Loved by Heaven, Fouled by Hell Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Biography

  Loved by Heaven, Fouled by Hell

  Shifter Series, Book 1

  Konstantine Paradias

  Breathless Press

  Calgary, Alberta

  www.breathlesspress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or

  persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Loved by Heaven, Fouled by Hell

  Copyright © 2014 Konstantine Paradias

  ISBN: 978-1-77101-947-7

  Cover Artist: Mina Carter

  Editor: Haleigh Rucinski

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations

  embodied in reviews.

  Breathless Press

  www.breathlesspress.com

  Chapter One

  Above the Earth, there is a city. It is a city of a myriad spires, their architecture an impossibility in the eyes of man. It is a city made of ivory and silver, its roads paved with gold, its rooms awash with eerie, unworldly music.

  It is a city of wonders, where clockwork birds and animals, automata of unimaginable complexity, prowl and sing and walk along its roads. Plants grow across its great plazas, their leaves shedding rainbows consisting of alien colors all around them. Great glass libraries, filled with every possible book in existence, dot the landscape. They are books that tell of lives of men that have been, or could have been. They are books that speak of histories that couldn’t have possibly come to pass, where dystopian—or utopian—alternatives of humanity’s history are outlined in great detail.

  The city is called the Silver City, but men call it Heaven.

  Upon the Earth, there is a city. It is a city of great towers, behemoths made of concrete, steel, and glass, each one a testament to man’s architectural prowess. It is a city made of asphalt and stone, its roads paved over the blood and the bones of the countless sacrifices made in its name.

  It is a mesh of constant cacophony but also of unexpected beauty. Great machines roar across its streets, purring anxiously at each traffic light. What few plants grow here are of an ugly, but sturdy kind, one that has learned to shrug off chemicals and noxious fumes and has taught itself how to grow through the cracks in the walls. It dreams of tearing down the skyscrapers, of drowning everything in green silence; its dreams are the reality of its primordial ancestors. There are libraries in the city too, but almost no one ever reads their stories anymore. The greatest stories take place in the minds of its people.

  The city needs no name, but the men call it Sidon.

  Below the Earth, there is a city. It is a city built of bronze and stone, with a single great tower jutting out from its center, like the rusted tip of a spear; from there, its lord surveys his dominion with his one great, burning eye. The city’s mad shape stretches out for infinity to every direction, below the rock and up the rock, designed at first by its immortal denizens, who wished to build themselves a refuge from the eternal dark.

  It is a web of terror, of screams interrupted by long silences. In its bowels, machines of a nefarious nature toil and grind their gears, crushing rock, metal, and living things alike. There are no plants in this city. Only the crudest facsimiles of life, created by its denizens, using lead and other base metals, their leaves and trunks covered in rust exist here. It dreams of boring its way downward, of reaching so deep under the world that it will find something else waiting below it. The optimists dream of another world, perhaps made of light and green, free from the grip of God, who imprisoned them here against their will. The cynics speak of another prison, a nightmare of far greater magnitude than their current one, inhabited by creatures far worse off than they, so that the misery of those inhabitants might provide them solace.

  The city is named Abaddon, but men call it Hell.

  ***

  In Sidon, Eli Mandrake felt a great pain rise in him, and his breathing grew suddenly weak and ragged. He clawed at his wrinkled old flesh and dug his nails so hard against his chest that he could feel the bones of his rib cage pushing against his fingernails.

  After a century’s worth of fouling the world with his depravity and corrupting it by his very presence, his time had finally come. He opened his mouth and called out for his daughter, his voice a hoary thing, sounding impossibly weak and distorted to his own ears.

  “Lucretia!” he shrieked. “I need you here, woman!”

  He was about to call out to her again when the pain in his chest rose and white-hot lotuses of agony blossomed in his field of vision. He felt a familiar, metallic taste in his mouth. From the depths of his bowels, he could feel his very essence rising up from him, seeking to leave his dying body. He had prepared himself for this. He had taught himself mantras and had exercised so he could suppress his fear of dying, so he could keep his mind and his self-control when this terrible day did come. He took deep, controlled breaths, and the pain abated. To still the pounding in his chest, he imagined flowers blooming in a field where dead men lay.

  But then the pain rose again and Eli forgot about his decades of preparation and screamed his daughter’s name once again, at the top of his lungs.

  “Lucretia!”

  ***

  In Hell, he was known as Andrealphus. To men, he introduced himself as the Marquis of Hell, commander of thirty legions of the damned. Now, as he felt Mandrake’s soul struggle to leave his body, he threw away his pickax and laughed uproariously at his fellow damned, letting loose his great leathery wings. Then, with a mighty leap, he left the tunnels of Hell and climbed up the face of the rock, propelling himself with claw and wing and tooth up to Sidon.

  At last, Andrealphus was going to collect the prize he was due.

  ***

  In Heaven, the angel who was called Hael was resting in the shade of the trees in the great Garden, contemplating the impossible spectrum of colors, when he suddenly heard his name called out and was given a vision of the man he was to deliver. Without a moment’s hesitation, he flew to the edge of the Silver City and willed his wings into being before jumping down to Sidon.

  As the weight of his corporeal form started dragging him down to Earth, Hael was suddenly filled with a sense of inexplicable dread.

  Chapter Two

  In his great Victorian bedroom, wrapped in his silk sheets, Eli Mandrake lay dying. At the foot of his bed, his daughter, Lucretia, stared at her father in both horror and fascination. The shriveled old husk clenched his teeth and spoke words in some strange, forgotten language (the secret language of Phoenician gravediggers, of Egyptian mummy-makers, and Mycenaean priests, taught to them by Orpheus, as whispered in his ear by Eurydice), sweat trickling down his brow as he felt old enemies and betrayed friends looking up at him from the dismal afterlife he had condemned them to.

  Sometimes, his head would jerk as he was wracked by pain, and Lucretia would let out a tiny, almost silent, sigh of relief. Perhaps, Eli thought, she is praying for this old sorcerer, this bane of her life, this cancerous little growth on the face of the world, to be finally, utterly, and irrevocably dead
. But then he would open his eyes again and stare at her and smile, baring his teeth, and say:

  “Still here. Don’t mess this up.”

  And she would bow her head and check the hidden stashes of incense and the lines engraved on the wooden boards under and beside the bed, as Eli had commanded her. She would look into Eli’s gold-lettered grimoire and carefully recite to herself the words that she was to speak the minute they arrived. Eli could tell what she was silently wishing: for her father to die, please, please, die already!

  And then the light in the room dimmed, the lightbulbs flickered for a second, and Eli felt suddenly cold, so utterly, terribly cold, and relieved at the same time. To her the visitors would appear as little more than tiny little indentations left on the tick rug on each side of the bed, near her father’s head.

  On Eli’s left-hand side, stood the demon Andrealphus—to whom his soul had been sold so long ago—his chosen form upon arrival that of a huge, bloated red fiend, its mouth frozen in a constant grin, with teeth intended for shredding, not chewing, jutting out against taut, bloated lips.

  On his right-hand side stood the angel Hael—who was known to Eli as one of Heaven’s own historians—his form that of a beautiful creature, its features distinctly androgynous, elegant, but in a cold, inhuman sort of way. His eyes were great black orbs, studded with silver. His wings were folded on his back.

  “Time to go, old man...time for you to leave that dried husk of a body and slide down into the depths with me and pick up your little pickax and grind and toil in Abaddon, whipped forever by the foremen, your only respite a cup of salted water each day,” said the demon.

  The angel flinched at the sound of his voice, a sweet-sounding voice like that of a little boy’s that rose from that monstrosity.

  “And that little bumboy from Heaven over there?” the demon commented, pointing his long, clawed finger at the angel. “He can’t do a damn thing to help. You’re bound to me by contract.”

  “I am here to record his death. To verify the passing of this life, as foretold by the Lord. I have no quarrel with you, fallen,” replied Hael.

  The old man wheezed and stared, then looked at the foot of the bed and shrieked:

  “They’re here! Speak the words! Do it now! Now!”

  Andrealphus noticed her first, as she rose from the bed, knew the function of her talisman and the contents of the leather-bound grimoire in her hands the instant he saw them. Hael was slower by only a fraction of a second. The demon hissed, and the angel beat his wings, each seeking to retreat in their respective domains. By then, it was too late. She spread her arms and waved her hands and cut her palms, letting the blood flow down the lines engraved on the floor. She spoke the words:

  “Kia-soon garah no’moth! Hastur vur’lui fhtagn!”

  Eli drank in Andrealphus’s horrified look, as the demon recognized the meaning of the words and tried to jump, to slide out of the world and back into the pits, but by that time the effect was in place and held his feet planted on the carpet, locked his wings, and dragged him on the floor.

  And yet, to Eli, the angel’s entrapment was far more precious a sight: Hael stood frozen as he realized the trap. He tried to reach out to the woman, to plead with her, but it was already too late. His form, suddenly forced into the realm of the living, had become heavy; his thin arms and legs were unable to support him, his wings a weight that pinned him down.

  And Eli laughed then. He cackled like a maniac, his eyes almost popping out of his eye sockets, before digging his nails into his chest so hard it almost bled. His final vision, as he finally perished, was of Lucretia’s face, the horror slowly shedding from her features, to be replaced by pure relief.

  ***

  “So long, Father. You were a worthless little growth, and I won’t miss you,” spoke Lucretia as she saw her father’s head fall in some strange angle to his left. On the sides of his bed, the creatures were slowly becoming visible, their bodies held down as if by some unseen chain. She enjoyed the terror that dawned in their eyes as they realized that they were now visible to the woman who had just bound them.

  “Do not bother struggling, my pets. You both know where you are and what just took place. My father’s soul has left his body, and you failed to retrieve it. He is free to roam the Earth and haunt some cupboard, while you are stuck here.” She smiled her devilish grin—so much like her father’s—and stretched like a cat after a kill. “Under my command. And you shall remain so, when I know your true names,” she said and made a sign with her hand just so, thus causing both creatures to be slammed against the floor by an unseen force. “Speak your names!”

  “You deprived me of my contracted bounty!” screamed Andrealphus, his roar making the fine china rattle. “I am Andrealphus, Grand Marquis of Hell, minister of the mysteries of flesh!” he let out through gritted teeth, as the spell took hold of him.

  “You cheated Heaven and Hell!” exclaimed Hael. “I am Hael, chief historian of mortal lives,” he muttered, defeated.

  “And I also got myself a pair of slaves. I’d call this a win-win situation. Now you will have to excuse me. I need to get rid of my father’s remains.”

  Without another word, she walked out and rolled a trolley inside the room. It was large enough to accommodate the shriveled husk of Eli Mandrake, which she dumped on top of it and rolled out. She later buried it, unceremoniously, in the family plot inside the estate, humming to herself all the while.

  ***

  Hael was silent as he watched the demon struggle with his bonds, his form constantly changing, switching from a bloated fiend into the animated corpse of a drowned young man, then to some impossible creature very much like a winged serpent. He was screaming now, as he switched his form to that of some tentacled, many-eyed horror, its mass a multitude of spitting, hissing mouths as he repeatedly kept trying to leave the binding circle.

  “You’ll only hurt yourself if you keep struggling,” he commented.

  “I’ll get that cunt! I’ll get her, and I’m going to destroy her!”

  “Provided you are freed from her binding, of course.”

  The demon stared at Hael with eyes dripping pure, unbridled hate when Lucretia walked back into the room, dressed in a revealing gown that exposed her ample breasts. She smelled strongly of freshly dug earth. Both creatures were perfectly silent as they watched her walk her way across the room and lay on the bed where her father had died, writhing on the sheets.

  “So long, you bastard! So long, bane of my life!”

  “Woman. For what you have done, I swear to the Lord of Hell, I am going to...” Andrealphus growled.

  “Suruk!” she hissed, and the demon’s mouth clamped shut. He was paralyzed. Hael watched her as she let out a gasp, marveling at her little feat of sorcery, and then lay back, arching her back languidly on the bed as she turned to look at Hael.

  “And you? Are you going to try and curse at me as well?” She purred as she slid her hand under the silk of her gown and traced the outline of her nipples.

  “No,” replied Hael, his eyes transfixed on hers, not sparing a look as Lucretia bared her breast and twisted her nipple, biting her lip.

  “Good.” She moaned as she released her other breast too. She teased her nipples, pulling at the flesh. She was reveling in her father’s death, Hael knew, her every motion released from the all-encompassing grip Eli had kept on her until now.

  ***

  Lucretia stared at the angel and slid her hand down her belly, between her legs, panting as she felt her sex, suddenly wet, so wet, the juices staining the silk sheets. Reaching down, she began teasing her clitoris over the fabric of her thong, and she jumped, letting out a soft exclamation of surprise and pleasure.

  She started circling her clit slowly, then faster as she popped one of her breasts into her mouth and bit and sucked at the nipple, shuddering. She reached under her underwear and tugged at them, forcing the fabric between her lower lips, against her most sensitive spot, and ground it hard,
loving the rough sensation, the pain—sweet pain.

  Moving her waist and hips up and down, she writhed on the bed, ruffling the sheets. She let her breast go, releasing it so it would flop on her chest as she shuddered, feeling a series of soft spasms rise from inside her, her first orgasms. She yelped with each one. She would look from her sex back to the angel, back to herself. The creature of Heaven had not even spared her a glance.

  Lucretia turned toward him, loving the challenge, and lay sideways on the bed, her legs spread wide open before him. Her cunt was almost exposed now, the lips jutting out, her juices gleaming between her legs and buttocks. Softly moaning, she moved the fabric aside, exposing her wet, pink sex to the angel, close enough for him to be able to lean in and taste it.

  She slid across her cunt and parted the lips, letting him take a good look at it as she began softly teasing her clit. The angel watched her spasms with mild curiosity.

  She moved her other hand down as well and slowly slid her finger in her waiting hole, suddenly jerking back and letting out a soft yelp while she pushed it all the way down to the knuckle, hooking it inside her cunt and tickling her sweet spot. Then she slipped in another, then her thumb, screaming at the wonderful sensation.

  She was three fingers deep in herself, pumping at her sex, listening to her own juices flow out of her, bucking her hips, when she noticed the angel’s expression suddenly change. His curiosity had turned into fascination. Swept away by her little victory, she started pumping her sex vigorously, her fingers sliding in and out of her, teasing and circling her clitoris faster and faster.

  Lucretia was wheezing now, moaning, watching the angel lean down before her, and she let out a scream of pleasure, as her greatest orgasm yet rose up from inside her, washed down her body, her legs, her sex. She released her fingers just as it began to bubble outside her, out of control now, and tasted her own juices the minute she let go, feeling her cunt explode.

  Her juices flew out of her freely and sprayed over Hael, who jumped back, startled at the sight. Lucretia lay back in bed and still shuddered, scooping up her juices with her fingers and bringing them to her mouth, tasting herself, and breathlessly repeating: