back against the door, holding him there.
Through streaming eyes, he watched Lucifer rise and stroll across the room. The Light-bearer stopped before him, placing a hand on the shoulder he had once ruined.
“No, Samael, I do not want an admission of defeat. Do you know why? Because my definition of defeat differs from yours. You do know what I would consider that to be, don’t you?” His fingers squeezed, and the pain of a thousand knives sliced down Samael’s arm and across his chest. Lucifer leaned in, close enough for the warmth of his breath to stir against Samael’s ear. “Well?”
“Mortals,” Samael ground out from between clenched teeth. “Allowing mortals to live would be defeat.”
“Exactly. And your deaths, Sam? The deaths of each and every Fallen One who chose to follow me? How do you think I would define those?”
“I don’t—”
Another tightening of Lucifer’s grip.
Samael’s knees gave way, but he couldn’t fall. Couldn’t escape the hold on his shoulder pinning him upright. His sweat-slicked hands scrabbled at the doorknob.
“Think hard,” the Light-bearer encouraged.
“Sacrifice!” he choked. “Death is sacrifice!”
“
Necessary
sacrifice,” his tormentor clarified. “Excellent. You
do
understand.”
With a final, vicious squeeze, Lucifer released him. Samael slid to the floor, fighting back the black that threatened, the nausea that would surely bring further punishment. He listened to Lucifer’s retreating footsteps. The creak of leather told him the Light-bearer had settled into the chair behind the desk; the scratch of quill tip against paper said he continued writing.
Bit by bit, the pain receded. When it became bearable, Samael groped for the doorknob, pulled himself upright, and opened the door enough to slip into the corridor. Lucifer’s voice stopped him halfway through.
“One last thing, Archangel.”
Samael looked over his shoulder. Cringed. Waited.
“Just so we’re clear, death as sacrifice for success is infinitely preferable to that which would accompany defeat. You’ll want to remember that.”
Samael stood in the corridor for a long, long time, staring at the closed door, waiting for the vestiges of pain to ease. Slowly the terror that had claimed him under Lucifer’s grip gave way to cold fury.
Necessary sacrifice? Was the Light-bearer serious? He really expected all of them, all of the Fallen who had followed him out of Heaven and believed in him, to throw themselves on the swords of their kin as
sacrifice
?
Samael exhaled a long hiss into the silence.
Of course he did.
He always had.
He’d told him so, when the Pact had been shattered and the remains of peace between Heaven and Hell had hung in tatters:
“War was never my priority. I’ve never pretended otherwise.”
Samael hadn’t wanted to believe him then. He’d clung to the certainty that, when the time came, Hell’s ruler would come to his senses and lead them in the war to reclaim their rightful home.
Now, however . . . Samael put a hand to his shoulder. Now he believed him.
And there wasn’t a bloody thing he could do about it.
Because while the others might welcome battle as much as he did, might even turn their backs on Lucifer’s idea of success for the chance to return to Heaven, they would never be able to pull it off without a leader. Jockeying for control would begin immediately, and Samael didn’t kid himself for a moment that he was powerful enough to replace Lucifer as ruler. If he had the backing of a half dozen Archangels the way Michael did, perhaps. But alone? Not a chance. Once the infighting began, Hell would be awash in the blood of its own occupants.
Footsteps approached on the other side of Lucifer’s office door, jolting Samael back to the present. If the Light-bearer found him standing out here dithering over his future, there would be questions. And, when he couldn’t or wouldn’t answer, more pain. Or worse.
He needed to stop worrying
Through streaming eyes, he watched Lucifer rise and stroll across the room. The Light-bearer stopped before him, placing a hand on the shoulder he had once ruined.
“No, Samael, I do not want an admission of defeat. Do you know why? Because my definition of defeat differs from yours. You do know what I would consider that to be, don’t you?” His fingers squeezed, and the pain of a thousand knives sliced down Samael’s arm and across his chest. Lucifer leaned in, close enough for the warmth of his breath to stir against Samael’s ear. “Well?”
“Mortals,” Samael ground out from between clenched teeth. “Allowing mortals to live would be defeat.”
“Exactly. And your deaths, Sam? The deaths of each and every Fallen One who chose to follow me? How do you think I would define those?”
“I don’t—”
Another tightening of Lucifer’s grip.
Samael’s knees gave way, but he couldn’t fall. Couldn’t escape the hold on his shoulder pinning him upright. His sweat-slicked hands scrabbled at the doorknob.
“Think hard,” the Light-bearer encouraged.
“Sacrifice!” he choked. “Death is sacrifice!”
“
Necessary
sacrifice,” his tormentor clarified. “Excellent. You
do
understand.”
With a final, vicious squeeze, Lucifer released him. Samael slid to the floor, fighting back the black that threatened, the nausea that would surely bring further punishment. He listened to Lucifer’s retreating footsteps. The creak of leather told him the Light-bearer had settled into the chair behind the desk; the scratch of quill tip against paper said he continued writing.
Bit by bit, the pain receded. When it became bearable, Samael groped for the doorknob, pulled himself upright, and opened the door enough to slip into the corridor. Lucifer’s voice stopped him halfway through.
“One last thing, Archangel.”
Samael looked over his shoulder. Cringed. Waited.
“Just so we’re clear, death as sacrifice for success is infinitely preferable to that which would accompany defeat. You’ll want to remember that.”
Samael stood in the corridor for a long, long time, staring at the closed door, waiting for the vestiges of pain to ease. Slowly the terror that had claimed him under Lucifer’s grip gave way to cold fury.
Necessary sacrifice? Was the Light-bearer serious? He really expected all of them, all of the Fallen who had followed him out of Heaven and believed in him, to throw themselves on the swords of their kin as
sacrifice
?
Samael exhaled a long hiss into the silence.
Of course he did.
He always had.
He’d told him so, when the Pact had been shattered and the remains of peace between Heaven and Hell had hung in tatters:
“War was never my priority. I’ve never pretended otherwise.”
Samael hadn’t wanted to believe him then. He’d clung to the certainty that, when the time came, Hell’s ruler would come to his senses and lead them in the war to reclaim their rightful home.
Now, however . . . Samael put a hand to his shoulder. Now he believed him.
And there wasn’t a bloody thing he could do about it.
Because while the others might welcome battle as much as he did, might even turn their backs on Lucifer’s idea of success for the chance to return to Heaven, they would never be able to pull it off without a leader. Jockeying for control would begin immediately, and Samael didn’t kid himself for a moment that he was powerful enough to replace Lucifer as ruler. If he had the backing of a half dozen Archangels the way Michael did, perhaps. But alone? Not a chance. Once the infighting began, Hell would be awash in the blood of its own occupants.
Footsteps approached on the other side of Lucifer’s office door, jolting Samael back to the present. If the Light-bearer found him standing out here dithering over his future, there would be questions. And, when he couldn’t or wouldn’t answer, more pain. Or worse.
He needed to stop worrying
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