Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

XXVII. Angels Are Watching Over Us

2
Macbeth
Zürich, Switzerland
Le Fleur de Lis Café
October 31st, 2014
Time: 12:30 AM
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- and it damn near ripped him apart.

Skinned him alive and then tore his entrails apart, limb-by-limb. When he screamed, his body screamed. Over and over and over. The angelʼs work slew his vitals, his carved his flesh into bone and then snapped it over his knee. Doubling over on the café chair, Macbethʼs insides: hollow, wretched, decaying, and black - Macbeth insides lurched against his chest cavity, and blood leaked. Raggedly; a storm before its calm. As his mouth bled, the saline taste hit the table; a crimson so dark it was almost a seamless obsidian, and as he sucked in air until his insides were struggling to withstand the pressure of his quaking chest...

...Orion sat and drank a Swiss espresso. Sipped it, actually. Like he was a pretentious British f*cker sitting on the bloodied English throne.

"What?" Orion spat, enjoying the sight of Macbeth's suffering. "Can Luciferʼs predecessor not handle a little turbulence?"

"Go to hell," Macbeth spat back, clutching his abdomen as sweat dribbled down his forehead and swarthy skin.

"Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt. It isnʼt really fitting, you know. With the gut-wrenching sobbing, the...ripping of veins from live hearts, the blood from a babyʼs throat that etches itself into your mouth. But Iʼve heard that for you, it was a blast. A pretty and proper little masquerade for the Mad King. Isnʼt that splendid? You, coming back, just when things above and below are getting interesting?"

Zürich wasnʼt a bright city when Macbeth regained control of his motor functions.

There was no glistening river gilded by a golden sky. There was no cultural vibrancy, hushed French whispers and the wealth that jutted from the Alps like a lustful knife. There was simply an effervescent darkness that was glorious in its gore. It blanketed Orionʼs café, the once clouds that were crowned in white, the river Limmat and lake Zürich, the water a filthy black framed in cerise red. Sliding Macbeth a frothy espresso and blueberry pastries smudged with famous Swiss chocolate and mousse, Macbeth looked at the poisonous platter with contempt and stared at Orion with his angry, obscure eyes. The butter-knife from the pastry lingered nearby.

"I asked you a question, Macbeth. Most civil people would answer it."

"Most civil people don't answer to rhetoric, ye queerie piece oʼ crap," Macbeth growled. "I will repeat for your leisure, Orion. The f*ck do you want?"

"I told you I donʼt want things, Macbeth. I invest and I negotiate. And frankly, investing in you is worth my while."

"What kind of investment, for Chrissake, you cryptic sh*t?"

Orion took another languid sip, and stared at Macbeth with eyes so yellow, so golden, so cat-like they damn near glowed.

"Rumor has it that youʼve been searching for a bright-eyed vixen in Chicago? Bohemian and all?"

"What do you know?" Macbeth countered, coolly.

"Information comes with a price, Macbeth. Every good investor knows that."

"You do want something."

Orion smiled wryly.

"I suppose I do," he admitted. "But thatʼs another story for another time. Right now...all I want is transparency. A promise, that you will kill Lucifer. That you will slather yourself in hellʼs blood, soul, in its fornication and dine with the filth of your own kind if it means tearing him apart. That when it is time for the slaughter, you will cut down that cloven beast and milk everything from that pathetic excuse of an angel that soils all the hallowed ground he walks on. I need to know if he will die, slowly and brutally. If you agree to those terms, well, letʼs just say weʼre going to have tons of fun after that."