Zephiel used to like Purgatory. He’d enjoyed shepherding souls to redemption, purifying the reformed, and even overseeing the delicate balance of trade between realms. It was a good post, a rewarding post, one even the demons on the opposite side of the Styx couldn’t ruin. At least, not until he came.
Zephiel hated the new demon immediately. He’d waved tentatively across the bubbling crimson river, half-thinking he should introduce himself, but when the loathsome creature waved back, a legion of spiderlings spawned on Zephiel’s outstretched arm. He’d screamed. The demon had laughed, his grin a glowing crescent moon in the black of his face, and by the time Zephiel had swatted them all away, the demon was gone.
The demon’s name was Murmur and he was a menace. Most demons didn’t care how many souls they dragged to Hell. It wasn’t like they made commission. Baphomet, Moloch, even the overlord Mammon himself — they kept to themselves, much preferring to gamble and guzzle knock-off nectar. Murmur was different. He set up a recruitment stand boasting smarmy slogans that changed almost daily: a platform for gaudy showmanship designed to show gullible souls just how exciting eternal damnation could be.
Even Zephiel’s subordinates were not completely immune. Once, he caught a fledgling seraph trying to ring the demon’s horns with a fossilized halo for some undisclosed prize. His glare was so piercing the halo slipped from her hand.
“Don't be such a killjoy,” Murmur said, sprouting an additional horn and ducking his head to catch it. “Eternity should be fun.”
Now, Zephiel dreaded his yearly rotation in Purgatory. Each time he descended, he hoped to see any of Mammon’s other minions, but Murmur never seemed to leave. It was bad enough seeing him across the river. It was even worse when, uninvited, Murmur appeared on Heaven’s side of the Styx, chatting up souls waiting for purification or proposing deals to unsuspecting angels.
This time, Zephiel caught him at the shipyard, swanning around like he owned the place. “What is he doing here?” Zephiel hissed to his lieutenant as Murmur opened a barrel of nectar, his neck extending grotesquely to peer inside. “You’re supposed to keep the hellspawn out, Cassiel. If you can’t—”
“Tut tut.” Murmur laid spindly claws on his lieutenant’s white-clad shoulders. “I’m perfectly harmless. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Cassie knows that — you don’t mind if I call you Cassie, do you? Frankly, Cassie, you’re under-appreciated here. I treat my minions with respect. I reward them. Care for them, even.”
Zephiel pulled her away before she could get any ideas. “Stay. On. Your. Side.” Murmur winked a void-black eye before dissolving and reconstituting at his stall, where today’s sign (LET’S MAKE A DEAL!) cast a garish neon glow.
That night, while Purgatory slept, Zephiel paced the docks to clear his mind and quickly found he was not alone. The barrels were moving, lugged by a procession of imps. Murmur leaned against a stack of crates, telekinetically floating one after another to a raft. When he saw Zephiel, he smirked and raised a goblet in salute.
“Fancy a glass?”
“You’re stealing my cargo,” Zephiel said, flabbergasted.
“Stealing’s such a harsh word,” mused the demon. “What’s a few gallons of contraband between friends?”
“We’re not friends, and this is a breach of treaty,” he snapped. “I’ll report you to your overlord.”
“I’ll be sure to discipline myself appropriately,” said Murmur.
“You? But Mammon—”
“—was a complacent fool who never watched his back. Prime spot for a proverbial knife.” Murmur’s claws sharpened into cruel points. “I’m surprised you didn’t know, considering it’s been seven years and you’re obsessed with me.”
“I’m not obsessed.”
“If you say so,” Murmur said, watching the imps paddle away, contraband in tow. Instead of giving chase Zephiel said, “If you're actually an overlord, why are you here? Why not send minions?”
“I like it here. Plus, last time I decided to delegate, Gabriel pitched a fit and practically begged me to come back.”
“Bullshit,” Zephiel said un-angelically. “You treat souls like currency. You tempt them into sin when they’re one step away from eternal salvation. That goes against everything he stands for.”
“For an immortal, you’re remarkably short-sighted. Heaven doesn’t want souls that are good-for-now. You want good forever. If paradise is within reach, if all they need to do is make one good impression, a soul seduced by my tricks isn’t worthy,” he said. “Those souls, at their core, have always been and will forever be mine. One might say I'm offering you a valuable service, saving you the trouble of filling out paperwork for their inevitable future falls." “A service you benefit from."
"A good deal equally favors both parties. A great deal favors me." Murmur pressed his palms together, then unfurled an accordion-like string of ethereal paper dolls. His arms extended five, ten feet, stretching across the whole quay to accommodate them all. Zephiel tried not to think about all the unsuspecting souls they might represent. Murmur's hands clapped back together. The illusory dolls disappeared. “Heaven values quality. I prefer quantity. We each get what we want, peacefully. Isn’t that what matters?”
“Well, when you put it that way…” Zephiel said uncertainly. He found it oddly hard to think straight with the demon mere inches away. Up close, his perpetual grin felt charming, almost genuine. This time when he was offered a glass he took it. Then Zephiel said, “Congratulations, I guess.”
“Would it have killed you to say that earlier?”
Was it his imagination or did the demon seem a little hurt?
“To be fair, talking to you usually makes me want to gnaw my own wings off,” Zephiel said.
“And now?”
“It’s not so bad,” he admitted.
“How sweet.” Murmur stood, downing the rest of his drink. “Thanks for the nectar.”
He extended a bony claw. Zephiel gripped it a second too long. Before he could stop himself, he blurted, “I have a bottle from the Bronze Age at the keep. We could drink it sometime. Together. Possibly.”
“That sounds awfully like a date.”
“Don’t push your luck,” Zephiel said, though his cheeks felt uncomfortably warm. “Well?”
Murmur laughed. “Why not? But do be careful,” he said, dissipating back into shadow, “It’s never too late to fall.”
Kendra Recht is a speculative fiction writer with a BFA in Writing, Literature, and Publishing from Emerson College. She currently lives with her cat Lohse in Boston, MA, and is deep in the process of writing her debut novel.