of Chicago’s skyline.
Time’s inexorable march had worn the pendant’s luster away, and the sigil on the face was nearly obliterated. Not even the stingiest miser would pick the trinket up from the street if they happened across it.
“I gotta ask, Zappo. What’s it for? Don’t look like much, tell you the truth,” Norman asked.
“As far as you’re concerned, necromancer, it’s a fashion accessory. You need not trouble yourself,” Zapporo said. At least I’m not the only one in the dark about this thing. But when Beelzebub, Zapporo’s superior, wanted something, he got it. “Everything appears to be in order.”
The bag vanished into Zapporo’s dark coat. He nabbed another pouch and tossed it to Norman who nearly dropped it before peering at the powder inside.
“Don’t look like much.”
Zapporo narrowed his eyes. “I hold to the arrangement as agreed. One Imperial pound of hamadryad dust. Good for strengthening dead flesh, and seasoning roasted chicken if you’re feeling peckish.”
Norman’s eyes sparkled with greed. “Good. Good. Anythin’ to get these zombie-bozos working better. Last batch ripped my assistant’s throat out. Made a real mess too. If this works, I’m gonna have all of eastern Canadian-America under my thumb.”
“Ambitious. Not since the War of American Succession has there ever been a more ambitious plan.”
Norman scowled in response. “Hey, I ain’t no House Jefferson flunky. I think my plans through. But, what can I say? Some people wanna leave their mark on the world. I’m gonna leave a stain.”
“Such evocative imagery. Pleasure doing business with you,” Zapporo said, and turned to leave.
A disembodied voice penetrated the silence as he retreated. “Finished, Zapporo? Then we can continue to other affairs.”
Zapporo jerked to a stop, and spun on his heels to face the newcomer. His hand instinctively shot to the grip of one of his holstered guns. I know that voice.
“Hey, Zappo. You said we was secure. Who’s this clown? I smell a rat,” Norman said.
A solitary figure stood illuminated by a beam of light from the street lamp a dozen yards away. He held the aura of a performer in the spotlight, waiting for the orchestra to begin his performance. The lamps only served to better highlight his ivory skin and golden hair poking from beneath his fedora. His light tan coat billowed behind him in a nonexistent breeze.
“Ramiel,” Zapporo said.
“Inquisitor Ramiel, actually,” the seraph corrected.
“Inquisitor? You’ve moved up since I last saw you. Was the lackey business too unfulfilling? Did you decide to branch out to elite prude?” Inquisitors sat among the highest echelon of the Celestial Inquisition, Heaven’s equivalent to America’s Imperial Bureau of Investigation. They were elite agents, love wolves aimed at Heaven’s enemies. He and Ramiel’s paths hadn’t crossed since the Crusades forced the Infernal Host from Jerusalem.
Ramiel shrugged. “They must have been desperate. You’ve changed too. Horns and the red skin. Good choice of trench coat. It matches your eyes.”
Zapporo bared his pointed teeth. “What do you want, Ramiel? I’ve business to attend to.”
Ramiel’s smile vanished. “Come now. Can’t we banter like old times? When the Betrayer fell, he took the decent conversationalists with him. I do so miss our talks, Azariel.”
“Don’t ever use that name, you frolicking fop,” Zapporo said. “Much as I’d love to chat, I’d sooner bash my skull open with a brick.”
“A brick?”
“Yes. It’s a fine tradition. You should try it.”
Ramiel sighed. “Very well, Zapporo. Ten-thousand years in Dis seems to have sapped you of humor, so I’ll snap to the chase. You’re in violation.”
Zapporo blinked. Becoming an Inquisitor had apparently straightened the twit’s spine, and bestowed him with the arrogance common among elder angels. The old Ramiel would be avoiding this confrontation, not pushing forward.
“Violation of what?” Zapporo asked.
“Section thirty-six-dot-two. Trafficking illicit goods on the mortal plane.”
Zapporo grunted. “Didn’t know it was against any accords.”
“You’ve done penance for it thirty-seven times.”
Zapporo smirked. “Oh right. That violation. Good times, those were. So you’re working with Elliot Ness and Emperor Teddy’s boys?”
“It’s not so hard to imagine. The IBI and the Inquisition hold similar goals.” Ramiel’s eyes narrowed. “Though I’ll admit curiosity, Zapporo. This isn’t typical of your methods. My reports don’t show you playing delivery-boy to two-bit necromancers. You always called the shots and played in the big leagues. Seems a step down.”
Zapporo shrugged. “I owed a debt. Had to repay it and I got offered this charming opportunity.”
“You devils and your debts. I still don’t understand why you’d hold to such bizarre traditions.”
“Despite what you may think, Inquisitor, we still have honor. I always pay my debts.”
Ramiel loosed a trilling laugh. The soft silky sound awoke in Zapporo a desire to punch the angel’s face in. “And you owe Heaven a debt for your actions here. Will you answer for your interference?”
“And merrily skip away with you to Elysium? To be banished to the moon or another forsaken place?”
Ramiel nodded.
“And you intend to force compliance by yourself?”
The seraph nodded again. Arrogance.
“Not blessed likely,” Zapporo said, whipping both Smith & Wesson Dragons from their holsters.
The fifty-five caliber hand cannons roared like their mythological namesake, and each howl kicked with enough force to pulverize the wrists of any not braced mortal. But Zapporo wasn’t some mortal.
Neither was Ramiel. The dull Chicago twilight evaporated into day as his radiant wings extended and he sprung like a mongoose, twisting away from the hail of Hellfire bullets. The infernal slugs shattered divots into the roadway, spraying molten debris across the street. The Inquisitor effortlessly drew his Browning 1918 Avenger handgun. The polished long-barreled revolver roared in harmony with Zapporo’s hand cannons, creating a madman’s percussive duet.
Above the reports, Norman West could be heard crying out, probably in fear. Zapporo drowned out the wails as he ducked around a nearby building. The Avenger’s blessed slugs shrieked past him, impacting into the wall and sending scintillating energy across the battlefield. With practiced movements, he reloaded both Dragons. The cylinder swung out, spent cartridges clinking to the ground to char the sidewalk with infernal heat. Six new rounds slid inside with a practiced deftness normally tricky with two guns at once. Tricky but not impossible.
A sound emanated above the lulling gun reports, the characteristic moan of air rushing through rotted lungs. Four of Norman West’s reanimated appeared, two of which shambled towards Zapporo.
Bless it all to Heaven. The lowlife grave-robber had panicked, sending his pets after both outsiders while he ran like a craven. Judging from their still present stumble, Norman hadn’t applied any hamadryad dust. Had he done so, they’d be a bigger problem.
He flicked his wrists, snapping the cylinders closed. When I’m done here, he’s next.
He risked a quick glance towards Ramiel. The seraph sheltered behind a waist-high concrete wall. The Avenger blasted white arcs across the road, exploding fist-sized holes in the reanimated. The two closing on him crumpled to the ground, holy energy dispelling necromantic magic. The bodies shuddered violently and went still.
The other two approached Zapporo at the same leisurely stumble. He calmly blasted twice, turning both corpses to burning sacks of meat. With the irritation out of the way, he peaked around the corner and slammed several thundering shots at Ramiel. The seraph sensed the incoming blasts and jerked down behind the wall. The missed impacts decorated burning hellfire onto the wall and road, soaking the air with the stark smell of brimstone.
Zapporo held his fire, and waited. Ramiel had to move eventually. He’ll move for new shelter and-- The angel broke cover, surging into the open. His Avenger lit up with suppressing fire.
Most mortals would take cover. Zapporo didn’t. He calmly tracked the angel, ignoring the shots sizzling past him, and fired. Ramiel lurched and cartwheeled to the ground as the bullet found flesh. Zapporo smiled, and stepped from behind the wall. He wasn’t as distractible as Zapporo remembered, but he was predictable.
As Zapporo approached, the angelic blood staining Ramiel’s storm coat glistened in the streetlight. “We should have discussions like this more oft--” Zapporo said.
From behind, a strong hand latched onto Zapporo’s foot, nearly tripping him onto the concrete.
“Bless it all to Heaven,” he spat, twisting to see both reanimated still crawling toward him, flaming organs and bodily parts dragging behind their charred forms. One gripped tightly on his leg. That necromancer had used the dust. Not much, but barely enough to increase their fortitude. Zapporo aimed for their heads.
Blam.
Blam.
A third shot. Blam. Not one of his.
He looked back at Ramiel. The Inquisitor’s quivering hand aimed the Avenger at him. Smoke whispered from the barrel accompanied by the rapid clicking signaling an empty chamber.
Zapporo smiled. “You missed.” He aimed a Dragon at the angel and fired. Ramiel jerked, and then vanished, the result of the Almighty’s Mercy, a failsafe of sorts which transported wounded angels from danger. The seraph was back in Elysium. He’d live, swallow his newfound pride, and return with backup. Zapporo intended to be gone.
He holstered both Dragons and took a step forward. Agony surged up his leg, a vicious beast tearing towards his heart. The leg buckled and he crumbled to the street. Dark blood bubbled up from the thigh wound; a testament to Ramiel’s shot. Blessed seraph didn’t miss. No failsafes for the Fallen. Blackness took him.
#
A steady drumbeat dragged Zapporo back to consciousness. Each percussive throb reverberated through his sore form, forcing him to wince with each pulse. The rhythmic cacophony slowly solidified into his heartbeat.
He shuddered and struggled to sit up. He knew it was a poor decision when fire screeched up his leg, not-so-subtly reminding him moving around wasn’t a good idea.
His muscles relaxed, collapsing him back onto cold concrete. His eyes finally tore free from their eyelid prisons. Unforgiving daylight cascaded into view, filtering through cracks in the ramshackle hut sheltering him. A pitiful structure, as if made by some despondent scrap-shop using whatever junk was handy.
“Yeah, you probably shouldn’t move,” a man’s voice said. “I patched up more than a few people, but I’m no expert on outsiders.”
“You a doctor?” Zapporo asked.
A hearty chuckle answered. “If I was, I wouldn’t be sitting in a shanty like this. Well, unless I was a pretty bad doctor.”
A figure appeared standing over him and blocking the sunlight. The scrap shop constructors of the shelter could have made the man too. Ragged clothing and disorderly hair graced his form.
“Henry Feist,” he said. He held up a right arm ending in a stump. “You’ll forgive me for not shaking your hand.”
“Duke Zapporo,” Zapporo said. “How did I come to be here?”
“Found you lying in the street last night. Saw the whole thing. First thought it another of Ness and Capone’s shoot-outs. Neither seem to care who’s caught in the cross fire,” Henry said. “Then I saw the angel and your red skin and decided a hospital wasn’t the best plan.”
That was an understatement. Zapporo knew if he ended up there, Emperor Theodore I would personally travel from the Imperial Capital to fire a bullet into his face. Zapporo respected the Emperor of America, but didn’t intend on lining up to shake his hand. Mortal authorities disliked hell interfering in their countries, a product of bygone times when mortals were incapable of defending themselves. Now they responded to intrusions with a subtle application of artillery strikes and heavy gunfire.
Still, this is blessed wonderful. Indebted to a mortal. “Then I owe you a Debt for your assistance.”
Henry chuckled again. “No debt. You’d have done the same.”
“No, I wouldn’t. This isn’t easily dismissed. It is a debt of spiritual nature.”
“How so? I don’t want your money,” Henry said.
“Honor means nothing to mortals, but we outsiders still have standards. Were I to do something for someone without their asking, Debt is incurred, and they repay me before they do anything else.” Zapporo started to mention the result if a Debt wasn’t repaid, but held his tongue. That’s the sort of leverage one doesn’t spread openly.
“Honor among the damned?” Henry asked.
“Ironic, isn’t it?”
“So you just pay me a chunk of dough and we’re square?”
“Money isn’t sufficient. I gotta return the favor to settle. Or maybe you die, and the Debt becomes null.”
Henry leaned back. “You gonna try taking me down? I might not have both hands, but I’m stronger than you’d think.”
Zapporo shook his head. “No. Terms of the accord demand cooperation with the debtor. It’s why I answer your questions and don’t kill you.”
Wait, money? Zapporo’s hand shot for Norman’s bag. The bulge of jingling coins remained, but he made a swift count of the treasures. Emperor George I, first American Emperor and founder of House Washington, stared back from the faces of sixty-six golden dollars. The carved relief’s piercing eyes bored into Zapporo, as if daring him to answer for this interruption.
The bag was untouched, as was the gray pendant. Beelzebub wouldn’t look kindly on him losing the trinket to an enterprising drifter. All I need is to fumble the goods. There’d be Heaven to pay in that event.
The man watched him. “Gimme some credit here, I’m no pickpocket or vulture scrounging off the dead. I work for my money when such jobs are handy. So you with Capone’s outfit? Always figured he had some infernal assets.”
“No. I work for a different backstabber. Beelzebub. Hate the scum, but I held a debt to him as well.”
“And he wanted American dollars? I thought you boys used souls for money.”
Zapporo’s leg thrummed with pain. “We abandoned that financial model decades ago. Mortal population is expanding and is nicely mirrored in souls entering Hell. The inflation nearly collapsed our economy until the Morning Star halted the crumble by forcing us to the gold standard.”
“The Morning Star as in…”
Zapporo nodded. “Yeah, the big guy himself.”
“Wow. Satan preventing economic collapse. How does Hell pull that off while human fat cats crash the stock market? Who’s more evil?”
Zapporo chuckled. “I’m sure he’d be happy to hear you say that.”
Henry looked to the bandage. “About that wound, you need I should do something?”
Zapporo sighed “It will heal quickly. I’ll live.” The pulsing pain threatened otherwise.
“Your femur’s sort of snapped. I checked. Doesn’t lend too well for walking unless I miss my guess.”
Zapporo sighed, grabbed a dollar from the bag and flicked it to Henry. “You want to help, grab me some cigars. Good ones.” Hell knows I’ll need ‘em the next while. Until his leg healed, he was stuck.
#
Henry left and returned with what Zapporo asked for. He stayed, talked a little, and then left again to attend to something called “drifter business”. Zapporo asked no questions.
Instead he touched a new cigar to his lips and took a long drag on the Charleston Gold, as he watched Chicago through a gap in the aluminum scrap wall. Every moment ticking past risked Beelzebub’s wrath but until Zapporo healed up, all he could do was watch the city.
The city was impressive, but held no candle to Hell’s capital, Dis. In the center of the sprawling metropolis, the Lincoln Tower rose above the concrete ocean to pierce a sky bustling with limitless varieties of airship. From the spire, Robert I, lord of House Lincoln and the Great Lakes, ruled over his domain. Son of Emperor Abraham I, who ended the War of American Succession, Robert I abdicated the throne twenty years ago, in favor of the rising House Roosevelt whose founder succeeded him as Emperor. An interesting man, no doubt. One who willingly relinquished total control of an empire.
From what Zapporo knew of Robert I, he was an intelligent and shrewd ruler, but even he wasn’t strong enough to bat away the severe depression gripping his city. To the best of Zapporo’s knowledge, no House held economic control over their domains, from House Hamilton in New York all the way to House Tesla in California.
From what Zapporo knew of Robert I, he was an intelligent and shrewd ruler, but even he wasn’t strong enough to bat away the severe depression gripping his city. To the best of Zapporo’s knowledge, no House held economic control over their domains, from House Hamilton in New York all the way to House Tesla in California.
Despite the Lincoln Tower’s grandeur, the spire contrasted against the Windy City like one smooth patch of skin on an otherwise destitute leper. Henry wasn’t the only drifter here, judging by the procession of tramps wearing patchwork suits who passed by like actors at the end of their careers. Nothing in life save poverty and hunger sat in their immediate futures yet they still continued with life.
His thoughts vacated as Henry walked in holding two bowls from the soup kitchen. Zapporo accepted his without a word. “Soup” gave the dish more credit than it deserved. The broth’s introduction to flavor probably involved brief exposures to pictures of meats and vegetables. Zapporo drank it anyway.
Henry took a sip of the broth. “You’re not what I expected for a devil, you know.”
“I suspect a compliment?”
“Maybe. Preachers drone about the Devil’s vile legions and Faustian bargains and all that. And you folks weren’t exactly great to us during the Dark Ages. But you don’t fit the part.”
Zapporo smiled. “Our evil isn’t vice and sin as you might believe. Some, maybe, but not all. Our evil lay in ancient choices. Our decision to damn ourselves rather than be slaves.”
“Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven?”
“Precisely. Ramiel, the angel who shot me, was a brother to me once. But he was weak and chose ignorance, chaining himself to the Almighty’s will. I chose freedom and became the master of my own life. For that, I was damned.”
Henry frowned at Zapporo. “Well, es that fair to Ramiel? Was he weak? You talk about damning yourself for free-will one moment and fulfilling debts the next. By being indebted, aren’t you chaining yourself to me?”
“They’re not the same,” Zapporo snapped.
“If you’re the master of your life, why are you running errands for that Beelzebub fellow?”
“Say what you wish, but don’t presume to understand my motivations. They’re beyond your mortal knowledge.”
Henry looked skeptical. “It’s likely, but what if Ramiel chose duty towards the Almighty? He upheld an obligation you didn’t.”
Zapporo glared. “Obligation? What do you know of obligations?”
Henry was silent for a moment. “I’m no stranger to obligations. I learned about it when I lost my hand Over There.”
“The Great War started ‘bout fourteen years ago. The frogs invaded Belgium to circumvent Germany’s Schlieffen Line. Their--”
Zapporo interrupted. “Frogs?”
“Common moniker for the URSF. The Union de Républiques Socialistes Françaises.” He said the Jacobin’s national title with an air of false pompousness. “Damn French. Everyone had nicknames. Britannia was limeys, Russians were Ivans, the Papal Confederacy were papists, Germany got Fritz. We were Yanks. Anyway, their Maginot Plan required them striking down the Kaiser before America mobilized. Emperor Theodore declared Germany wouldn’t stand alone, and called for immediate mass conscription.”
Henry’s gaze stayed locked to the ground. “At the time I’d been married over a year and my wife Maggie just had a son. I didn’t wait for my number to come up. With a month, I sat in a carrier zeppelin, watching New York vanish on the horizon.”
He paused, choosing his next words wisely. “Then the Battle of New York hit two years later. It was limey and frog’s last real offensive, aimed at capturing the Eastern seaboard. Field Marshals Foch and French wanted to grab Emperor Theodore and force him to end hostilities. The limeys managed to take New York but the rest of the offensive died. Margaret and my son never got out. Still don’t know what happened to them.”
“I should have been there, but there was a job to do. When I heard about the invasion, I requested to join the counter attack and was denied.” He sighed, but his voice remained flat. “Denied the chance to ride with Emperor Theodore, as he and two-thousand Sons of Liberty led the counteroffensive into New York and hurled the limey-bastards into the sea.”
“And you stayed at the front?” Zapporo asked.
“What could I do? Desert? Find a boat to escape on? I had a hard time just staying alive. The boundaries of the front fluctuated constantly. The red sky seethed with artillery zeppelins hurling shells into one another or the trenches. Saw a German carrier offloading a battalion of rocket soldiers until a stray shell turned it into a mile-long inferno. French Gold Legionnaires spat fire into my friends, while the Kaiser’s plague troops spat chlorine into theirs. Walking artillery turned the entire region into some otherworldly hell.”
Ghosts of the past danced across vacant eyes, and his flat tones became hollow.
“I saw men I’d known since day one, shredded into beef tartar. You know how difficult it is to sleep when all you can hear is mutilated boys in no-man’s-land screaming for their mothers? For death? And all the while, I fought and led, never hesitating to I send those boys out there. I had a duty to do but no time to mourn for my wife and son.”
He shook his head. “Any doubts dissipated when I met the Himmelstürmer. Rocket soldiers. Fellows who’d latch five gallons of petroleum and an Oberursel engine onto their backs, then launch themselves out of zeppelins or trenches into enemy lines. Bravest bastards I ever met. Most were younger than fourteen. Rockets went further with less weight. Bunch of eggheads ran a study on ‘em. Forty-seconds. Average life-span of a rocket-jumper after deployment. These boys knew that and did it anyway. Packed up and left their families to hurl themselves into danger. How could I maintain any doubts or fears seeing what they faced?”
Another sigh. “I only found time to mourn my family while laying in a hospice, recovering from a non-fatal wound. Lots of time to reflect there. Survivor’s guilt, they call it. Me thinking I should have been in New York. There were friends in the same boat, who lost family there. They’d get up from their cot with their sidearm, walk behind a nearby shed and swallow a bullet.”
“And you didn’t?”
“Me and bullets have an understanding I guess. They know enough to stay away.” Henry shrugged. “I never was a quitter. You know how George I became the first American Emperor?”
Zapporo cleared his throat. “As I recall, with the British defeated, the Rebels created a democracy which fractured overnight. Washington’s army acclaimed he become emperor, and, seeing the infighting of the Continental Congress, he accepted.”
Henry nodded. “Emperor George didn’t want the burden but took it anyway. He never quit just because it was hard. He knew if he gave up, events could take a turn for the worst. While I recovered I thought about on his decision. So I knew rather than give up, I’d keep going in the hopes I could continue to be of service. If by my death I’d let another live free, I will. I won’t take a coward’s way out when work needs doing.”
He left his own soup on the floor and stood. “That’s what I know about obligation. I need some fresh air.”
He left through the entrance and Zapporo watched his exit. His duty cost him everything, but he doesn’t regret it. Is Ramiel the same? Was he conflicted between freedom and honor? Was he weak? Or am I?
#
Days passed as Zapporo healed. Henry never opened up as he did before, but a bond of sorts now hung between the pair. Both of them were outcasts just trying to get by in a way. Zapporo held little conversations beyond small talk and spent much of his recuperation deep in thought.
On the fifth day, Zapporo sat against the cold concrete floor with the last cigar smoldering away on his lip. He’d be in for it now. Beelzebub was never known as the most patient of devils and he wanted the blessed pendant immediately.
Outside, the nighttime symphony of Chicago continued through its second movement, about the point in time most folks turned in to the evening. But the music was interrupted by a sudden cacophony of banging metal from outside the shelter.
He dragged his aching body to the entrance and peered out. Three men stood near an alley access thirty feet away. Henry was one, easily identified by his grungy silhouette. The other two wore tan trench coats, not unlike Ramiel’s. They weren’t outsiders, just unfriendly mortals. Without the shack to muffle their voices, Zapporo listened in.
“You sure you didn’t see anythin’ here last night? You might wanna think ‘bout that answer,” Goon One said.
“Well, I did see a road, some buildings, some litter. A flock of geese. It was a nice night,” Henry said.
“Got ourselves a funny man, O’Hara.”
“Regular comedian,” Goon Two said.
“Do the House Lincoln authorities know you’re here?” Henry asked. “Threatening people in Emperor Robert’s city is liable to--”
Goon One interrupted by drawing a revolver and sticking it in Henry’s face. “Lord Lincoln won’t shed a tear if we squash another roach mucking around on his streets. Now you gonna answer, or I gotta entice you?”
These must be Elliot Ness’s hired muscle. Between Ness’s thugs and Capone's, the only real difference seemed to be an official sanction. Men like these were loyal to whoever kept them paid and out of prison. And by the sound of it, these thugs were looking for him. Ramiel is definitely in cahoots with the IBI.
Henry stiffened as the gun barrel pressed into his forehead but he remained silent. A click echoed as the thug drew the hammer back. Zapporo realized if he fired, his Debt to Henry dissolved. Could leave here tomorrow. Full recovery wasn’t too far away.
The thug pushed the gun harder into Henry’s forehead. “Gonna count to three, and if you haven’t answered me…”
Henry stood defiantly, and the goon cast a nervous glance at his partner. “One. Two.”
There was a roar and Goon One crashed to the ground. A second of silence passed before Zapporo realized he’d fired the shot.
The other bruiser, O’Hara, flinched in shock before stumbling backwards into a sprawl. His eyes found Zapporo and widened. Zapporo fired again, and the hellfire shot transformed the man into a human torch.
“Three,” Zapporo said.
Henry watched the immolation for a moment, before looking to Zapporo. “You shot him. Why?”
“Cause I aimed and pulled the trigger.”
“If they’d killed me, your debt becomes void.”
“Terms demand I give you my cooperation. That extends to harm prevention,” Zapporo said. It didn’t, but the truth was worse. He didn’t know why.
Henry accepted the explanation and looked back at the conflagration. “Thank God for that. Those were Ness’s boys.”
“I figured as much.”
“They were looking for you. But I can’t figure how they knew where you were.”
Zapporo shrugged “Bound to find me eventually. Ramiel tipped them off. I thought Ramiel was bluffing when he said he was working with Ness. The Celestial Inquisition secretly works with mortal authorities like the IBI if they are after the same thing.”
“Shutting Capone down?”
“More than likely. Never had any dealings with the man, but his outfit is probably the largest dealer in Black Market goods smuggled out of Hell. Stands to reason Heaven would aid his opposition.”
Henry was silent for a moment. “What now?”
Zapporo smiled. “Wait. Even with both of the lackeys down, Ramiel will know something’s happened. He and probably Ness will show soon. Stay clear when the shooting starts. By Celestial law, he can’t harm you unless you interfere, but in a gunfight…”
“Stray bullets?”
“That’s the thing about friendly fire. It ain’t friendly.”
Henry smirked. “Zapporo, I stormed across trenches with a blizzard of bullets spraying over my head. I once scaled a French Renault walking artillery piece to hand deliver the crew a basket of grenades. I’ll only get hit if I let it happen.” He looked at goon one’s corpse. “Gonna go move the bodies… ashes that is. Doubt it means much if Ramiel knows you’re here. But someone’s gotta keep a tidy yard.”
He continued speaking as he walked to the body. “Even if you were duty-bound to keep me alive, you still returned my favor.” He paused. “Do I gotta say something specific to settle the Debt?”
Zapporo felt a weight on his shoulders vanish. “No. That’ll do it.”
#
Zapporo stood up. The simple act after being ground-bound was ecstasy, and he felt invincible. Now he just had to face down Ramiel, and then temp Beelzebub’s wrath over his blessed pendant. All in a day’s work.
Henry watched him. “That healed up pretty quick.”
“Must be the cigars. They’re therapeutic,” Zapporo said. “It's time I left. You have my commendations for your aid.”
“And mine for yours. Don’t get yourself shot.”
The devil shook his head. “That’s unavoidable.”
Then he pulled Norman’s bag out. Dozens of gold dollars nested inside, each probably a month’s pay. He grabbed Beelzebub’s pendant from inside before tossing the pouch to Henry.
He looked inside, then at Zapporo. “Can’t say what I’d do with this. My family is gone, and I can’t buy them back.”
“You’ll find something to do with it,” Zapporo said as he withdrew from the shack.
Ramiel waited outside with a half-dozen IBI thugs. But no Special Agent Elliot Ness.
“Hiding among drifters? You’re shrewder than I recall.”
“Or perhaps your memory is faulty. I suspect you’ve been hit in the head too many times.”
“I recall several of those hits being yours,” Ramiel said.
“Guilty as charged. I’m surprised, I figured Ness would be here.”
Ramiel’s eyebrow rose. “He is.”
Zapporo blinked, and caught himself before he looked around. “Of course, you’re Agent Ness. Why collaborate with mortal authorities when you can be one?”
“I thought you would figure it out quicker. IBI actually insisted I play the part. Worked out pretty well, I figure,” Ramiel said. He nodded at the agents. “Take him.”
Several agents stepped forward, hands going inside coats to grab firearms. Zapporo ripped both Dragons out. Twelve shots, target rich environment. What more to ask for?
His guns spewed flame and lead. The IBI agents crumpled without firing a shot. Howls from the Dragons dwindled when the last collapsed. He tossed one Dragon to the ground to reload its partner faster. Ramiel reacted first, drawing his Avenger on Zapporo as shells spilled from the Dragon's cylinder.
Ramiel blinked. “I, uh… wasn’t expecting that.”
“Life is full of surprises.”
“I mean, I expected skilled muscle, honestly. Evidently their skill was the ability to get shot and die.”
“It’s what you get when you let someone else provide your reinforcements,” Zapporo said, his hands frozen in place.
“I don’t really need them. In case you missed it, I’m aiming a gun at you, Zapporo.” His gaze flicked down, noticing Zapporo sneaking a bullet toward a chamber. “You’re not that discreet. Don’t.”
Zapporo looked up. “So, what now, Ramiel? Still willing to let me come quietly?”
“Not this time. I have my orders direct from Michael.” He aimed for Zapporo’s forehead. Even regenerative abilities couldn’t heal a liquefied brain.
From the tent interior, he could see Henry’s face etched with anxious concern. A question twitched into Zapporo’s mind. “Tell me, Ramiel. Why?”
“Why what?” the angel answered.
“You and I were once so alike. How did we end so far apart?”
“Luck. Fate? The Almighty’s judged it so?”
“You didn’t choose this life?”
“Choose?” Ramiel frowned. “I suppose I did and didn’t. I was captivated by the Light Bringer’s orations just as you were. Urging us to forge our destinies, rather than yoke ourselves to the Almighty.”
Zapporo remembered. How could anyone discard such utterances? Only weak cowards faced inspiration and turned away. Didn’t they?
Ramiel’s voice wavered. “Don’t think I never pondered joining you. I still think about it. Sometimes, the urge to flee and never return becomes overwhelming. But the Almighty’s cause is superior. Greater than I could dream. I hold no regrets.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, old friend.” The Avenger’s barrel rose.
“As am I,” Zapporo said. Were the angels he’d fought countless wars against not filled with vengeance, but rather jealousy? Realization came with shock, not regret. They’d seen his path and chose a higher road. Did I really choose freedom? Henry and Ramiel gave everything to their causes, with no regrets.
The gun spoke and a force collided into him. His skull rang with pain while bleak whiteness exploded across his vision. The gun report thundered through the city and faded. Zapporo took several seconds to realize he was still alive. Several seconds more passed until he realized someone had pushed him from the line of fire. Between himself and Ramiel, Henry Fiest’s limp form painted scarlet onto the weathered pavement.
Ramiel stared. With a trigger pull he’d violated one of Heaven’s oldest laws, accident or not. His ivory skin paled to the color of worn stone and he recoiled back, the realization seeming to drip from his face as readily as the blood emptied from the corpse. The Avenger clattered to the ground as the seraph faltered and fled, soaring into the airship speckled skies.
Zapporo knelt by Henry. The last drops of blood seeped from the chasm in his chest like water from a mountain spring.
“You already paid your debt off, Feist. This was unnecessary,” Zapporo asked.
Henry managed a weak smile. “I think you’ll figure it out.” He tried to laugh, but only managed a painful retch. “I’ll see my family soon. And you get a second chance. Was worth it…” Henry’s voice trailed off as his soul departed.
#
Zapporo buried him in a nearby cemetery, next to the darkened skeleton of some haughty noble’s mausoleum. He marked the grave with an unused headstone. Using a steel-hard claw, he carved an epitaph into the grey limestone.
HENRY FEIST
DUTY WITHOUT REGRET
After filling the grave, he withdrew Beelzebub’s pendant from his coat. New life means new prospects. Azariel was a name he could never retake, and Zapporo, granted by the Light Bringer, held an ugly stain. He’d need a new one.
He recalled Henry’s words from the previous day. If by my death I’d let another live free, I will. His fist clenched the pendent and he hurled it into the night.
The devil who was once Zapporo, ranking Duke of Hell, disciple of Beelzebub, withdrew from the cemetery. The pendant sat forgotten on the roof of the nearby mausoleum.
