Damned: The Intimate Story of a Girl

An air of apprehension pervaded the throne room.

The most imperfect day known for ages in the Court of Gehenna was drawing to a close. The seven Tartarean courtiers had effaced themselves as far back in the auditorium as the folds of its black and red electric hangings would permit. Each held eyes and ears intent, realizing far too well that his particular tenure of preferment hung upon the mood of the moment. Even the prime minister, Old Original Sin, who had weathered so many Apollyon storms that he well might have considered himself immune, sat ill at ease in his chair of honor upon the dais.

His Satanic Majesty leaned forward from the throne chair, imposing in its effect of onyx and gold. His head drooped as though from weight other than the voltage of his crown. His elbows pressed upon the chair-arms, that both his strong, long hands might stroke in turn his pointed, copper-colored beard. About the room, as lightning plays in advance of thunder, flashed his gray-eyed glances. When he spoke, although in a mild voice, each auditor quivered through taut nerves.

“Draw the night curtains. Throw on every switch. I dislike this pale, abiding light.”

Without awaiting the attendants, the courtiers sprang to do the royal will. Sin himself operated the electric switch-board. At his touch, a design in heraldry blazed from the wall behind the dais. In pseudo-seeming, bands of ebony and of beryl formed the setting for a golden crown in bas relief, its points pricked out with emeralds. Projecting from its headband, three horns of power suspended from their tips the ruby-writ words “Japheth,” “Shem” and “Ham.” The crown itself looked to rest upon a sword that dripped all jewels known, like tears of every agony, from those of water to those of blood.