Holy Device X: Resurrected (3 page)

"No wings for you, my little harlot," he spat. "You have no clue, do you? You should’ve just let me come and it would’ve been over with a quick snap of your neck."

Her disguise shattered, shredded before its time and against her will. The failed plan of a rogue Angel of the Authority, an envoy who had fallen from the grace of Heaven's Second Sphere on a self-appointed mission to appease her Lord, to regain his love—to do His work the only way she now knew how. 

She knew her methods would raise His ire, but she hoped beyond hope the results of her work spoke for itself and He would grant her respite from this lunatic Earth and reentry into His Golden Kingdom. Eradicating these enemies of Heaven and driving them back from where they came was all she knew, in this life and the last. After what seemed an eternity, all she longed for was entrance into Paradise.

Devon moved closer. In a failed attempt to protect herself, she fought against the burning tendrils in her mind and raked her nails across his bare leg. Tiny rivulets of static charged pain snaked over his skin leaving a bloody mark.

Demons could bleed. Demons could hurt. Demons could die.

However, Devon was not the average blasphemy of God’s creation. Hiding amongst mere mortals, Devon Illes was no man. He chuckled as he looked down at the mangled form at his feet. This holy device had made the wrong choice of whom she attempted to kill.

To his dismay, he had neglected to recognize the signs of the omen, of Vivian. Lust had overwhelmed his mind. He had bided his time until there was no doubt his opportunity to return darkness to the world had arrived—ahead of his schedule. "Why wait?"

He dropped the moniker, the act; for he was ready to introduce the world to his true self, allow them to witness the meaning of true evil.

Devon Illes ... how pathetically clever, he thought.

Yet, he grew fond of this name. Having been known as many things, by many names scarring the face of history, he liked this self-appointed name the best. It made him feel more despicable and even closer to the humanity he planned to slaughter.

Devon Illes ... Dev Illes ... Devil.

He felt the pride build within his chest.

Outstretched hands summoned power from below. Fiery red light filtered into the room through every crack in the floor and walls. The crimson glow illuminated his muscular body, bathing him in hellfire as the pungent stench of brimstone permeated the room.

The overpowering odor made Vivian gag. Cowering on the floor, crouched over and bleeding, she wept in pain and failure. She had failed her God on her mission gone awry. A dispensable vessel. All felt hopeless.

A bellow of rage shook the room, not from Vivian, but from Devon. In the treacherous firelight, bones erupted from his brow, curling like ram horns while shattering through the front of his skull. From his back, shards of bone ripped through muscle and out of his skin and bony protuberances raced down the length of his spine until ending at the point of his new tail. His skin color muddied, mixing to form its own unholy hue. The sound of tearing tissue accompanied his guttural howl caused by the birth of his ultimate transformation.

The more he shed his humanly skin, the more he changed—grew. His facade shattered just as Vivian's had. But, unlike hers, it was of his own free will. No longer needing it, he realized the time for the world to bear witness to the coming of the new holocaust was now.

While the Devil-in-man's-skin transmogrified, Vivian begged for forgiveness. She begged not of Satan, but of her lord, a last wish before she died once again. Vivian watched in hopeless fear. The hellfire licked at her, teased her—tempted her. She knew the end drew near, not just for her, but also for living beings. Her mind raced with the endless possibilities of what might lay ahead.

The end of humanity.

No one would save her. She was now on her own. Even her thunderous screams of pain went unheard. Alone, they existed in their own private space, a microcosm separate from the rest of the world. Beyond this room, humanity could not hear, see, or comprehend a thing. Devon raised Hell in this small room. Soon it would spread like a rampant, infectious disease over the entire world and at the helm of the chaos the man who was no longer Devon Illes would sit ... and he would laugh.

He was no longer a man; he was the farthest thing from it. The power he possessed was immeasurable, on par with his ultimate adversary. The battle was never ending, constant through the history of time and before. He was the archfiend and found God's move in the game almost insulting.

"So He sent me a pawn to do the work of a knight." His mouth didn't move. The deafening sound of his voice carried through her mind and she shuddered at his words.

He turned his head, focusing on her with his demonic gaze. Flames created an aura around the hot embers of his eyes. "He’s so full of mistakes, isn’t He? I have a message for Him to go
along
with my next move."

"He- he didn't send me." She would never reach Heaven. She would die—again—never offered the chance to see the brilliant white light of God’s love.

Vivian wielded only the minimalist of power since her fall. But not once had fright ever claimed her. With her renowned success and diehard efficiency, her lord Himself once regarded her highly. However, this was the last thing she expected as no one had ever warned her that
this
could happen. So much for faith. She sniffled and repressed a cry. A solitary tear rolled down her cheek.

"My ... aren't you a brave little Authority.  I knew your kind well." Devon walked over to her, his hooked claws clicking on the floor, his tremendous cock swinging like a lascivious pendulum. "This just sweetens the pot, doesn't it?" With a kind hand, he lifted her to her feet, her wings hung limp from her back. His fist was enormous, almost the size of her head. A bronze colored finger stopped the tear before it fell to its demise from her cheek. Devon lifted his finger to his nose, breathed in the tear, relishing the aroma. "Mmm, so many scents to savor. You’ve been soiled too many times, I'm afraid. Luckily for you, I am here to take the pain away."

His fang-filled mouth smiled at her. With a little snicker, he continued, "It won’t hurt one bit." She found his voice momentarily soft—almost kind—yet still bordering on sarcastic. "But your skull is staying with me, a trophy for my throne. Consider it an honor. However, the rest of you is going back to ... well, Him—your holy liar and His bastard son!"

He stomped his foot against the floorboards and snatched her by her hair, throwing her across the room before she could regain her strength. Wood and plaster splintered from the collision. Her halo sputtered and faltered once more. His smirk disappeared.

Time for the next task.

He had an erection again. It throbbed with every beat of his wretched heart; its veins threatening to burst through the thin skin of his shaft. Lust consumed him for a second time. Vivian wasn't the first angel he fucked and she wouldn't be the last.

As he approached Vivian's mangled body, the door burst open. Despite its intensity, the red glow of the hellfire didn't seep into the hallway. Instead, it shrank away, receding to the darkest regions of the room. In its place, filtering in from the hallway, a blinding yellow radiance emanated. The light chased the dark away, like water dousing a flame. Outlined by the shattered doorframe, a figure stood bathed wholly in the brilliance. Blurry tentacles of yellow fire danced in the air, licking everything it touched. Devon, left untouched by the glow, stood out in stark relief against the brightness as if he absorbed all light that hit him.

The figure, cloaked in black, entered the room, seemingly floating in for its legs did not move. Shifting its head, it focused on Vivian. "You've ruined everything. Get out! Now!"

She obeyed without question. What choice did she have? She had failed. Flee or die. On shaking limbs, Vivian attempted her crawl of shame out of the room but Devon blocked her sluggish retreat. He grabbed her by the back of the neck, lifting her onto trembling legs, his grip like a vice. The figure paused.

"You must be the Knight in this game. I guess we're going straight to the climax then," Devon glanced at Vivian's abused body in his grasp. With a quick twist of his wrist, the mighty demon snapped Vivian's neck at the base. All traces of her light vanished as she hung limp in his hand. "What a shame. I was looking forward to tasting her dirtied soul." Devon tossed her through the wall into the hallway beyond without a care where she dropped to the floor in a crumpled heap like a discarded marionette. "Shall we continue, stranger?"

The shadowy figure continued inside, the broken dressing room door swinging closed on its battered hinges after him, blocking the outside world from the impending melee within. The figure's hair danced, blowing wildly on a mysterious wind. The coal blackness of the figure faded as it ventured deeper into the room; the wind died down. To Devon’s dismay, he realized who now stood before him, despite the physical form he had chosen.

Josef, Black Inversion's guitarist, still in his blackened outfit and spikes, looked nothing short of lethal to go along with the sinister gleam sparking in his eye. Yet, compared to Devon's looming monstrous form, he still looked meek and small by comparison.

Standing tall and breathing heavy, Devon's sinewy muscles flexed under his thick skin. "Interesting," he said with uncharacteristic sincerity. "Well played but pointless."

"Did you think I was going to make it easy for you? I know this war is never ending, but you are not winning this battle!" The roar of Josef's voice pounded through the air.

"Your Holiness will lose in time, Emissary, no matter whose mortal shell he allows you to possess." Devon swept his arms out in a grand gesture. "It’s the dawn of a new era. A new beginning of iniquity and all will bear witness to the real 'Second Coming'!"

Their voices tore the air asunder. The atmosphere rippled like heat rising off sun-drenched concrete, distorting everything. All around them, the two contrasting explosions of light danced—the golden radiance of Josef's Godlight and the bloody crimson of hellfire. Tendrils of each lashed at each other, tangling together in a furious firefight.

With battle lines drawn, the two stared each other down, their respective auras hissing and shimmering. The deafening silence hummed with an unearthly quality, born neither from Heaven nor from Hell. Josef's eyes closed, strange murmurs escaped his lips. He raised his arms out from his sides, palms out, and his hands began to bleed. Droplets of the blood sizzled when they hit the floor, turning into steam.

The-Man-Who-Became-Satan raised his arms over his head and began screaming out phrases in a foreign tongue, indistinguishable syllables laced with harsh consonants. Around his eyes, the aura intensified, devouring them both before it slathered his whole body. He brought his palms together with a forceful clap. Immediately, between his hands, hellfire erupted, congealing into form. The flames forced his hands apart as the shape solidified and hovered. Waves of heat flowed about as he continued to chant.

Josef's palms still bled, the blood of a martyr coursing through his veins, the blood of the
Son of God
. His holy gift. As more blood flowed from the stigmata, it pooled onto the floor around his feet. From his eyes, red tears fell one after another until it cascaded down his face in streams, joining the puddle on the floor. As quickly as blood left his body, it soaked into the floorboards. From the constant torrent, liquid life drenched his clothes and clung to his body. Blood drained from his nose, then from his mouth and ears. In a matter of seconds the lake of blood was sucked downward where it became one steaming, boiling mass.

While the lake of blood continued to grow, so did the fireball. A throaty roar shook the room as Devon released the unholy flaming discharge. The amorphous ball of hellfire made contact with Josef's body dead in the center of the chest. Intense heat and force tore a breach in his torso, cauterizing as it made its pass, throwing him backward into the door, destroying it. In the hallway, Josef's body made violent purchase with the wall where his body crushed the drywall and the beams behind.

A tremor vibrated the floor of the dressing room. Josef's Godlight faded, the fire within him becoming paler. Nevertheless, he completed his task, freeing the blood to do what it had to, which was nothing short of God's own will.

The hellfire crept out of the shadows, its fiery tongues inspecting Josef's smoldering form. Tendrils whipped about as if in victory. Still, Devon sensed something wrong. The tremors grew stronger. From underneath the floor, beams of golden light penetrated the pool of blood. Like a spotlight they searched the room—and they found what they were looking for.

It felt as if a bomb had detonated beneath the floor, shards of wood and tile bursting through the air. Daggers of wood struck the wall, pierced the plaster. Devon covered himself as best he could. Splinters of tile ripped into his flesh. Massive slivers infiltrated his skin.

Through the Godlight, Josef's metastatic blood reorganized, collecting and reforming at an alarming rate. Blinded as much by the shooting pain as by the light, Devon covered his eyes, struggling to block it all out. Searing hot agony gripped him as Josef's blood continued to churn and boil. He sloshed around in the hot red pool, looking for cover, fighting to figure out his next move. Devon shouted in his native tongue. However, he couldn't summon enough of the power he possessed. The Lifeblood had an unrelenting grip as it burned through his skin, melting the flesh from his body. Sticky crimson vices held him fast.