“No. I was grimacing, not smi . . .” My words trail off as I turn to look directly at Satan for the first time.
He is beautiful.
Holy hellfire! I’m not sure what I was expecting. Demonoid form, for sure. Scaly green skin and tail and drooling mung. Claws with razor sharp nails. Blazing red eyes and fangs. A darting, snake-like tongue. Maybe even horns.
But, no, he is in humanoid form, and his appearance is so attractive it startles. Even Jasper, who stands in the background, still in demonoid persona, gazes at his master with awe.
Satan has long, silk-like red hair. Who would have ever guessed a demon redhead? But then, redheads do have a reputation for fiery personalities. His skin is the creamy color of aged ivory. A perfectly muscled, tall body is shown off in black leather tunic and tight pants tucked inside tooled, ebony snakeskin boots. The chain belt around his waist is pure gold. About his neck is another gold chain from which hangs a crucifix, of all things, meant to be a sacrilege, I assume.
Satan carries not the caricature pitchfork portrayed in Christian images, but a long-handled whip with dozens of hair-thin, silver flails with weighted tails. The calm expression on his face is belied by the way he keeps tapping the whip against his knee, causing the metal to shimmer in the dim candlelight of the cave and make a metallic shushing sound.
Shush, shush, shush!
It is Satan’s eyes that are the giveaway, though. Clear green orbs against a blood red background that almost seem to pulse with fury. They are mesmerizing in their attempt to draw a person into their cyclonic swirls of sin.
Shush, shush, shush.
The eyes and the repetitive rhythm of the whip hypnotize.
Shush, shush, shush.
I look away, afraid of what I might say or do if I fall under the devil’s spell.
“Thou hast wasted enough time, Zebulon. ’Tis time to admit thy betrayal, beg for forgiveness, and promise to remain a Lucipire, never to stray again.”
Shush, shush, shush.
Do a demon vampire’s work for eternity? Continue to fight the vangels. Prey on human sinners. Kill, kill, kill. My body count is well over a thousand by now. The prospect of continuing that dark work is more horrific to me than anything Satan might do to my body. “No. Kill me and get it over with.”
“You are already dead.”
Shush, shush, shush.
“Just send me to Hell then. You can torture me there all you want.” Brave words when I am shaking in my shackles!
Shush, shush, shush.
“Ah, that is the rub,” Satan says.
Shush, shush, shush.
“Alas, I cannot take you home . . . yet.”
Huh? I turn my head to look at Satan and, whoa! I understand immediately. This puts a whole new light on my situation. It almost makes the past year of torture worthwhile. Apparently, my eternal fate is in question. My good acts for the vangels must have gained me points Up Above. Oh, it wouldn’t be enough to get me through the Pearly Gates, but maybe Purgatory’s more tarnished portals. “My pal Michael must have put in a good word for me.” I start to smile and stop when my dry lips crack and begin to seep blood again, my fangs cutting deeper. It’s a wonder I have any blood left.
Satan hisses and lashes his whip across my chest. The metallic threads cause an excruciating pain, more like a searing burn. Thin welts immediately rise on my skin.
“You will not mention that name again!” Satan’s red-rimmed, green eyes are now totally red. He is still beautiful, though, dammit.
Satan refers to Michael, of course, the archangel warrior responsible for kicking the fallen angels out of Heaven, including Lucifer aka Satan.
“Michael, Michael, Michael,” I taunt, foolishly, but with great delight.
The whip shoots out again, criss-crossing the chest welts. I probably look like a blank crossword puzzle. Give me a five-letter word for person who taunts the devil. IDIOT. My warped sense of humor is the only thing keeping me from crying out with pain.
“Shall I send for Craven?” Jasper asks Satan. “My chief tortureologist has developed new methods of persuasion that are very effective.”
Tortureologist? More like one sick bastard with more muscle than brain!
“Not so effective if this sinner can stubbornly refuse to surrender,” Satan remarks.
Shush, shush, shush.
“Ah, but Hebrews ever were a stubborn race,” Jasper points out.
Not a wise move! Even Zeb in his pain-riddled haze knows that one does not argue with Satan.
Satan scowls at Jasper. Believe me, a Satan scowl is nothing to be encouraged. Better Jasper than me.
“I mean, of course Craven has not been so effective in Zebulan’s case, but . . . ,” Jasper attempts to backpedal.
“Watch and learn, Jasper,” Satan snarls. “The best torture works on the victim’s deepest despair. Their hidden fears. Their agonizing regrets. Their guilt. What might have beens. Their wish for do-overs.”