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33.1

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  “Do you feel that?” Roisin speaks aloud, more out of habit than any disrespect to the Tongue of the Elohim. The flat is trembling in that too‑clean, too‑fixed way that means Hasmed’s repairs are already spreading through the architecture. Patches of the floor are closing up, sealing away the martyrs once more, which is, frankly, a blessing, because her idea of Hell is a whole bunch of people crowded together and moaning about the justice they’re owed. That’s probably what a police force’s Family Liaison Officer must feel like every day. No wonder they bugger off to make tea in every BBC drama. Paul has left the room and is now in the small bathroom they all share, coughing and spitting into the toilet bowl. He is also moaning, but she can forgive that; at least he’s genuinely ill. Pestilence stands by the open door, watching Paul cough blood into the bowl. He is also, rather inappropriately in her opinion, sketching a drawing of her flatmate, in the style of one of the great It...
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32.15

  A cough breaks the tension, wet and ragged, it goes on for several seconds as Paul doubles over, clutching his chest, one hand over his open mouth as he struggles to breathe between coughs. When it finally stops, he looks at his cupped palm where a blob of mucus the size of a flattened ping-pong ball sits, artichoke green and shot through with dark veins of red. Steve grabs him. “Paul? Hey, Paul. Are you okay?” The lump of phlegm flies out of Paul’s hand and onto the floor at the side of his chair, where it glistens in the growing morning light through the window. Steve steps back from it and Paul looks embarrassed. I’m sorry,” he says. “I must have picked something up somewhere. Maybe someone at the pub was ill and got too close.” “You poor thing.” Roisin turns from the angels and reaches to put one hand on his shoulder. “You need a good rest when this is over.” He offers her a weak smile, but his posture is still hunched, his left hand holding onto Steve while wiping th...
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32.14

  “I’m sorry.” That assistant turns to her. “You seem nice. It was unpleasant to deceive you, and unfitting for one such as I” “Why, though?” Roisin looks from her and then to Pestilence. “Was this all a set-up from the beginning?” “We all have our parts to play.” Pestilence barely glances at Astaroth but it is enough that Roisin can spot the collusion between them. “You, too?” She turns to Astaroth and strikes him, open palmed, in the chest. “I trusted you. All that about genetic engineering to make sure I could take the mantle was just hyperbole and bullshit?” “No.” Astaroth has the decency to look shocked. “I wouldn’t lie to you. You are the greatest achievement we have made with mortals. I, personally, consider you the greatest achievement I have participated in since Necator americanus . You are the pinnacle of human achievement, the ultimate fusion of mortal and Elohim, capable of taking back the mantle of Famine and becoming more than you ever were before, which you ...
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32.13

  Astaroth steps forward, becoming an even height with the angel to speak to him face to face. “Why would you rejoice at the death of your brothers?” “Why would we not? Creation was perfect until the Great Rebellion was overthrown. Then Creation became corrupted by the interference of the Fallen. Then the Watchers were sent to repair the damage and they were corrupted, too. The Nephilim should never have survived the Flood.” Roisin looks at them both, towering above her. She is the size of a toddler compared to the two competing angels. Nevertheless, her voice rings out clearly. “But isn’t… wasn’t the Creator ineffable? He must have known the corruption would occur. He must have known the Watchers would succumb to the temptations of Creation. He must have known the Nephilim would survive the Flood.” “Illogical.” Hasmed stares down at her. “Creation was interfered with by the rebel angels. The architecture was damaged, foundations destabilised. The Plan was ineffable, the Crea...
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32.12

  She looks up at Hasmed. “Who the fuck are they?” Astaroth tugs on her shirt, pulling her gently back from the edge. “They are the martyrs crying out for God’s justice. There can be no end to their pleading until their number is doubled.” “But almost nobody martyrs people for their religion anymore. Not Christians, anyway. I suppose other religions might still kill Christians for because of their faith.” “Except maybe by the occasional Satanist,” added Steve, who looked decidedly pale in the wan light emanating from the pit. “And I want to say Spree-killing Fundamentalists?” “None of those kill under Satan’s name.” Astaroth draws back from the pit, though Roisin doubted that as a former angel there was anything he had to fear. “Satan is just the name for Adversary. There is no literal Satan. Demons, yes, Archdemons, Dukes and so on, we like our hierarchy just as those in Heaven do, but no actual Satan. The only people who believe in an actual Satan are Christians, and they...
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32.11

  “But we have made beauty, too.” “Beauty?” Hasmed scoffs. “Everything you have made is as dirt to the Creator. What beauty rivals that of the cosmos? Of the once-teeming seas? Of the flocks of the air? Of the mysteries of the earth?” “There’s Art. Cimema. Theatre.” Roisin looks around at the others. “I’m an artist. So is Paul. Steve’s a playwright and an actor. We bring beauty into lives that would wither without it.” “Music, too.” Astaroth pipes up. “Such music they make, brother. Imagine all the music of the angels, magnified and sung by an orchestra and choir. Beethoven, for example.” He holds up his hands as if he was a conductor, and it is as if there is an eighty-instrument ensemble in their tiny living room. The opening strains of his fifth symphony pierce the air, drifting across time like a flight of Monarch butterflies as the opening bars ring out. “Da Da Da Dum…” “Rubbish. I’d rather hear shouting.” Hasmed wipes across the air and the music stops abruptly. “All ...
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32.10

  Hasmed develops a look of puzzlement, blinking several times before covering his eyes with his hands. “Bright,” he says, “Bright.” Roisin opens his fingers very slightly, so the eyes can adjust to the new levels. “It will be at first,” she says, “but you’ll become less sensitive to it over time. Open your fingers wider as your eyes adjust. You have been denied sight for so long it’s given you a sensory overload. It’s why pirates often wear an eyepatch, so that they can keep one eye adjusted to the deck brightness and the other comfortable with the darkness of below decks.” Paul raises his eyebrows. “I always thought it was because they’d lost an eye.” Astaroth leans in toward her ear, the one furthest from Hasmed. “What are you doing? This is the Annihilator. He could destroy us all. Name him and be done.” “Yes. Name me. You have become Torment. End this and be done.” The void around him collapses inward, then expands outward in a silent, trembling pulse. He slowly opens ...
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