Free The Devil's Evidence by Simon Kurt Unsworth

would tarnish if they let it out, their emblem of hope, hope that this time they would be picked, that this time they would be raised to the place above them that gleamed in the clouds, that this time was their time. Hope, always hope.
    Rhakshasas was smiling now, still watching Fool, mouth split into a wide grin revealing teeth that were little more than black stubs.
    “That was fun,” it said at last.
    “It was a lie?” said Fool, cursing the tiny, fragmented dreams that had birthed themselves in him, that had risen in his head and filled his vision. Did he really think he’d been picked for an Elevation? Rewarded for his service to Hell’s Bureaucracy? Did he really still believe it might happen?
    Yes. Yes, the worm was still turning in his belly, sending waves of nausea through his body, wasted adrenaline souring in his muscles and the taste of fire in his mouth.
    “A lie? No, of course not. I rarely lie, Thomas Fool. I’m angelic stock, after all, and lying has little part of an angel’s makeup. You are going to Heaven, Commander of the Information Office of Hell, you are simply not being Elevated.”
    Fool reached out and picked his weapon up. The hard floor had stopped moving now, was steadier, balance returning as the waves of sickness ebbed within him. He turned the gun around and peered into its black barrel, trying to see if he could discern the tip of the bullet in its narrow throat.
    He was crying, again. Fool squeezed his eyes shut, felt tears break loose and make their way down his cheeks, opened his eyes again and stared once more into the darkness. What would happen if he pulled the trigger? Blew his brains out behind him, stopped this terrible cycle of fear and misery and hope and disappointment and violence? Simply ceased to be, unmade himself?
    “It won’t fire,” said Rhakshasas. “You should realize that. We won’t give you such a simple escape, it’s far better to see you toil and toil and still fail. This is Hell, after all. Now, we have business. Stand, please, and we can begin.”
    Fool didn’t move. Heaven—it dangled before him, almost visible in the room’s air, a gleam somewhere in the gun’s barrel, Heaven but no Elevation. He took a last look into the darkness of the weapon, bringing it close to his eye, and then flipped it around and dropped it into his holster. When he stood, he was pleased to find he felt steady, although his vision was still fogged with tears.
    “Good,” said Rhakshasas, also standing. The demon filled the end of the room, the intestines around it moving constantly, the bulk of it drawing in the light and creating dark, foul-smelling shadows. It moved around the table and came to stand before Fool, the smell of it thick, warm, oozing, and reached out clawed hands, taking hold of Fool’s shoulders.
    “You are the Commander of Hell’s Information Office and all Information Men,” it said, leaning forward so that its face was close to Fool’s, filling his vision. “Tears are a luxury, and there is no space for luxuries in Hell.”
    A tongue covered in ragged spikes emerged from Rhakshasas’s mouth, pushing past the rotted teeth, and licked Fool’s cheeks. Its touch was surprisingly delicate, almost a caress, but the smell of it was grotesque, a reek of old feces and food gone to waste and bodies gone to rot. Rhakshasas pushed its face closer to Fool’s, tilting its head slightly, and then its mouth opened wider and the tongue clamped on to him, wrapped around his head. The demon let out a long, slow sigh as it suckled at his tears, yanking Fool forward as he tried to jerk back, lifting him from his feet, moaning.
    Finally, the demon let its head fall away, gasping aloud. It dropped Fool and shook itself, swallowing loudly. Its tongue pulled back, wiping slowly across the demon’s face in lazy swirls before retreating into the mouth. Rhakshasas’s coiled guts clenched, glistening, and then they, too, relaxed. “Delicious,” the demon said.