The Repentant Demon Trilogy Book 1: The Demon Calumnius (5 page)

Oh yes
, sighed Calumnius,
the Assyrians—my favorite people, the ones who tore out tongues and skinned people alive.  They ripped people’s limbs apart while they still lived, disemboweled them and ate the livers of their victims while they watched.

“Most are excavating to find the gold and treasures in ancient Nineveh,” said Abigail. “We would have been the only two looking to prove the existence of Jonah.  I agree that this man would have been mentioned somewhere in the historical record.  Here he was, a Judean sent to warn them about the coming destruction of their city—a man whose skin had turned wrinkled and white due to his journey inside the air hole of a whale.  The Bible actually states that they listened and believed him because of his appearance on the beach when the whale vomited him up.  He must have been quite a spectacle.”

“Abigail, I must confess,” Doug admitted with humor, “I wouldn't mind seeing the treasures as well.  If those roads and walls and gates, as well as the temples and idols, were uncovered, the whole writings of Nahum would be validated before the world.”

“Too bad all those subdivisions have been built on top of most of it.” Abigail laughed.

“You know, I have a secret to share,” he whispered, as if anyone in that coffee shop were interested in their conversation anyway. “I go on these expeditions for half the amount the others pay.”

Abigail's ears perked intently, renewing her hope that she might not only go to Iraq, but that she could go with a fascinating, handsome new companion.

“How?” she exclaimed.  “I hope you're going to tell me your secrets, and I hope it's not illegal or dangerous.”

“There might be some danger—for a beautiful woman over there, anyway,” he said with charm, “not that you don't know about that already, I'm sure.  Even within a group, it's never safe in that region for any females.”

She nodded in agreement and in acknowledgment that she had experienced the conditions of which he spoke.

He continued.  “I don't sign up with the university-sponsored expeditions.  There are places to stay that are cheaper.  The governments there know how to gouge the Westerners big time.  The accommodations they pick are no better than the cheapest budget motel you can find in the United States, but they charge almost what the first class ones ask.  The university sponsors pay the price because they aren't comfortable with the bartering system, something these people have done since ancient times.  If you don't argue about the price, they consider you stupid—or Western, which might not be exclusive traits in their book.”

“But what about the credits?” asked Abigail. “Not that I need them.  I've already gotten all the degrees I plan to get,” she said thoughtfully.  “I see.  You don't need the credits either.”

“There are ways to do that too, if it's important,” he answered quickly.  “If you work with them, and you are of reasonably good assistance in the digs, one of the professors can sign you up for an independent study credit, and you can just pay the tuition later when you get back home.  But I have a few other tricks.

“I know some families in several of the villages, from my days when I served there as a soldier back in the second Gulf War.  The Arab people are very friendly and hospitable, once you earn their trust.  They graciously welcome me into their homes, feed me, and bend over backwards to make me feel welcome.  So I plan my expeditions based on the places where I have friends.

“Your being female might present some obstacles, but the people I know were polite to the female soldiers, although you could see they didn't really approve or accept it.  I know you would be safe with me, with this particular family—as long as you don't wander off.”

“So you just go there—on your own,” Abigail thoughtfully reviewed the situation. “You find the expedition, join them unofficially, and return at the end of the day to your friends' homes.  I suppose your main expense is the air fare.”

“Actually, it's the armored vehicle from the airport to the city.  It costs $500, run by the British, but it's worth every penny if you value your life—and it doesn't matter how many are going.  That's the price for the trip; the passengers split it up however they want.  And there is the cost of getting to D.C. to hitch up with my ride via the U.S. Marines.  I base all my plans according to their departure schedules.  If you don't mind sitting on duffel bags in a cargo carrier and not having movies and peanuts for a thirty-hour ride to Baghdad International, you could go free as my guest.  That's pretty much it,” he stated simply.  “Want to go with me to the Middle East, Miss Fitzgerald?” he added, in a flirting manner.

“More than you could know, but this is so sudden,” she said with excitement.  “When are you leaving, and how?  I will need to make plane reservations for D.C.”

“Actually, you don't,” said Doug, smiling, knowing she was going to love what he said next. “I'm flying there myself.  Did I forget to tell you that I was a pilot in the service?  I have a plane sitting at Spirit of Saint Louis Airport with flight plans already filed and approved with all the authorities.  If you have your visa, we're good to go.  I'd like to leave in a few days, if that's all right with you.”

Abigail jumped from her seat, lunged across the table, and hugged Mr. Douglas Anderson, squeezing his neck and squealing with delight.  Several late-night customers getting their coffee smiled, assuming he had probably just popped the question and got an affirmative answer.

She noticed several people gaping in amusement at them when she returned to her seat.  Answering their smiles, Abigail gave them a thumbs-up and said, “I'm going to Iraq!”

Most of the onlookers smiled patronizingly at her burst of excitement.  It was as if they were thinking, “Right.  Well, each to his own.”  Few would consider it a very desirable destination.

“Before you commit to this adventure,” Doug warned, “I'd better give you some details.  You might change your mind.”

Abigail knew she would want to go, no matter what he had to say, as long as it didn't mean spending more than the money she had already saved.  Doug explained that he did not want anything toward his plane's fuel cost—since he planned to go anyway.  As far as food, the family considered them guests and would refuse any money offered them.

However, she would be staying in rooms with the unmarried female family members and would probably be expected to help with food preparations when she was able.  He also discussed buying presents as it was an old Arab custom for visiting friends to bring appropriate gifts for the family.  Abigail would need to go shopping with him to make sure she bought acceptable items.  She already understood the mode of dress that would not offend Arab sensitivity, which was not really a problem for her because Abigail did not own or wear tank tops, short shorts or halters.  She had always tried to respect the culture while on digs before in the area, though she drew the line at wearing a burka.  And she spoke Arabic moderately well.

The demon Calumnius was not happy that Abigail was no longer having budget concerns.  This was not going the direction he had hoped.  That night he watched Miss Abigail happily preparing for her trip, and he devised a new strategy, one that included sexual seduction.  It would be very hot in Iraq for humans such as she.  There would be some opportunity for the two to be alone in scant dress.  Knowing the male of the species quite well, he need only work on preparing Miss Abigail for the advance Doug Anderson would surely make.

Abigail packed a little prematurely in anticipation of a departure for the following mid-week.  She was a planner, a list-maker, efficient in everything she did.  After her shower, she looked long into the mirror at her image, holding her hair over her head as if considering a new style.

It wasn't like her to regard her appearance.  Perhaps she was having womanly feelings.
Calumnius pondered this, standing behind her and viewing his own reflection—such an immense contrast in species presented a remarkable vision.

T
here were no mirrors in hell.  They would not survive the heat, which would crack the glass and melt the silvering behind it.  There was no need, as they could see themselves in each other, despite their differences—which were considerable.  As angels boasted nine Orders, so the demons are categorized into five groups by function.  And none of them remotely resembled the red creature with horns, a spiky tail, and flowing cape as depicted in the human media. 

Calumnius laughed when he came across those creative depictions of devils in human art and more recently on the Internet. 
Humans create anthropomorphous characterizations out of some need to see their own image everywhere in their world.  They dress their animals and give them human names, and try to do the same with devils—not to make them endearing so much as to comprehend them at all.  How unable they are, in their arrogance, to imagine as real creatures unlike themselves.  So they place my kind into science fiction.  Hah!
 
Some of their ideas were not far from the truth, perhaps because a rare sampling of humans had actually witnessed demons and had lived long enough to describe them.

Calumnius belonged to the Order of the Mullin.  These were the most varied of all demonology, incorporating different animal-like features into their anatomy.  Some, like himself, had bull-like horns, wolf claws, and hairy bodies.  He was an especially large one, but others were small with fur, and some had batlike wings they could fold around their bodies.  Some looked mildly reptilian, but were not to be confused with the Serpentines.

The Urian Order dealt through magic with humans—the conjurers, witches, and wizards of the earth.  They could appear in any form imaginable, even as attractive humans, but their natural form was a dense, shapeless mist.  They came when summoned by humans and pretended to do their bidding for a while, deceiving them until the time was ripe for them to devour their souls and torment them forever.

The Naman were the workers who were never seen by humans until after death, if they had lived so on earth as to deserve eternity in hell.  They tended to administrative needs from keeping records to middle-management tasks like supervising the toiling human souls who kept the fires burning by shoveling fuel, pumping billows, and removing tons of ash by the cartload.  The Naman were the chief tormentors after death—the ones who gnashed their terrible teeth and performed physical forms of torture.

The lowest forms of demon, without much intelligence at all, were the Serpentine and the Imps. The Serpentine were of a class that included all dragons, sea-serpents, snakes, and lizards that had once roamed earth, destroying villages.  These were hybrid life-forms created by the magic of an ancient sorcerer.  All the physical forms of this species were killed off by ancient warriors and knights, but their spirit forms still dwell in hell.  The Imps could be called dwarf demons with malformed bodies and pointed ears.  These were the creatures often depicted as gargoyles on Gothic cathedrals.

Calumnius continued to gaze at his figure standing behind Abigail in the mirror.  How odd it was to see two of her at once.  This was another of the few things that fascinated him on the earth. 
There once had been many wonderful things in this world, but the humans had destroyed much of it with their ugliness—or rather they obliterated the view of interesting things by filling it up with their own horrid kind. 
As he looked at her, she seemed not as ugly as she had in the beginning.  Probably he had been watching so long he had become accustomed to her appearance.

He looked at his own eyes—black, liquid pools of mystery.  These were attractive, unlike the human creatures' eyes with pale, vapid, and bland features.  Hers were green, the color of emeralds, and he would have to admit they were both expressive and brighter than most.  He could tell how she was feeling by looking into them.  As he did so, in the mirror, in that moment she looked back at him directly.  He gasped and turned away.  He noticed that she hugged herself and shivered as if she felt his presence or sensed something watching her.  He heard her say, “What was that?” referring to the chill that ran up her spine.

Casting aside this sensation as mere imagination, Abigail hurried to put on a clean, oversized T-shirt for sleep and jumped into bed cheerfully, turning out the light.  He, Calumnius, whose vision was equally good in the dark, watched as she sat on her mattress with folded hands in prayer.  He read her thoughts to be those of grateful thanks to God for providing a way for her to go on this trip to Iraq.

It confounded Calumnius beyond belief that she should credit God for this stroke of good luck.  How could it be that she felt such intimacy with a spirit she could not see nor had no firm evidence even of his existence?  He saw her smiling with contentment as she drifted off to sleep, envisioning dreams of artifacts and grimy dirt beneath her nails.

Calumnius eased beside her bed, and leaning in toward her ear, he whispered seductive messages about Doug Anderson—talking about the feel of his body, his smooth, lovely, tanned skin and taut muscles.  He placed visions in her head of his hidden anatomical features, using her imagination to make it seem real and warm in places where it touched her.

Abigail startled Calumnius by suddenly rising up straight to a sitting position, looking alert and slightly afraid.  She breathed heavily, eyes wide, and looked about the room as if she again sensed she was not alone.  He began to wonder why his presence seemed to bleed through to her reality without effort on his part.  It had never happened to him before, although he had heard tales of demons being spotted unaware.  Mostly such occurrences were due to so-called “ghost-hunters” who believed they were encountering disembodied spirits. 
Abigail was not trying to see him.  Surely she had no desire to see him.

Calumnius was both encouraged and dismayed by this new development in his relationship with Abigail Rayetta Fitzgerald.  He considered it that, one of the hunter and the hunted. 
What could be more intense than what passed between the one who would die a death of the soul and the one who determined her fate for all eternity?
If it ends in a good hunt, it would become something memorable that he could ponder in his mind and relive like photos in a memory book—like trophies kept by serial killers.  The easy, quick ones were of much less consequence.  Although he often felt impatience at how long it was taking, he also knew all would prove worthwhile once he succeeded.