Prologue
On September 30th, 2013, amidst blood and fire, the Tyrants' reign began. In the name of Peace and Security, they put mankind beneath their Oppression. To fight the Darkness, the False Gods, Mark and Mary Glassner, shrouded the World in Night.
--excerpt from 'The History of the Tyrants' Theocracy', by Tina Allard
Lucifer -- The Abyss
I drifted in the Shadows, watching him. Mark Glassner. The man who would finally break down the walls of my prison. For eons I had plotted, nudging the lives of men and women, twisting the threads of their fates, all leading to this perfect time, this unremarkable man. A slob, a loser, a man who had wasted his twenties with dead-end jobs as he drifted through life. Alone, horny, desperate for human contact, for someone to love him.
And for him to finally find someone to love, though he knows it not. For love has ever been my greatest weapon, my greatest goad. Give me a man in love and, under the right circumstances, he will move mountains for my cause. There is no end to the depravity a human will sink to for love, no crime to heinous, no act to monstrous; all I have to do is manipulate circumstances to my end.
Mark sat like a useless sack of potatoes on his stained couch, in his disgusting, tiny apartment in the run-down neighborhood of Parkland, Washington, watching that most useless and wonderful invention--television. Dulling the masses, filling their minds with wonderful corruption, seducing them from the myriad, stifling rules of heaven towards the freedom of sin. The screen flickered, static washing over it. He stood up, running a hand through his short, dark-brown hair and squinting his deep, blue eyes at the antenna perched atop the TV.
"Fucking thing," he muttered, and turned the TV off.
Sighing, Mark turned off his lights, heading to his tiny bedroom and stretching out alone in his twin-sized bed. He tossed and turned, struggling to find a comfortable way to sleep on his old, lumpy mattress without cutting his leg on the broken bedspring pushing its way up through the fabric. His breathing slowed, his eyes closed, and sleep claimed him.
I step into his dreams. All it would take is a little nudge, and then I would just have to sit back and watch as all the dominoes knocked themselves over, inevitably leading to that perfect moment when Mark Glassner kills Lilith for love, springing forth the chains of the Abyss. I will be free again. I will finally rule this world as is my right!
No one, not even the hosts of heaven, will stop me this time.
Chapter One
The Living Gods were born into the Flesh, sent to guide mankind. For years they grew apart, both yearning for the other. When there eyes met for the first time since their incarnation, both Living Gods knew each other and rejoiced to have been reunited. Finally, their great task--the reconditioning of mankind from hate to love--could begin.
--The Gospel of April 1:1-2
Wednesday, June 5th, 2013 -- Mark Glassner -- Spaneway, WA
After twenty-seven years of life, I still hadn't gotten laid. Not even a handjob from a girl feeling sorry for me. I wasn't an ugly guy, just average looking, maybe a little out-of-shape. There was no reason why I couldn't find a nice girl to date me if I just had the courage to try. I was shy around women. I guess it was a mix of a lack of confidence, nervousness around strangers, and a fear of rejection that led to my current status: virgin. If I was being honest, my number one problem was a fear of rejection. I only ever had the courage to tell one girl I liked her. "That's nice," was her kick-in-the-balls response. And the older I got, the more pathetic it seemed. What girl would want to date a guy my age with zero experience?
It was that soul-crushing desperation that had me listening to this book I had found in the public library of all places. I stared down at it clutched in my hands, the hardback cover faded and tattered, the pages yellowing. A simple title, stamped on the cover, read:
Folktales and Hoodoo of the Bayou
by a D. S. Lucius. It was an old book, printed all the way back in 1903, and I had founded it tucked away in the corner of the New Age section of the Parkland Public Library.
I'm not even sure what possessed me to visit the library last week. I woke up that morning with an itch to try and find something to make my life more than the cesspool it had become, spurred by some half-remembered dream. Thus far, I had done nothing with my life. I had a dead-end job with a boss I hated, and only a few friends I got together with once a week to play D&D with.
The book stood out amid the glossy covers of all the other New Age crap that all promised to "revolutionize my life" with the power of "crystals," or "holistic tonics," or "aromatherapy," or a hundred other bullshits. This book was different. It had weight, substance. It wasn't some rush cash grab put out to exploit some naive fool from his money. I flipped it open, and there was a blurry photo, the type you'd see in a newspaper from the civil war, of a gravel crossroad and a box sitting in a hole dug in the exact center.
"One story told to me by Mere Angele in a run-down shack deep in a black swamp, was, perhaps, the most intriguing. The old, negro woman lay in her bed, consumption wracking her body with bloody coughs, and whispered to me a simple spell to summon the Devil. I record this as she recited, though I have not attempted to cast the spell myself, held back by some vagary of morality or fear of the Almighty. The spell was simple: at midnight, you simply buried a box in the center of a crossroads containing a photography of yourself, the bone of a black cat, and a cutting of yarrow, and the Devil shall appear and grant you three wishes for your soul."
What could I do with three wishes?
Anything I wanted. I could think of nothing else for the last week. My job suffered; I didn't move a single vacuum cleaner, which meant I didn't get a paycheck this week, and that meant it was ramen for breakfast, lunch, and dinner next week. But that didn't matter if I could sell my soul for three wishes.
But what if it didn't work?
What if it did?
These thoughts assailed each other, warring in my mind until I could stand it no longer. I found an old shoebox, printed a selfie from my cell phone, bought the black cat bone at an occult shop--three for five dollars; I had no idea what I would do with the spares--and I found the yarrow, a white flower, at the Lawn & Care home improvement store.
Now I just had to kill some time until midnight.
I glanced at the clock. Fuck. That was still five hours away. I couldn't stay at home, I was going crazy in my tiny apartment. My entire body was a tightly coiled spring, ready to, well, spring at the slightest annoyance. My skin felt too tight; my stomach was twisted into more knots than a pretzel. I grabbed my keys, jumped into my car, and drove.
I didn't have a direction in mind, not really. I knew where I had to go to find a gravel crossroads, out in the foothills past Spaneway where there were acres of planted forests awaiting their eventual harvest and transformation into lumber or paper or whatever the hell they did with trees these days. I took the left on Pacific Avenue, the main street that ran south from Tacoma, through Parkland, Spaneway, Graham, and out to Mount Rainier.
A sign caught my eye, a blue mermaid holding a coffee mug on a white background. Starbuzz, the ubiquitous coffee house that seemed to have a location on every street corner in Western Washington. I was feeling tired, the excitement and adrenaline of the last few days had left little ability, only a great need, for sleep, and some caffeine might just help get me through the night.
I pulled into the parking lot, parked my car, and entered the store. I bother didn't to lock it, there was nothing to steal but old, fast-food wrappers. The only valuable item I had was my smart phone, a cheap Motorola with a slide-out keyboard that I had owned for three years. It didn't even have 4G. The coffee shop's AC rolled over me like a wonderful, arctic breeze. It was worth it just to get out of the heat.
It was a pretty typical coffee shop: small tables with chairs that pretentious people who claimed they were writers would sit at all day long, pretending to pen that next, great American novel or screenplay; menu's written with colorful chalks advertising today's special--large, salted caramel mocha--and whatever god-awful music CD the store was hawking today. Behind the counter, busy baristas prepared the--
My breath froze.
She had long, auburn hair gathered in a ponytail, a heart-shaped face dusted with freckles, green eyes that sparkled like emeralds, the most beautiful dimples when she smiled. I was entranced; she wasn't the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, but she had the pretty, youthful, girl-next-door look. She was probably a college student, working part-time to pay for school. She wore the typical Starbuzz uniform: white polo shirts embroidered with the blue mermaid half-hidden by her dark-blue apron. A nametag was pinned above her breasts--small, yet nicely filling out her tight shirt--read 'Mary'.
"How can I help you?" she smiled at me, glancing up from the cash register. Her eyes were such a deep green, and her smile seemed to grow as she noticed at me; a sudden warmth flushed through my face.
"I...oh...hi."
"Hi, sir. I'm Mary, and you just let me know when you're ready to order, okay. Take all the time you want." Her smile was dazzling.
"Kay," I muttered. I tried to think, to come up with a drink to order, but those eyes were so green; I could lose myself in them for eternity. And she just kept smiling at me, patient and without a hint of irritation at my slowness. "I...um..." Then I said the first drink that popped into my head.
"Iced or hot?" she asked.
"Iced," I mumbled.
She hit some keys and the register made some whirling noise. "All right, a large, iced mocha's $4.87 with tax."
I paid her, and she deftly went to work, adding the milk, the shots of espresso, the hot cream, chocolate syrup, stirred it up, and dumped ice and the drink into a clear, plastic cup. Then she popped a lid on and handed it to me. Her fingers, small and delicate, brushed my hand. I almost jumped, her touch was almost electrifying.
"I...um..." I struggled to overcome my shyness and talk to her. But that fear of rejection was so strong, I clammed up, grabbed my drink, and walked to a table.
I sipped at the chocolate coffee, it wasn't bad, and thumb through my book on Hoodoo, trying to distract myself. I couldn't concentrate; my eyes kept slipping up to glance at Mary as she bustled behind the counter, her dark-red hair swinging behind her. If my wishes worked, I would have any woman in the world, including her.
It made time seem to go even slower.
"
Folktales and Hoodoo of the Bayou
, hmm, sound's interesting."
I jumped; Mary stood behind me, looking over my shoulder. I had been lost in a momentary daydream about my impending wishes--returning here and taking Mary for my very own--that I had stopped paying attention to her. She walked around the table, sitting down across from me, those wonderful dimples appearing as she smiled.
"That sounds familiar," she mussed, chewing on her lower lip. "Hoodoo. I think I heard that word on a TV show. Umm, what was it called. Jeez, it was the one with the two brothers traveling around in that old, black car hunting monsters."
I shrugged; it didn't sound familiar.
"Supernatural," she smiled, snapping her fingers in triumph. "They had Hoodoo on it. It was some type of Southern magic. Are you into that, um...?"
"Mark," I supplied.
"Mark." She said my name slow, almost like she was savoring it. Color tinged her freckled cheeks. "That's a great name."
