Excerpts from Night Music

Saminga

Demon Prince of Death

"Death did not first strike Adam, the first sinful man, nor Cain, the first hypocrite, but Abel, the innocent and righteous."
– Joseph Hall

History

Saminga was one of the first angels, small and frail, formed when the Symphony was still tuning up. He was also one of the first demons, rebelling with Lucifer's cadre and spinning into the void in the very first Falling . . . and for time beyond measure, he was in Hell, being kicked and spat on and used. A small and almost powerless demon, Saminga was little more than a servant to his more promising companions, discarded by master after master as they became bored with him. It took him a very long time just to get to Earth – and then he spent more millennia acting as the whipping-boy of diabolical agents among the humans, instead.

His only pleasure, in all that time, was watching people die.

The Life of a Soldier of God

Before going to bed I got out my datebook and began listing all the things I had to do the next day. It was quite a list.

"6 a.m. – get up
"8-noon – work (tell Mr. L. I have to leave at noon)
"1 p.m. – meet Rabbi Fine at airport and drive him to safe house
"2 p.m. – grocery (eggs, sour cream, chili, paper towels)
"3-8 p.m. – surveillance outside suspected Habbalite's apt.
"8:30 – dinner with Mom
"9-? – destroy demon"

So what's it like being a Soldier of God? What do they do all day, and why do they do it? Is the pay good? The answers can be surprising.

What's My Motivation?

Fighting demons is dangerous, hard work. The hours are terrible. Other humans tend to think you're a nutcase if you talk about it. And the angels seldom even bother to say "thanks."

So why do it? Why get involved? Why not leave the whole mess to the angels and get on with life?

Soldiers of God tend to be highly motivated individuals (a polite way of saying fanatics). They do what they do because it's obviously the right thing. Consider: God created the Universe. Therefore God is the most important being in the Universe. Therefore helping God is much more important than any Earthly activity. Soldiers of God understand this.

There's another side to it. Most people live pretty unimportant lives. We live, we work, we do good and evil, and we die. A few people notice. But Soldiers of God are important. Maybe they don't get on the cover of Newsweek, but their actions matter in the grand scheme of things. They hang out with immortal beings. They see the Big Picture. They know secrets that ordinary people don't. It's cool.

Treaty Oak

The Old Guy clapped Druiel on the shoulder as they stared up at the great gnarled tree before them, the Treaty Oak.

"Yep," he said, "there's one thing that'll still be around longer than most of the people who drive past every day, choking it with their exhaust."

Druiel nodded.

"So many things are long gone," the old angel continued, his eyebrows curving into pained arches of sorrow, his forehead wrinkling and knotting like the gray skin of the oak. Druiel took in a deep breath, feeling a story coming on.

"There're some things you just can't get from no storybook or painting. Nobody digging in the dirt's gonna tell you the things I've seen with my own eyes."

Druiel nodded, waiting for the Old Guy to continue.

"Like, dinosaurs."

"They've found dinosaurs," the younger angel interjected.

"No, no, no," he said, waving his hands. "I mean, lightning."

"Lightning," said Druiel.

"Dinosaurs and lightning," the Old Guy said, chuckling softly and slapping himself on the chest. "You know them dinosaurs, they were the biggest things around. Long, tall necks towering over most of the trees, connected to giant sacks of water, sloshing about on the land." He threw back his head and laughed until his eyes watered. "One good storm comes through, and crack! crack! crack! – next thing you know, path of least resistance and all, the whole countryside's covered in tons of roast dinosaur meat. That's why them dinosaurs are extinct. Too damn tall."

The Old Guy grew quiet for a moment, rolling his tongue around in his mouth, mulling over the phrasing of a question.

"I haven't heard anything," said Druiel, anticipating the old angel's question.

"Nothing?"

"If some demon jumped me," the angel of Teenage Death said gently, "you know I'd tell you first thing. You should be lucky we're not on the front of the War."

"You mean unlucky," he whispered, his shoulders sagging.

It was Druiel's turn to clap the Old Guy on the back before turning to leave. The ancient celestial was a Malakite – the only one in town, as far as anyone knew. Malakim are generally fine angels to have on your side because they'll never suffer a demon to live. In Austin, where angels and demons at least pretended to tolerate each other's presence, that was a problem. If the old man found out his city was practically swarming with demons, he'd have to saddle up. Luckily, the old angel rarely left his tree, having turned psychotically protective ever since some nut poured weed killer into its root system in the late '80s.

"You come back anytime, you hear?" the old angel shouted, waving his cowboy hat over his head as Druiel gunned his motorcycle engine. The younger angel waved back.

"Come back. I'll be here," the Old Guy whispered to himself as he patted the gray bark of the dying tree. He pulled the brim of his hat down to cover the wetness around his eyes, and the oldest guard in Texas settled in for a long evening's watch.