And we certainly can’t transport him into the mortal realm. The temptation to cause mayhem would be too great, even for someone like him looking to do the right thing. So. The only avenue left to him is to reside with us.”
I shake my head. “With all due respect, Madam, there is no place for a demon in our Attics, no matter how noble his intentions. This is a celestial institution, devoted to the care and betterment of our mortal brothers and sisters. We cannot allow anyone or anything to distract us or detain us from our divine duty.”
“My thinking exactly, Zab. And that’s why we’re going to help this demon become one of us. If he ends up joining the team, then everything we do for him will be for the greater good.”
My intense astonishment causes my vision to blur and my face to heat up. After a few moments, I say, “You are joking. This is one of those elaborate pranks you are famous for.”
“I know the situation’s not…normal. But you know the Maker’s policy. If it’s at all possible, we have to help anyone who reaches out to us.”
“But surely that rule does not apply to a creature without a soul.”
“Coronorth and a few of the other Archangels thought the same thing. But according the Seraphim, God loves demons as much as he loves people. As much as he loves us.”
I am aware that the Seraphim exist in a reality very close to the center of the Maker’s being. However, they have been known to misinterpret the Maker’s thoughts from time to time, and I am almost positive that this is one of those instances. The Maker I know and love would never allow a mere demon to threaten the order of the Attics. We are the foundation of all this is good and right in the Universe.
“I’ve talked it over with the others,” Geltharidge says. “We’re all agreed that you’re the angel for the job.”
“And what job are you referring to exactly, Madam?”
“We want to you take on the demon. Show him the ropes. What do you say? Will you take the case?”
“I…I am obligated by the Law of the Maker to acquiesce my will to your adjuration.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes.”
Why Geltharidge always insists on asking me whether or not I wish to obey her commands, I cannot begin to fathom. I am not a creature of free will, and I could no more deny her request than she could deny that of her superiors. The responsibility for the demon has been passed on to me. There is nothing I can do or say to change that.
“When exactly is this Overdemon to arrive?” I say.
“Tomorrow morning,” Geltharidge says. “And, Zab, he’s no Overdemon. He’s just your run-of-the-mill underling.”
“I…I see. Are you positive?”
“Overdemons know a thing or two about writing, and that letter we received was a grammatical shipwreck. It had to come from an underling.”
“I see.”
“Are you alright, Zab? You’re looking a little pale.”
“As always, I am perfectly content, Madam.”
“You sure you don’t want that drink?”
“I must respectfully decline.”
“Well. Thanks for taking the case. You’re a real man among men.”
I excuse myself from the office and pass through the Everydoor to my workspace. To my dismay, I discover that my desk is in greater disarray than I recollected it to be. I am in dire need of sleep, but the fire of my consciousness will not and cannot be doused until I put my desk to rights. Therefore, I file away the stray papers. I refill my inkwell. I attempt to reposition the objects on my desk in a manner that is both ergonomic and aesthetically pleasing, but I cannot seem to accomplish what is ordinarily a fairy simple feat. In time, I discover that the fault lies in the shape of the desk and the spatial dimensions of my office. My endeavor to draw out a new and improved blueprint for my surrounding reality proves unsuccessful, as my mind continues to wander away from the task at hand to the prospect of my new mission.
To say the least, I am dispirited at the
I shake my head. “With all due respect, Madam, there is no place for a demon in our Attics, no matter how noble his intentions. This is a celestial institution, devoted to the care and betterment of our mortal brothers and sisters. We cannot allow anyone or anything to distract us or detain us from our divine duty.”
“My thinking exactly, Zab. And that’s why we’re going to help this demon become one of us. If he ends up joining the team, then everything we do for him will be for the greater good.”
My intense astonishment causes my vision to blur and my face to heat up. After a few moments, I say, “You are joking. This is one of those elaborate pranks you are famous for.”
“I know the situation’s not…normal. But you know the Maker’s policy. If it’s at all possible, we have to help anyone who reaches out to us.”
“But surely that rule does not apply to a creature without a soul.”
“Coronorth and a few of the other Archangels thought the same thing. But according the Seraphim, God loves demons as much as he loves people. As much as he loves us.”
I am aware that the Seraphim exist in a reality very close to the center of the Maker’s being. However, they have been known to misinterpret the Maker’s thoughts from time to time, and I am almost positive that this is one of those instances. The Maker I know and love would never allow a mere demon to threaten the order of the Attics. We are the foundation of all this is good and right in the Universe.
“I’ve talked it over with the others,” Geltharidge says. “We’re all agreed that you’re the angel for the job.”
“And what job are you referring to exactly, Madam?”
“We want to you take on the demon. Show him the ropes. What do you say? Will you take the case?”
“I…I am obligated by the Law of the Maker to acquiesce my will to your adjuration.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes.”
Why Geltharidge always insists on asking me whether or not I wish to obey her commands, I cannot begin to fathom. I am not a creature of free will, and I could no more deny her request than she could deny that of her superiors. The responsibility for the demon has been passed on to me. There is nothing I can do or say to change that.
“When exactly is this Overdemon to arrive?” I say.
“Tomorrow morning,” Geltharidge says. “And, Zab, he’s no Overdemon. He’s just your run-of-the-mill underling.”
“I…I see. Are you positive?”
“Overdemons know a thing or two about writing, and that letter we received was a grammatical shipwreck. It had to come from an underling.”
“I see.”
“Are you alright, Zab? You’re looking a little pale.”
“As always, I am perfectly content, Madam.”
“You sure you don’t want that drink?”
“I must respectfully decline.”
“Well. Thanks for taking the case. You’re a real man among men.”
I excuse myself from the office and pass through the Everydoor to my workspace. To my dismay, I discover that my desk is in greater disarray than I recollected it to be. I am in dire need of sleep, but the fire of my consciousness will not and cannot be doused until I put my desk to rights. Therefore, I file away the stray papers. I refill my inkwell. I attempt to reposition the objects on my desk in a manner that is both ergonomic and aesthetically pleasing, but I cannot seem to accomplish what is ordinarily a fairy simple feat. In time, I discover that the fault lies in the shape of the desk and the spatial dimensions of my office. My endeavor to draw out a new and improved blueprint for my surrounding reality proves unsuccessful, as my mind continues to wander away from the task at hand to the prospect of my new mission.
To say the least, I am dispirited at the
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