The Devil’s Apprentice

Huge, black candles on golden stakes burned in the dark throne room and elongated Philip’s and Lucifax’s shadows. Whitish-yellow walls surrounded them and disappeared into a thick blackness above their heads. The sound of flapping wings caused Philip to look up. Bats.

Adorning the walls were enormous paintings set in gold frames, but from where he stood Philip couldn’t see what was on them.

With cautious steps, he followed the cat up the red runner that stretched like a dragon’s tongue through the hall and ended at the mighty throne. Here the light was dimmer, and Philip could only see the outline of the dark, dark figure seated there.

It’s him, he thought, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. It’s the Devil.

“I’ve returned, master,” the cat said, making a sign for Philip to hurry. He tried, but he couldn’t; his heart was thumping so hard that it felt as though he were being knocked two steps back for each step forward.

“Do come closer,” said the dark figure. The voice was at once incredibly calming and incredibly frightening. Like a field of flowers filled with bear traps. “Don’t be afraid.”

His knees trembling, Philip walked the last few steps to the throne.

At this instant it was, as if the flames from all the candles grew. The shadows contracted, and Satan came into view.

He was dressed in a black suit with a long, dark cape hanging off his shoulders. His hair was slicked back and shiny as black silk against his bone-white skin. Two spiky horns curved in a handsome bow beneath his hairline, and on his chin he wore a carefully groomed goatee. And then there were the eyes … the terrible eyes … They were so black that even the deepest grave in the darkest winter night was like a well-lit ballroom in comparison. Philip stared into them and felt the world entwining around him. This glance allowed you no secrets. Not even those you didn’t even know had.

But something was wrong. Fine chinks had formed in his black horns, and in several spots, tiny flakes had fallen like chips of old paint. His dark eyes were dull and bloodshot, and sweat glinted on his upper lip. Yes, something was very wrong, and it was made even more obvious by the fact that the Devil was trying to hide it behind his water-slicked hair and fresh-pressed clothes.

He’s ill, Philip thought. Terminally ill, even.