Satan's hands won't hold still. The chalk shakes between his fingers and leaves crooked, double-thick lines instead of the smooth circle he saw in his head. This circle is better than the last six, because six is weak and seven is a story number, and there have already been so many stories where he failed, where the sigils slipped and the knife turned in his own hand, where The Bastard walked away with a bored look and a new excuse for punishment.
His heart hammers, rhythm stuttering. Good. Anticipation. This will be the one. This will work where all the others failed because he was too weak before, too cautious, but not anymore. He's stronger now. Any moment the power will surge through him and he'll watch The Bastard writhe and...
Satan stumbles. When did the room get cold? No, hot. He's burning up, sweat soaking through his shirt, but his fingers are ice and won't hold the vial of something and it slips and shatters on the floor. Doesn't matter. He crawls back to the ritual circle he drew in chalk and something else, what was, there was another ingredient, he wrote it down but the words keep rearranging themselves.
The final sigil he carves into his forearm is jagged and crooked. The ritual demands sacrifice. Satan drags the knife deeper, splitting skin that has grown thin and papery over bones he can't see beneath his glamour. The blade keeps slipping. Focus. He's been working so hard on this and exhaustion is good, the sour in his mouth is good, it means dedication, it means...
He has been sick for as long as he remembers, stomach rotting around every forced family dinner, every bite of food The Bastard shoved down his throat, each meal proof that his brother wants him weak and compliant. He wobbles on his feet and laughs under his breath because it's his own saliva, the ingredient, he remembers now. Mixing with the powder, the adolite paste he's already spread across the inner ring, the blood still dripping from his arm in slow, thick drops that look almost black. Demons don't bleed black. And that too is proof that Satan is winning.
The ritual ingredients blur as he sets them out: a feather, a shard of mirror, a clotted scrap of his own shirt from the last beating, one of The Bastard's red glove buttons stolen weeks ago and treasured like a tooth. He can't remember which part stands for which outcome anymore, but that's because he's a genius, magic this thick doesn't need tidy labels, it only needs rage, and he has that in bottomless supply. He grins, lips split and dry, and his chest fizzes with glee so feral it drowns out his knees cracking as he steps across the imperfect line and into the center.
Was he meant to bind his heart or replace it? The text had been unclear and Satan had filled in the gaps with what made sense then but now nothing makes sense because the words keep tangling and there are ants crawling at the corners of his eyes. Doesn't matter. Keep going.
The Bastard arrives exactly when Satan knows he will, in that perfect window between work and tormenting him, when the house is quiet and nobody will interrupt. "Another one?" The Bastard asks, and Satan hears the words as distant static under the roar in his own ears; he sees the familiar silhouette in the doorway and it slots into place at the heart of his ritual like an offering finally delivered. He starts the incantation and the words trip over each other, come out half in the dead language he studied and half in hoarse, garbled mumbling, but it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, because the air is thick and hot and his skin is buzzing and this is it, this is it, this is it.
The spell drags power out of him in a voracious pull, more than any of the others, more than he meant to give, and his hands shake so hard the dagger drops at his feet. He laughs at that too, delighted, because what better sign that the thing is working than the ants eating away at his vision, tunneling dark around his brother's face, than his heart slamming against a ribcage that feels too small, than his legs forgetting how to hold him. If the casting hurts this much, the impact on The Bastard will be magnificent.
There's a flash and a surge of force that might be his own spell lancing out or it might be The Bastard batting it away with the same idle flick he uses on all of Satan's attempts; Satan decides it's both, decides that's fine, decides that means they collided head-on and tore each other apart. For a wild, soaring second, as his body hits the floor and his head cracks against stone, he is sure he has done it, that the weight that has pressed on his chest since the first poisoned dinner is already lifting, that this is freedom rushing in to fill the space where The Bastard used to sit.
He can't move. His thoughts lurch and stall in his skull, each one starting at a sprint and then falling over, but the sense of triumph hangs stubbornly in place, bright and steady amid static. Footsteps cross the room with unhurried certainty, and then Lucifer is there, towering over him, cloak hemming the edge of Satan's blurred vision. The red-gloved hand lifts and the ants finish their meal.
22.1 Apologies - Eliza finally realizes she has some apologies to make. Who will be the first?
Eliza’s feet stuck to the concrete on the other side of Courtyard Lane. She was certain Lexi had called for her, but that was impossible. The junior perfectionist was across the street holed up in her room obsessing over her science project. Surely she needed assistance. Yes. Turning back was an excellent plan. Family came first after all. But, if she went home, the whole process would repeat…
Lucifer studied the heap of black fabric and splayed limbs on the floor.
"Get up," Lucifer said. "If you believe playing dead will mitigate the consequences, you are mistaken."
Satan did not move.
With a sigh, he lowered his gaze to the ritual circle itself. He had deflected the spell without a thought, barely registering its composition in the moment. Now, examining the chalk residue, his brows drew together.
It was wrong.
All of it. The ritual circle was a mess, chalk mixed with what looked like random herbs and spit. Symbols carved backwards in Satan's increasingly illegible handwriting around the outer ring. The sigils for binding and unraveling were scrawled so closely together, they would have neutralized each other before they even sparked.
An assassination attempt unworthy of their household, more the desperate scribbling of a madman trying to write a suicide note in a language he did not speak.
Amateur. Pathetic.
The knife on the floor caught his attention. Fresh cuts on Satan's forearm seeped sluggishly over chalk. Another dramatic gesture. Another tantrum requiring correction. He straightened, already mentally composing the punishment notice. Hanging was too cliche. Whippings only seemed to validate Satan's martyr complex. He could enucleate Satan's eyes and have him audit Lord Sabnock's tax records by feel; boredom, after all, cut the Avatar of Wrath deeper than any knife.
Lucifer stepped over the broken line of chalk. "Satan."
He nudged his brother's shoulder with the toe of his boot. The body rolled slightly, limp and heavy, the head lolling back. Satan's eyes were open, staring fixedly at a point on the ceiling, but they were glassy and empty.
His eyes sharpened. He sank into a crouch, furred cape pooling around him, and pulled Satan's wrist towards himself. The skin under his fingers felt brittle, tight, vibrating with a quiet, frantic hum that shouldn't have been there. His skin was clammy, the sweat soaking through his clothes.
Lucifer's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the ritual components again. Blood smeared across the inner ring. It looked too dark, almost black in the lamplight.
Satan stared at the ceiling.
Lucifer reached for Satan's shoulder, intending to shake him conscious for answers, and his hand passed through something that shimmered and broke.
Lucifer's hand jerked back like he'd been drenched in acid.
The thing on the floor was a skeleton drowning in cloth. Satan's cheeks were hollowed out so deeply, it looked like the bone would pierce his skin; his hair, stripped of its magical volume, was thin and brittle, dull strands matting against a skull that seemed too large for his neck. What remained of his teeth were brown and rotted, his gums grown fat and worm-like around stained enamel. Bone and tendon were all that was left of his wrists, the skin translucent and bruised purple-yellow-green. His eyes were sunken, bloodshot, and caked with pus so thick, Lucifer wasn't sure how Satan had been seeing at all.
His mind stalled. He had eaten dinner with this demon yesterday. Watched him sneer and pick at his food. Nothing of that brother survived in the scrag on the floor. Starvation etched into every line of his body.
Lucifer snatched his gloves of his hands to press bare fingers against Satan's neck. The pulse was there, but it was a flutter, a terrified bird trapped in a cage. The cloying, sweet-rot stench of acetone and decay hit him next. The smell of a body eating itself alive.
He slid his arms under Satan's back and knees, bracing himself to lift the weight of a full-grown man. Instead, he pitched forward. Satan weighed nothing. Like lifting a bundle of dry sticks.
Satan's head fell against Lucifer's chest with a soft pap and Lucifer turned, abandoning the office, abandoning the dignity of a slow walk, and sprinted to the door holding a corpse that hadn't finished dying.
Fur Affinity, the internet's largest online furry art community.
He needs help, and while I can’t send money due to trying to save money to buy my baby brother something, I’m sending out a link so others who might be able to help may help. Even re-blogging this will help as more people will see it.
I walked up to Jess, but he didn't seem to notice me. It's been six years since we last saw each other and my heart still sank when I saw him. He aged, no doubt. I mean, we are twenty three going on twenty four. His hair was styled a little more maturely but the same style. He had on his signature plain white tee shirt and oil stained jeans with a rip in the knee. His facial hair was defined, and he was still talk and slender with broad shoulders that showed his strength. Jess Larkin Carter was still the most extravagant man I have ever seen. I was about to walk up to him when a very beautiful girl walked up to him. "Hey Mary. What's up?" I heard Jess say. His voice was the exact same, and it sent tingles down my legs. "Michael and I are in a fight. It's nothing" Mary said, obviously annoyed. Neither of them have noticed me yet. Mary started walking away and Jess grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him. "What are you fighting about?" He asked. "It's nothing. It's just a stupid fight." Mary said, choking on her words a little. "Mary-" Jess started to say. "He fell asleep before he called me and I waited up for him for two hours. He said he was getting his charger and that we would talk. But he fell asleep." Mary interrupted him. Jess was silent for a second. It made me wish I was standing next to him so I can nudge him. "Mary, pop a squat." He said, patting the bucket next to him. Mary said nothing as she sat down. "Do you still like Michael?" Jess asked bluntly. Mary stared at him. "Of course I do. I mean, it's no you and Jaime love, but I think it's well on its way to it." She said, full confidence roaring in her voice. That comment made my cheeks go red. And it took Jess aback. "Listen. I want you to take your bike and peddle on over to his house. Hell, I'll drive you if you want me to. I don't give a fuck if you want him to admit he's wrong. I don't give a fuck if it makes you feel less cool. In my life I've learned that if you don't resolve one little fight, you'll get a thousand little fights. And a thousand little fights are worse than three huge fights. Cause you're standing there and fighting with the one you love about why you decided to wear the red flannel instead of the blue flannel they bought for you. The little fights, they start off as something stupid, Mary. They always do. And it could be as simple as you forgetting to text her when you got home." Then Jess looked up and stared right into my eyes as if he knew I was there the whole time. Mary just stared at him the whole time. "Because if it's something I learned from Jaime, it's if you truly love someone and there's a chance you can fix it, you do whatever you can to. And I mean if there's even a slight bit of hope, if there's a chance you can save your relationship, you do it. If that means you have to run to their house at four in the morning to tell them that you lost your phone, and that you're seriously so fucking sorry that you made them worry, do it. Because really, your pride means nothing if you don't have them to hold you at night." I had tears threatening to fall down my face. Jess looked back at Mary. "Thanks, Jess." "Get out of here" he said with a smile. Mary jumped on her bike and rode off in the opposite direction of me. I look a deep breath and walked up to Jess, my hands in my pockets. "So, how long did you know I was there?" I said, my voice showing my nerves. "The whole time. I still get the heart-being-hung feeling when you're around." I looked at him. "Awe. Really?" I said in admiration. He looked at me and smiled his stupid half smile that drove me insane. "No. You were standing in the middle of the street, you dum dum." I swatted at him and he caught my hand and brought his other hand to my cheek. I froze in place. Then he leaned his face closer to mine. And with no hesitation, he kissed me. And it was exactly like the first time. And I have a feeling no one was going to be able to make me feel the way this now man makes me feel. He pulled away after awhile, leaving both of us panting. He leaned his forehead against mine. "I'm really sorry I didn't text you letting you know I was okay." He half whispered, half panted. I look a breath of relief. I've waited six years to hear those words. And they sounded every bit as lovely as I wanted them to. "I'm sorry I left." I said, choking a bit. "I'm sorry I let you leave" he said back, twirling some of my hair in his finger. I leaned in and kissed him again. This time, I let my passion drive the kiss, rather than my mind. And he did the same.
