Link to Part I!

Gabriel didn’t even spare a glance over his shoulder.  “Maybe, but as an archangel, I outrank him.”

This didn’t quite sit right with me, but who was I to question Heavenly politics?  A tiny voice in the back of my head whispered that I would have to draw up some rules for the shop.  I caught the scent of burned fabric as I made the archangel’s drink.  Rule number one: any arsonist must pay for all damages caused by his flaming sword.

Unlike Gabriel, the rest of the angels ordered their usual drink, a large regular coffee with seven creams and sugars.  A small part of my soul felt soiled by making these drinks – the sweet liquid in the cups I passed across the counter appeared nearly white.  Each angel politely accepted his steaming drink from my hand, dropping another gold coin on the counter.  Gabriel leaned casually against the counter and sipped his espresso as I worked, kindly keeping his wings angled away from my workspace.

I made it through the angelic rush without trouble, although I was already beginning to run low on cream.  As the last angel strolled out through the locked door, I sank backwards onto my stool behind the counter, staring at the pile of gold coins on my countertop.

Gabriel set down his cup with a clink.  “One angelic quirk – while they understand the concept of money, they really haven’t managed to master inflation, or commodities exchange,” he said, a small smile playing about his lips.  “It took them a couple thousand years to figure out that gold could be traded for things.  I haven’t even tried explaining fiat currency to them.”

I raised my head to stare at him.  “Angels are real,” I said, trying to convince myself that these words were true.  “They wear halos, carry harps and flaming swords, they can walk through locked doors, and they drink really sweet coffee.”  I wondered if the shop’s wallpaper contained some sort of hallucinogenic adhesive.

Gabriel shrugged one shoulder as he brushed a bit of lint from his lapels.  “Try not to dwell on it too much,” he replied.  “Just keep plenty of cream and sugar on hand for the morning and lunch rushes, and you’ll do fine.”

The archangel strolled towards the door.  He paused briefly at a large scorch mark on my carpet, caused by an errant flaming sword.  With a wave of his hand, the carpet miraculously restored itself.  “One other thing,” he added with his hand on the doorknob.  “In order to keep our existence secret, perhaps this door should simply remain locked.  It might be better, all around.”  With that advice, he slipped out of my shop.

After that first day, I spent a long time sitting in my unopened coffee shop, pondering what had happened.  The angels kept on returning, two large rushes per day, six days a week.  It turns out that angels take the whole Day of Rest thing very seriously, and refuse even their weak coffee on Saturdays.  Sunday through Friday, however, I woke up before the sunrise, standing in the locked room of my coffee shop, certain that this would be the day the angels didn’t come, that the glamour would finally fade.  I’d end each day with another pile of gold coins, feeling even more lost than when I believed it was nothing but a dream.

At first, the gold was a big help.  I sat down one day with a pair of scales and worked out that the angels paid me roughly $700 for each cup of coffee.  All in all, I earned about fifteen thousand dollars a day.  I very quickly paid off my loans and bought out the shop, and hired an assistant.

Finding an assistant who wouldn’t be bothered by having his entire worldview turned upside down was a significant challenge, I had to admit.  After sifting through an endless pile of theology and psychology majors, I ended up picking a college student majoring in computer science.  I don’t think his gaze ever rose to meet my eyes, much less high enough to spot a halo.

Despite the ease of the job and the huge amount of money made each day, I always left the shop feeling dissatisfied.  Eventually, I ended up heading down to local homeless shelters and other donation centers at the close of each week, giving away the bulk of the week’s income.

However, I did take some of the funds and use them for a new sign.  Call me pretentious, call me self-centered, but even though no customer ever saw the outside of my permanently shuttered shop, I felt a new sign was necessary.  I had to hire a custom designer to build it for me, but the name is perfect.  “Heavenly Grounds” just has the right sound to it, don’t you think?

I can tell you, nothing changes your world view like an angel wandering into your coffee shop.

I had just signed a lease on the location a few months ago, wedged between an organic food market and an overly modern art boutique.  I expected an interesting crowd.  My first customer, however, managed to raise the bar to a whole new level.

The man wandered in a day or two before the store was scheduled to open.  I was standing behind the counter making sure that the cash register was working.  “I’m sorry,” I spoke up.  “We haven’t opened yet…”

My words trailed away as I took in the man standing before me.  The man wore an oversized fedora and was dressed in what appeared to be three trench coats, each of a different color and cut, layered on top of each other.  Many more examples have since confirmed to me that angels are comically bad at disguising themselves.

The man ignored my comment and politely requested a large coffee, seven creams, seven sugars.  Not quite sure how to respond to such single-minded politeness, I made him the coffee.  “That will be three dollars,” I told him.

Beneath the brim of his fedora, the fellow’s eyes looked unusually blank.  He reached into the pocket of one of his coats and withdrew a large gold coin, which he set on my counter with a solid thud.  Apparently considering payment complete, he took a long drag of the coffee.  “Ooh, this is excellent!” he said in delight.  “Wonderful!  Expect more of us tomorrow!”

Clutching his drink, the man turned and exited via the door before I could say a word.  After he had left, I slowly moved out from around the counter.  I checked three times, just to be certain.  Yes, the door was still tightly locked.  I turned back to the counter, toying with the heavy golden coin as I tried to make sense of what had happened.  A man had just walked in through a locked door, obviously in some sort of disguise, to order a cup of very watered-down coffee!  What was happening?

The next morning, waiting with trepidation behind the counter, I watched in amazement as nearly two dozen angels poured inside through the locked door.  This time, there was no second-guessing their origin.  The beings wore white robes, vaguely reminiscent of togas, and halos bobbed above their heads.  Some of them carried harps or lyres under an arm.  A few even bore swords strapped to their waists, the blades of which appeared to be on fire.

The angels clamored forward to the counter.  Despite their halos, I caught a few subtle elbows jammed into sides as they jockeyed into a rough line.  The first angel in line smiled beatifically at me.  “Large coffee, seven creams, seven sugars,” he said, already laying another one of the gold coins on the counter.

My brain was returning nothing but static and fuzz.  Busy signal, please try again later.  “What’s going on?” I asked.  “Who are you?  How did you get here?”

The angel looked confused.  “Seven creams, seven sugars,” he repeated, sounding less certain.  Behind him, I could hear discordant notes as one of the angels struggled to tune his lyre.

We could have remained at that impasse all day, staring at each other in mutual confusion.  Fortunately, A slim, dapper-looking gentleman in a gray suit broke the stalemate, squirming irritably past the angel.  “Hello there,” the man said, extending a hand across the counter.  “Name’s Gabriel.  Sorry about this.”

Acting on autopilot, I accepted the proffered hand.  “This?” I repeated.  Large white wings extended out from Gabriel’s shoulders, mesmerizing me as they waved back and forth.

Gabriel waved one hand vaguely at the assembled angels.  “Listen, don’t worry about this.  Your shop just happens to be at a nexus of intersecting loci, with real termini at nearly nine of the fourteen dimensions.  Basically, it’s really easy for us to access, so it’s very convenient for grabbing a morning fix.”

None of the words that had just come out of this angel’s mouth made the slightest bit of sense.  “Angels are real?” I asked.  I felt rather dumb for asking the question when the evidence to the contrary currently stood in front of my eyes, waiting for coffee.

The angel in the suit across the counter rolled his eyes.  “Yeah.  Now, I’ll take an espresso machiato.”

“I think that angel back there was first,” I said tentatively, nodding at the angel Gabriel had shrugged aside…

Link to Part II!

Since I opened the coffee shop, I’ve learned not to ask too many questions.  I bought out the location, wedged between an organic food market and an overly modern art boutique, because I thought I’d get an interesting crowd.  I should have been more careful about my wish.

My first customer of the day wandered in about five minutes after the shop opened, still yawning and rubbing his eyes.  His halo illuminated the dark circles under his eyes.

“Been putting in long hours?” I asked, my voice sympathetic as I rang up his usual order.  Aside from the archangels, who’ve managed to pick up some unique tastes to accompany their personalities, most angels order the same thing.  Large coffee, seven creams, seven sugars.  The mixture looks nearly white.

The angel nodded in response.  “Big flood in southeast Asia,” he replied.  Somehow his voice was melodious, even when slurred and sleepy.  “More souls coming in means a lot more paperwork.  Way too much late night reading.”

The first day that the store was open, I received only a single customer: a peculiar man dressed in an oversized fedora and what appeared to be three trench coats, each of a different color and cut.  I later learned that angels are comically bad at disguising themselves.  After tasting his sweetened cream, with just a hint of coffee, the man had enthusiastically informed me that I would be getting “a lot of business very soon.”

I passed over the angel’s coffee, and he dropped a heavy gold coin onto the wooden counter with a dull thud.  I quickly tucked it away in the box sitting beneath the register.  One angelic quirk: while they understand the concept of money, they haven’t yet mastered inflation, or commodities exchange.  I don’t know where they get the coins, each emblazoned with the profile of a bearded man and curly, indecipherable writing hammered around the edge.  One day I sat down, weighed a few of them to get an average, and worked out that I was being paid roughly $700 per coffee.

The second morning, nearly two dozen angels had drifted through my shop.  After closing for the day, my sugar and cream completely gone, I sat in the back room for nearly an hour, staring at the stack of heavy gold coins I had received as payment.

“Have a good day!” I began, but my well wishes were cut short as the angel turned away.

“Sir, your robe!” I shouted, as the angel took a pull of the coffee, his backside turned to me.  And what a backside it was!  The heavenly miracle that held his white robe around his figure had somehow failed today, and the poor angel’s bare ass was hanging out for me and the world to see.

After a couple weeks, things began settling into a routine.  The angels came in two surges, one in the morning and one shortly after lunch.  They don’t come from outside, and they certainly don’t fly; occasionally, when the door opens, I get a glimpse of brilliant white from the other side before the angel emerges.  Although they vary slightly in hair color, height, and facial features, they’re always dressed in white, with a small halo bobbing overhead.

The angel looked down at himself, and flushed red with embarrassment.  With a wave of his hand, he repaired the wardrobe malfunction, and quickly scurried away.

I didn’t have time to laugh over this occurrence; more customers were already entering, many of them still adjusting halos, tuning harps, or trying to keep their flaming swords from singing my carpets.  I’ve been forced to put a large sign on the register, stating that any accidental arsonist will be refused service.

Once or twice, I’ve been graced by the visit of an archangel.  Unlike their inferiors, they wear smartly tailored suits, with small slits in the back for their wings.  One of them, Gabriel, was quite friendly, and explained to me that my shop happened to be at a nexus of intersecting loci, spanning nearly nine of the fourteen dimensions.  I’m not sure what this means, but it makes my coffee shop very easy for the angels to access.  

Archangels are also very serious about coffee.  Gabriel waited for me to brew a fresh pot, and then drank it black.  Although well-mannered and appreciative, he recommended several exotic varieties of coffee bean.  I placed the order later that day.  It never hurts to have an archangel’s favorite flavor on hand.

After the morning rush had tapered off, I made sure to lock the box beneath the register.  It was getting quite heavy from the gold coins inside; I’d need to visit a Cash 4 Gold location fairly soon.  Although I made nearly fifteen thousand dollars each day, I had started donating most of the money to various charity programs.  It felt like the right thing to do.

I did use a bit of the money for a new sign for the coffee shop, however.  “Heavenly Grounds” just has the right sound to it, don’t you think?

Standing in front of a dizzying array of microphones, the focus of a hundred video cameras, the archangel was a stunning vision.  His halo shone brightly above his head, and his grand wings stretched out on both sides of the stage.  His face would have made Michelangelo weep openly, throw down his chisel and hammer, and take up an easier hobby, like basket weaving.

Despite this glittering vision, however, Micah Farris couldn’t help but think of a newly adopted puppy, hopeful but distantly aware that its new owners would soon discover the smelly mess behind the couch.  He looked a little fraught, she thought to herself as she checked her pen for the fiftieth time.  Maybe he hadn’t been sleeping well.  Do angels sleep?

Finally, the archangel cleared his throat.  A hush fell over the assembled reporters, and the only sound was the clicking of cameras.  These would be the first words ever shared with humanity by a celestial being.  These next words would be on the headline of every newspaper, the cover of every magazine, splashed across the front page of every website.

The angel looked around at the throng.  “Erm, this all seems a bit much, doesn’t it?” he asked, sounding vaguely depressed.  “I mean, last time I was down here, you lot were still hitting each other with pointy sticks.”  A particularly loud flash went off, and the angel winced.

Latching onto the pause in conversation like sharks hunting an injured salmon, the reporters threw up their hands, shouting out questions and clamoring for the angel’s attention.  He looked hopelessly lost, but finally pointed at a large, red-faced man in the front row.

“Does God exist?” the man shouted out at the top of his lungs.  With his question asked, he sat back, grinning smugly at his fellow reporters, each of whom was inwardly cursing the fact that the biggest question had just been stolen.

The angel looked affronted.  “Well, of course he does!” he declared.  “I mean, I’m pretty confident that he does.”

This answer seemed somewhat less than reassuring.  “Wait, you aren’t sure?” asked one of the cameramen in the brief silence that followed the angel’s statement.

“Well, I’ve never met him in person,” the angel replied.  “I mean, I’ve got orders, and we keep hearing that he’s in charge, so I’m pretty sure that he’s around somewhere.  Probably tied up in meetings most of the time, though.”

A few of the reporters exchanged sidelong glances.  This didn’t feel quite right.  “What about the Devil?  Does he exist?” asked a skinny woman on the right.

The angel nodded, now looking a bit more confident.  “Oh, yes, Lucern,” he said.  “Er, Lucifer, now.  I keep on forgetting about that name change thing.  Yeah, he’s off on his own plane.  Hot place, but I’ve heard that he’s going to get central air installed, so that should help.  Nice guy, a bit absent-minded though.  He really screwed the pooch on that whole ‘dinosaur’ fiasco.”  The angel leaned back, looking satisfied.  “Next question!”

This definitely wasn’t right.  Micah opened her mouth and managed to get her question out ahead of the pack.  “Why did you come here?” she called out.  She hoped that the cameras didn’t catch the hint of a pleading tone in her voice.

The angel nodded, as if he had been expecting this question.  “Ah yes, I’m here to deliver a message,” he responded.  The reporters all perked up and leaned forward.  Now this, this was Pulitzer Prize material.

From the folds of his white robe, the angel withdrew a small folded piece of paper.  Micah was in the third row, so she didn’t have the best seat, but the paper looked like a sheet torn from a legal pad.  The angel unfolded it, squinted, and then fished in his robe again for a pair of half-moon reading glasses.

“Dear humanity,” the angel read, peering through the glasses down at the creased bit of paper.  “Please stop mucking about so much.  I know it’s been a couple millennia since my last visit, but I thought I told you all to love each other, and cut out all that ‘fire and sword’ nonsense.  Also, if I’d known you lot would obsess over my every word, I wouldn’t have made those jokes about the Visigoth slaves and the Roman milkmaid.  Maybe try to just go with the general feel, that sort of thing.  Lots of love, Jesus.”  The angel stopped, folded the piece of paper in half, and smiled at the stunned reporters.

After a moment of poleaxed silence, the angel glanced down.  “Oh, there’s a PS!” he exclaimed.  “‘P.S. Keep making those funny animal internet videos, I like those.'”

The reporters were speechless, some of them for the very first time in their lives.  The archangel looked around worriedly.  “I hope I didn’t offend anyone,” he said.  “I was told to just come down here and read the note.  I guess that’s done, so I’ll be off now.”  And without another word, he vanished in a flash of white light.

After a long minute of silence, Micah slowly closed her blank notebook.  Maybe most of the front page could just be taken up by a big photograph.  That was impressive, at least.

Part 1.

As he followed the tall, bony form of the angel through the gala, Salamon wondered what he was getting himself into.  He had managed to sneak into the party by posing, quite convincingly, as the under-duke of Southern Bohemia, and had even sold one especially wealthy guest on purchasing five hundred acres of what he assured the man were “only the highest grade oil sands, the next big thing in global energy.”

Of course, Southern Bohemia didn’t actually exist, much less have under-dukes, but Salamon was confident that he could have a down payment in hand before the man realized his error.  Also, the food at this event was excellent.  As he chased after Callador, he patted his pocket.  The angel was a fool to turn down such an opportunity for free food.  But that was angels for ya, always with their wings all ruffled over something, he mused to himself.

Callador dashed through one of the back doors, and Salamon only barely caught the handle before it swung shut.  He pulled it all the way closed behind himself without a thought, and then looked up and stopped short.

“Whoa,” he said honestly.  Rather than emerging into the bright light of the hotel’s kitchens, as he had expected, they had emerged into the bright lights of a museum exhibit.

“This is the National Museum of Ethnology, in Leiden,” Callador proclaimed, as Salamon cautiously opened the door he had just passed through.  He stared at the mop and bucket inside the broom closet on the other side.

Callador noticed that his companion wasn’t listening to his proclamation.  “Archangel, remember?” he said dryly, waggling his thin fingers.  “Even though I’m only a minor class, I’ve got access to ephemeral gateways, as long as I fill out the paperwork later.”

Closing the door, Salamon shook his head.  No wonder Hell was having such a rough time of things, he thought to himself.  The angels were running around throwing open ephemeral gateways whenever they felt like it, and he was still waiting to be reimbursed for the last three months of public transport fares.  Pulling his mind back to the present, he gazed around the museum.  He withdrew a shrimp from his pocket, calming himself with the snack.  “So why am I here?” he asked.

The archangel shrugged, looking both sad and slightly confused.  “This is where the Covenant was last seen,” he explained.  He gestured towards an empty podium.  “Right there, in fact.”

Salamon examined the podium closely.  There was definitely a distinct lack of tablet.  The podium looked sad without anything to display.  The devil helped alleviate this problem by depositing the shell of his shrimp on the empty space.

From behind him, he heard the angel sigh.  “Look, I thought maybe you could figure out where the Covenant went,” Callador groused.  “You’ll be saving your own skin just as much as mine.  Clearly I was wrong.”

“Oh, you want me to find the thing?” Salamon retorted.  “I thought you were just trying to seem like a sophisticated date.”  As the angel sputtered incoherently, Salamon passed a grubby hand over the pedestal and muttered a few words under his breath.

Callador’s attempts at a comeback were cut short as he saw a ghostly image of a large stone tablet appear on top of the stand.  “What did you do?” he gasped.

“Just tracing bad deeds,” Salamon said absently, focused on maintaining the image.  “Just watch.”

As the two supernatural beings looked on, a figure dressed in black covertly approached the podium.  The figure’s head was covered by a ski mask, concealing its identity.  The figure looked both directions, and then reached out and lifted the stone carving off of its pedestal.  After pausing for a second, listening for alarms, the figure straightened up, snapped its fingers, and vanished.

“Where did he go?” Callador gasped.

Salamon frowned at the once again empty podium.  “He vanished, just like that,” he said.  “That’s gotta be supernatural, right?  One of your people?”

“Ours?  Why would we want to bring about a flood?” scoffed Callador.  “No, it has to be a devil!  One of you lot out there, sowing discord and discontent!”

“We’re doing plenty of that without needing to start over, thank you!” the devil snapped back.  “Your side is the one that would want another flood – we’re winning!”

“No, we’re winning!”

“Are not!”

“Are too!”

“Sez you!”

Salamon clearly wasn’t backing down from the argument, but Callador paused before yelling back once more.  “Okay, so if it wasn’t either of our sides,” he wondered, “then who’s responsible?”

“And more importantly,” continued Salamon, with self-preservation close to heart, “Where’d they take the tablet?”

Ooooooh!  Mystery!  To be continued in Part III!

Callador, Minor Arch-Angel (3rd class), was stressed.  And it showed.

As the angel hurried through the streets of downtown, weaving his way through the throngs of people huddled under their umbrellas and coats, his halo occasionally flickered briefly into existence like a failing lightbulb.  The few mortals who had managed to find shelter, staring bleakly out into the rain from bus stops and awnings, cast curious glances after him.

Although his wings stayed invisible, several pedestrians felt something soft yet bony brush them aside, spinning them around as he speed-walked past.  Fortunately, none of the other people were looking down as he passed.  They might have realized that the angel was walking on top of the large puddles of water covering the sidewalks and streets.

Despite several angry cries as he pushed through the crowd, Callador’s thoughts were elsewhere.  He was so distracted, he barely even bothered to apologize.  What he was about to do filled him to the brim with distaste, but he could see no other option.  “My back’s against the wall,” he muttered to himself as he turned and entered one of the large hotels, his feet splashing through the deep puddles.

Inside the hotel, the angel made a beeline for the main banquet hall, where a massive party was ensuing.  Small clusters of elegantly dressed men and women wove conversations on the latest trends, filling the air with murmuring.  A string quartet waxed classical in one corner, mainly to provide an acceptable level of background noise.  High class was enjoying itself.

Callador made his way through the crowds, scanning the faces as he searched.  Finally, he spotted his quarry, standing by the back buffet.  He adjusted his course, slowing as he drew closer.

“I need to talk to you,” he said once he was at the other man’s shoulder.

The other fellow turned to face him, one hand still clutching half a dozen jumbo shrimp.  “Well, hello there!” he exclaimed through a full mouth.  “Not quite dressed for the occasion, are we?”

Glancing down, Callador realized that he was still wrapped up in an overcoat, bundled up against the cold outside.  As the man slurped cocktail sauce from fat fingers, the angel snapped his own, transforming his clothes into a full tuxedo.  He reached up and checked his bow tie – it was always summoned perfectly, impeccably crisp and straight, but Callador felt that checking it was still necessary.  The other man didn’t appear unduly impressed.

“There, now I fit in at your little party here,” Callador hissed, as the man crammed another shrimp into his mouth.  “Now, will you stop eating and help me here?”

Leering at the angel, the man finally swallowed his mouthful of food.  “Okay, what?” he asked, once he could talk again.  “Something’s gotta be up, to get a mighty archangel down here bothering a little devil like me.”

“Salamon, argh-” the angel’s hands almost reflexively rose into clenching motions as he glared at the impudent little minion of Hell, but he forced himself to remain calm.  “Look.  Have you noticed the weather outside?”

Salamon shrugged, scooping up another handful of shrimp.  “Yeah, it’s been pretty wet the last few days,” he said.  “Listen, you have to try these things.  All the hippies are claiming genetic engineering is bad, but super-jumbo shrimp are totally worth the risk.”

“Yeah, it’s been more than just wet the last few days!” Callador persisted.  “It’s flooding, Salamon!  Flooding!  As in ‘break out the ark’ flooding!”

Finally, the devil looked up from the buffet.  “Wait, seriously?” he asked.  “Wasn’t that all done with forever ago?  I thought we had some sort of covenant thing?”

“We did, yes.”  To Salamon’s utter surprise, the angel actually looked embarrassed.  “Written out on stone tablets and everything.  We just seem to have, er, misplaced them for the moment.”

The devil was now staring, open-mouthed, at the angel.  “What!?” he exploded.  “You lost them?  And now you can’t stop this whole place from flooding?  Man, you, you, bureaucrats!”  He spat out the word like a curse.

Callador held up his hands defensively.  “Wait, I know how to fix this!  It’s okay!  I just need your help for a little bit of it.  Some of it may be, um, ever so slightly outside the lines.”

Salamon sighed.  He should have guessed, the moment he laid eyes on the angel.  “So you need me to come along, be the fall guy.  I see how things are.”

“Well . . . ” the angel trailed off.

“No, it’s okay.  Give me one second, here.”  Salamon scooped up a double handful of the shrimp from the buffet and slid them into the pocket of his suit jacket.  He reached for another helping, but then paused.  “I suppose if there is a flood, there will at least be plenty of shrimp,” he mused.  He turned to Callador.  “Okay.  Let’s go fix this screw-up of yours.”

Author’s note: Part I can be found here.

Nothing special seemed to be happening at the front counter of the coffee shop.  I looked at my companion again with a quizzical look.  “I don’t see it,” I said.

Calcifer sighed, but explained.  “See that girl in line?  The second one from the front?” he asked, pointing obtrusively.

I nodded, looking the girl over.  She was young, maybe in her early twenties, and had a cute, perky face.  Waves of long, dark brown hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back.  She was dressed in a leather jacket, denim skirt, and multicolored leggings.  “What about her?” I asked.

The grin stretched from ear to ear on the devil’s face.  “Your boy Danny up there at the counter?  This girl’s his soulmate,” he said triumphantly.  “And he’s about to totally blow it!  A million points, straight down the tube!”

At first, I wanted to confirm that I had just heard, from a supernatural being, that soulmates actually existed.  But there was a more pressing matter at hand.  “He’s going to blow it?” I repeated.

“Oh yeah, big time!” Calcifer guffawed.  “He’s going to chat with her for a minute, and she’s going to just light up his life.  And then she’s going to get her coffee, and he’ll want to go talk with her some more but he can’t leave work, and she’s going to walk out the door and vanish forever.

“And best of all,” he continued, “in that split second before she leaves?  Danny boy’s going to realize that she’s the perfect girl for him, and his heart is going to just break!  I wouldn’t be surprised if he spits in coffees for the rest of the day and kicks a puppy on the way home.  He’s going to lose so many points on this, it will take him years to recover!”

I was aghast.  “That’s horrible!  How can you be enjoying this?”

Calcifer shot a quick glare at me.  He reached up and pulled back the hair on his forehead, revealing two small, nub-like horns.  “Devil, remember?  I thrive on suffering like this,” he said.  “Look, there she goes!”

I turned back to the front to watch the girl step away from the counter, moving down the line to where she would pick up her coffee.  Danny was standing at the register, staring dreamily after her, completely tuning out the words of the next customer.

“It’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion,” Calcifer said happily next to me.  “You know that it’s going to be destruction, murder, mayhem, the whole nine yards, but you still are just mesmerized by it.  Beautiful, dark, poetry in motion.”

I glared at him.  “Yeah, but you’re forgetting one thing,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“Me!” I answered.  I stood up and pushed my way towards the front of the line through the crowded shop.  The girl had by now received her coffee, and was making her way towards the door.  I caught a glimpse of Danny’s face, and Calcifer was right: he looked completely, utterly, crushingly heartbroken.  “Danny!” I yelled.

On the second yell, he heard his name, and turned towards me.  I gesticulated wildly towards the door.  “Go after her!” I howled.  “I got the register!  Go!”

He opened his mouth to phrase another question, but I doubled my hand motions.  Finally, apparently deciding that true love was worth the risk of abandoning the $129 in the register, he dashed around the counter and sprinted for the door, dodging around patrons and managing to only spill two drinks.  As I circled the counter, I saw him make it to the door and dash outside.

A few minutes later, Calcifer sidled up to the side of the counter as I was finishing the last of the mob of customers.  A quick glance showed that he was fuming.  “What happened?” I asked.

“He caught up to her, no thanks to you,” grumbled the devil.  “They’ve got a date set for tomorrow.  He picked up five thousand points just for catching up with her, and another ten thousand for totally making her day.  And now she’s off to go give points to a whole bunch of other people who probably don’t deserve it.  The whole thing makes me sick.”

“Well, I’m glad,” I respond.  “It feels good to do a good deed like that.”

“Nah, that’s just your own points talking,” he said.

“My points?”

“You introduced someone to their soulmate!” Calcifer half-shouted at me.  “That’s five thousand for stepping in for a friend, and probably at least a hundred thousand when they get married.  Freaking lottery, that’s what it is.”

Calcifer was still angry as he stomped off to his usual booth in the back of the shop, but I had a smile on my face for the rest of the day.  I was happy to know that, although I regularly consorted with a denizen of Hell, I was still a good person.

Author’s note: Yay, another story with one of my favorite demons!  Oops, devil!  Don’t tell him I slipped!

When I arrived at the coffee shop for my shift this morning, I immediately noticed two unusual things.  First, Calcifer had already arrived, and looked surprisingly awake and alert.  Second, he was not sitting at his usual booth in the back of the shop, but was instead perched at a table up front, near the customer line.

Normally, a slight change in a regular’s schedule wouldn’t have thrown me for a loop.  But when that regular is a genuine honest-to-badness devil, I tend to pay more attention.  Giving a slight wave to Danny, behind the counter, to indicate that I would need a few minutes, I pulled up a chair next to the grinning fallen angel.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.  “What are you doing here so early, and up front?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world!” Calcifer chortled in response.  He nodded towards the front counter.  “I’m about to watch someone blow about a million points.  This is going to be hilarious!”

“Hold on,” I broke in, waving my hand in front of Calcifer’s face in a futile effort to get his full attention.  “Points?  What are you talking about?”

Finally, the devil turned to look at me.  “Points,” he repeated.  “You know, the game of life?  How much you’re winning by?”

My confusion must have been obvious.  With a reluctant sigh, the devil turned to face me.  “Look, do you ever compare yourself to other people?” he asked.  “In terms of looks, success, money, education, smarts, whatever.  You don’t need to answer – I know you do.  All humans do it.  They’re determining who’s winning more at life; the winner is the one who has more points.”

“But it’s like that one TV show, right?  The points don’t matter?”

This elicited another laugh.  “What?  Of course they matter!  How else would we measure your success?”

I stared at Calcifer, trying to understand.  “You mean when we die?”

“Yes, of course when you die!” he snapped.  “When you die, you head off to be judged, to determine what happens to you next.  If you’ve got a lot of points, it means that you led a successful life, and you get top pick of the prime real estate.  If you don’t have a lot of points, well, your choices are a lot more limited.”

“I don’t believe this!” I sputtered.  “I thought that you just had to live a good life, and you get into Heaven!”

“And living a good life gets you points!” retorted Calcifer.  “Land a nice steady job?  Couple thousand points, more if you work for a do-gooder company.  Meet your wife?  You just brought a lifetime of happiness to someone, that’s definitely worth some points.  Have kids?  Creating new lives must be worth points, don’t you think?”

I shook my head as I thought about this.  “Okay, it’s a messed up sort of judgement, but it’s still a judgement system of sorts,” I finally conceded.  “But that doesn’t explain what you’re doing up here.”

This brought a grin to the devil’s face.  “Points are important, but you only get them if you succeed,” he said happily.  “If you fail at an opportunity, however, you lose points.  The bigger the missed opportunity, the more points down the drain.  And this is going to be a doozy!”

Part II can be found here!

Calcifer pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.  “Look, once you get the hang of it, riding the thing really isn’t too hard,” he insisted.  “And I’m telling you, it’s the most efficient means of transportation in existence.”

The Roman centurions stared at the machine critically.  “It jvst looks so vnstable,” one of them commented.  “How do yov not fall over?”

“As long as you keep moving forward, you stay upright,” Calcifer insisted.  “I mean, we can even put some training wheels on it at first, until you get the hang of it.  But you could totally hold a lance up as you ride, and unlike a horse, you never need to feed it!”

The Romans still looked unconvinced.  Calcifer had to admit, the prototype wasn’t the best model he’d ever seen.  He was limited by the materials of the period.  The bronze chain had an unfortunate tendency to slip off the hand-ground gears at high speed, and the wooden handlebars occasionally snapped in half, which inevitably led to a crash.  But he still pressed on.

“Just imagine, a line of these, bearing down on the enemy,” he pleaded.  “Those barbarians wouldn’t stand a chance.  You would be showcasing the technological might of the Roman army.”

“Bvt we have the finest horses,” another centurion said.  “And it is mvch easier to trample a fleeing man beneath the hooves of a horse than the wheels of this . . . contraption.”

The soldiers weren’t biting, and their accents were giving Calcifer a headache.  “At least give it a try,” he insisted.  He was starting to regret making the bet with Gabriel that he could get the Roman army on bicycles.

The soldiers shared glances, until finally one unfortunate was selected by the rest of the men stepping backwards.  The man carefully straddled the leather seat, his eyes wide with fear.  Calcifer tried to calm him.  “Relax, just keep on pushing the pedals around,” he said.  “Keep your eyes up, and turn the bars to steer.”

“This will end vnfortvnately,” the man groaned.

Calcifer didn’t bother to wait any longer.  He gave the back of the seat a shove, and the vehicle lurched forward, the man letting out a shrill scream.  Impressively, he remained upright for several seconds, pedaling along, until he ran headfirst into a tree and fell over.

The other soldiers ran to attend to their fallen comrade.  Calcifer gloomily inspected the shattered remains of the prototype.  “Eh, I got one Roman on a bike,” he said to himself.  “At the minimum, Gabriel ought to call that a tie.”

He turned and addressed the soldiers.  “Okay, maybe you’re not ready for it quite yet,” he said, shrugging and giving them his most appeasing smile.  “I’ll try back in another couple centuries.”

The bike-riding Roman rose woozily to his feet, drawing his gladius.  “Yov jvst hold still,” he said menacingly, staggering forward.  “I want to thank yov for the present.”

“Okay, time to go,” Calcifer muttered.  He disappeared in a gout of smoke and flame, moments before the Roman charged forward.

Calcifer appeared back in the popina, where a comely maiden poured him a mug of wine.  He gulped it down as Gabriel sidled up to him.  “Pay up,” the angel said triumphantly.

“No way,” Calcifer retorted, allowing the maiden to refill his mug.  “I got one of them on a toga. That counts.”  Gabriel opened his mouth to protest, but Calcifer turned away, pointedly ignoring his response.  He did smile slightly as he replayed the image of the soldier trying to bike.  He could definitely spin this into ‘sowing discord’ in his next report to Hell.

Part I.