Remy polished off his drink, smacking his lips as he placed the empty glass down on the leather couch cushion beside him. “I’ve always wanted to ask this question: Do you guys actually get some kind of enjoyment out of being bad, or is it all about pissing Him off? Do you think He even cares at this point? I mean, He’s already tossed you out; I’d say it’s likely that He’s written you off by now, wouldn’t you think?”
“We can only hope that He’s still watching… seeing how easy it is for even His chosen creations—his beloved humans—to fall from grace… to forget Him and His holy word so easily when the opportunity presents itself,” Byleth said with a certain amount of pleasure.
The Denizens reveled in the weaknesses of humanity, taking immense pleasure in leading them down a path of corruption. Drugs, prostitution, gambling; if it could somehow stain the human spirit, they were likely part of the equation, pulling the strings from the shadows.
There wasn’t a nicer bunch of guys on the planet.
“It’s all we really have left,” Byleth offered. “And we take from it what we can.”
Remy took the Satan’s answer for what it was worth. “Fair enough,” he said. He noticed that Mulciber and Procell had stopped giving him the hairy eyeball and were now looking at the area near his feet, at the twin daggers that still lay there. Remy wondered if the knives were somehow attempting to communicate with them as they had with him, filling their heads with their greatest hits.
He leaned forward, picking the twin daggers up from the rug, and watching as all present physically reacted.
“So, what can you tell me about these?” Remy asked. The knives were trying to get into his head again, but he was ready this time, blocking the violent imagery and focusing on the here and now.
“Nothing much to tell, really,” Byleth said, uncrossing his legs, planting both feet upon the floor. He was staring at the Pitiless with hungry eyes. “I first learned of them just before my release from Tartarus,” the Satan said. “They were whispered about… their purpose a mystery.”
“That was quite some time ago,” Remy said, rubbing the flat of his thumb along the hilt of one of the knives. The weapon seemed to purr, enjoying his attention. “Why the sudden interest now?”
Byleth reclined in the chair and sighed, looking as though he was relaxing, but Remy knew that wasn’t the case. “They were supposed to be special, but as far as I knew they were lost, hidden away someplace waiting for somebody to discover them. I never gave them much thought beyond that, really, focusing my talents on building a power base amongst the Denizen community. It was a long, uphill battle, but one I relished, and eventually managed to win.”
“Do they give you a special decoder ring, or maybe even some decorative horns when you make Satan?” Remy asked. Obviously he’d been spending way too much time with Francis.
He could see Byleth’s men tensing, just waiting for the word to pummel him. But he doubted they’d do it, even if ordered. Remember, he still had the knives.
“You’re much funnier than I ever remember you being,” Byleth responded with a sickly grin. “Is it something you intentionally work at, or does it come as a result of living with them… living as one of them?”
“It was either this or in-line skating,” Remy explained. “I went with being funny; it’s something I can do all year-round.”
The onetime friends glared across the study at each other. Remy could tell that the window for friendly conversation would be closing soon, patience wearing thin, and he needed some answers.
“So what put them back on your radar?” Remy asked, holding the twin daggers up, points to the ceiling. All in the room were feeling it, the daggers’ power charging the air.
“Recently released parolees from Tartarus had heard some murmurings from within the prison walls; something big was about to happen and the weaponry was somehow involved.”
Remy slid to the edge of the couch. “That was it? Some parolees talking shit? There had to be more than that.”
“They said that there was a change coming,” Byleth said, the intensity growing in his gaze.
“And let me guess, you don’t like change… especially if it involves you. You like things just the way they are.”
The Satan smiled, a pale imitation of the beatific appearance he once had when still loved by God. “Exactly,” he said. “So I put the word out, that it could be quite profitable to anybody who could find these weapons for me. I figured if they were in my possession, they couldn’t do me any harm, and if they were as special as people said, nobody would dare try and fuck with me.”
Remy gazed at the knives, stifling the violent urges that attempted to force their way to the forefront of his thoughts.
“They’re special all right,” he said. He tore his eyes from the sleek, deadly weapons to stare intensely at Byleth sitting across from him. “Do you have any idea what they actually are, or who they were created for?”
The Morningstar’s face briefly flashed before his eyes, a surge of rage bubbling up from his center. The Seraphim roared its anger, bucking against the confines placed around it.
“Do you have any idea?” Remy growled, surging up from his seat, letting his arms snap forward, the Pitiless blades spinning through the air before dropping to stick in the hardwood floor before the Satan’s feet.
He was glad to be rid of them, the chatter inside his head starting to clear. Byleth’s men launched themselves immediately at him, the bald fallen pulling back a fist in order to strike him for what he’d done.
“Don’t,” their employer commanded, his voice no louder than a whisper.
They stopped midattack, turning to see if their boss was serious.
Byleth had slid from his chair, kneeling in front of the daggers.
“Leave him alone,” he ordered, his eyes held to the knives. “He’s only given me what I wanted.”
Mulciber roughly pushed Remy back onto the couch. Byleth leaned one of his ears down to the weapons. “I can hear them… They’re talking to me.” He laughed, reaching out tentatively to one of the blades. “They… they want me to hold them.”
Remy as well as the two bodyguards watched with curious eyes. He had no idea how the weapons would affect the Satan, if one who had fallen from Heaven would be privy to the visions that had been shared with him.
Byleth’s hands wrapped around the hilt of one of the knives, and then the other, tugging them both from the floor. It looked as if the fallen angel had suddenly received a massive electrical shock, his legs sliding out from beneath him as he twitched upon the floor.
The goons made a nervous move toward their employer.
“He’s fine,” Remy called after them. They turned, staring nervously, unsure if they should trust his word.
“They’re just talking.”
Byleth thrashed as he rolled onto his back. He held the daggers out before him, a look of absolute shock and surprise etched upon his face. With a sudden groan of exertion, he opened his hands arthritically, the knives falling from his clutches.
His men rushed to his aid, helping him up, returning him to his seat.
“For him,” Byleth groaned. “The daggers were made for him.”
Remy got up from the couch and went to the liquor cabinet. Helping himself, he picked up the crystal decanter and poured another drink. Byleth looked as though he could use it.
“Weapons of the Morningstar,” Remy said, handing the fallen angel the glass. Byleth took it from him, slurping loudly at the alcohol. “Weapons crafted for Lucifer’s hands.”
“It must have been just before the war,” Byleth gasped, out of breath from the experience of touching the Pitiless. The effects of the weaponry on the fallen appeared even more severe than they had been on Remy. “Some sort of secret weapons, perhaps.”