[ENG.] Azazel - Lucifer's Son

14. He knew

The school day started off terribly from the very moment I walked through the classroom door.

The atmosphere was different — heavier, more tense — though I couldn't quite put my finger on why. Maybe it was just my paranoia after everything that had gone down with Stan. Or maybe it was something else.

I took my usual seat next to Danielle, but when I actually looked at her — really looked — my breath caught in my throat.

She looked like a ghost.

Massive dark circles — deep purple-blue, like bruises — ringed her eyes, eyes that were usually perfectly done up with precise eyeliner and thick mascara, but were now bare, dim, and empty. Her face was gaunt, her cheeks hollowed out in a way that made it obvious she hadn't been eating much lately. Her cheekbones jutted out unnaturally.

And her hair — that always-neat, always-perfectly-straight black bob — was so disheveled it looked like a bird's nest. Dull, dehydrated strands stuck out in every direction.

"Danielle..." My voice came out lower than I meant it to, barely a whisper. I leaned toward her, trying to catch her eye. "What happened to you?"

For a moment she didn't answer. She just sat there, staring at the desk in front of her like it was the only solid thing left in a crumbling world.

Then, all at once, she broke.

"I'm never going to make it, Jolie!" The words came out strangled, immediately followed by desperate, heaving sobs.

The crying shook her whole thin body. She buried her face in her hands, hiding the tears already streaming down and soaking her fingers.

Other students started turning around. Someone whispered something. I ignored all of them.

"Okay, Dan." I put a hand on her back, feeling the sobs running through her. "Tell me more clearly what you mean. I'm not following."

I rubbed her back slowly, in small circles, trying to calm her down a little. But the sobbing kept going — heavy, almost convulsive.

"Stan!" She finally managed to say, her voice cracking. "I'm not going to pass his class this year! They'll pull my scholarship and I won't be able to keep up with the tuition!"

She drew in a sharp breath, trying to get air between sobs.

"I've been working every afternoon and every night to pay my fees, Jolie!" Her voice climbed higher, hysteria starting to bleed through. "I've got three student loans and I know I'm never going to pay them back fast enough!"

She raked her fingers frantically through her hair — almost violently, like someone in total despair. A few strands came out between her fingers.

My heart sank.

*Three loans. Working every night. She can't afford to fail.*

"Hey, take a breath, Dan." I took her hand and held it between mine. It was ice cold. "The year isn't over yet and you've still got plenty of time to pull your grade up with Stan. Me and Seb will help you."

I paused, looking straight into her red-rimmed eyes.

"But why didn't you tell me any of this before?"

Danielle shook her head, dropping her gaze to our intertwined hands.

"You know me, Jolie." Her voice was barely a whisper. "I would never take advantage of anyone."

She swallowed, and when she spoke again her voice was trembling.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter — there's no way for me to catch up now. I talked to the professor and he straight-up told me that if I didn't hand in the witch report today, he'd fail me."

The tears started again, silent this time, running down her pale cheeks.

"And obviously I didn't do it. I had a shift at the restaurant last night." A sob. "I swear, Jolie, I tried to stay up, but I just crashed."

She started crying again, her voice hitting high, sharp notes every now and then, like she was on the edge of hyperventilating.

My brain processed the situation fast.

*The witch report. The one I finished at three in the morning. The one that means a failing grade.*

And just as fast, it found the answer.

"I'll give you mine, Dan."

The words were out before I could think twice about them.

Danielle's head snapped up, eyes wide.

"What? No, Jolie, you can't—"

"I can't and I won't sit here watching you fall apart like this." I cut her off, already digging through my backpack for the pages. "And I'm not going to let you drown in debt either. I'm not doing that badly with Stan..."

*Liar.*

"...and besides, I'd have time to make it up."

I handed her the sheets — 1,500 words typed in small font, tight margins, minimal spacing to fit within the limit.

Danielle stared at them like they were made of gold.

"I can't, Jo. This is so much!" She flipped through the pages quickly, eyes scanning the lines. "I won't even have time to finish reading it before he gets here, so I won't be able to defend it. This is your work — I can't just take it like this."

She let her head drop onto the desk, hair fanning out over her face in a gesture of total surrender.

"You're not taking it. I'm giving it to you. There's a difference." I leaned toward her, trying to catch her eye. "Now, you little troublemaker, given the situation, you'd better start reading or you're never going to get through it."

For a moment nothing happened. Then, with a sudden movement, Danielle spun around and threw herself at me.

Her thin arms — so thin I could feel the bones through her skin — wrapped around my neck with a surprising strength. Her face tucked into the curve between my neck and shoulder.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you..." She kept repeating it, over and over, her voice muffled against my skin.

"You're going to kill me, Danielle!" I said, smiling in spite of everything as I hugged her back.

When we finally pulled apart, Danielle's expression had shifted. Not happy — she was way too wrecked for that — but lighter. Like someone had just lifted a weight off her chest that had been slowly suffocating her.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and picked up the pages, immediately diving in with manic focus.

I leaned back in my chair and sighed, wondering what on earth I was going to tell Stan when he asked about my report.

*One problem at a time, Jolie.*

---

The first two hours were Demonology.

The subject was taught by Professor Percival Hauten — a man in his sixties, with gray hair that nearly reached his shoulders, round glasses that gave him the look of a mad scholar, and an almost unsettling passion for his subject matter.

Demonology had been added to the curriculum for the first time this year, deemed essential by contemporary critics and demonologists. I would've called it interesting — fascinating, even — if it weren't also kind of horrifying.

Studying demons, infernal hierarchies, and human sacrifices over breakfast wasn't exactly the lightest way to start the day.

Professor Hauten shuffled into the classroom at his usual unhurried pace, a massive volume tucked under his arm — the Demonological Abecedary, a tome so old and worn it looked like it might literally crumble apart at any moment.

"Right then, my little demons," he said — and his tone was always strangely cheerful when he called us that, like it was a term of endearment. "Let's do a quick review of the basics to make sure everyone has a solid foundation for what we're about to get into."

He set the book down on the desk with a dull thud that made half the class jump.

"Mr. Wellington." His eyes landed on a heavyset kid in the back row. "Give us a brief explanation of what the term 'demonology' actually means."

The kid — Wellington, a name that really didn't suit him — stood up with a hunched posture, like he was trying to fold in on himself and disappear. His cheeks went red immediately.

"So... yeah..." He started, voice uncertain. He cleared his throat. "Demonology is the study of creatures called 'demons,' also known as 'evil ones.'"

He paused, staring at the ceiling like the words were written up there.

"Every demon is different and unique. Each one has its own specific trait and belongs to a particular class because, just like angelic figures, they also have a military hierarchy. Each hierarchy is called a 'legion.'"

Another pause. He scratched his small nose with one finger.

"So demonology studies individual demons — their personalities and specializations."

He finished, then stood there awkwardly, not sure whether to sit down or keep waiting.

A small smile of genuine admiration spread across Hauten's lips, his eyes lighting up behind his thick lenses. Then he started clapping — an energetic, almost enthusiastic applause.

"Excellent, Wellington! Very thorough!" he exclaimed, continuing to clap until a few students hesitantly joined in.

Wellington sat back down fast, face still red but wearing a quietly pleased smile.

"Now let's move forward," Hauten continued, opening his Abecedary and running his fingers along the yellowed pages. "We'll start by talking about these hierarchies, which according to the Kabbalah number seven in total."

His voice took on that almost hypnotic quality he always got when he talked about demons — like he was telling a dark fairy tale.

"There are the fire demons, who live in the most remote region of the underworld, where the flames burn eternal and souls scream without end."

He turned a page, the old paper rustling.

"The air demons, who live and fly among men — invisible, whispering temptations and sowing discord."

Another rustle.

"The earth demons, who live and blend in among humans with the goal of tempting them, walking right beside us without us ever noticing."

His voice dropped lower.

"The water demons, who dwell in the depths of seas and oceans and are responsible for storms and shipwrecks. How many vessels, do you think, have sunk because of them — and not because of bad weather?"

Nobody answered. We were all completely hooked.

"The subterranean demons, those who live in the most remote depths of the earth and are responsible for earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. The ground itself trembles from their rage."

A dramatic pause.

"And finally, the ice demons — those who inhabit the glaciers and the desolate northern lands, where even sunlight can't reach."

He closed the book for a moment, looking around at all of us.

"The Kabbalah divides these categories into ten further groups, each led by a specific demon."

He reopened the book and began reading, pronouncing each name carefully.

"Among them we have: Moloch — a deity to many, a demon to others. Either way, human and animal sacrifice is his domain. Moloch always demands blood."

"Beelzebub, better known as the Prince of Demons, the Lord of the Flies — the one who brings plague and corruption."

"Lucifer, the Light-Bearer, the Fallen Angel, the most beautiful and the most damned of all."

"Astaroth, Beelzebub's only nephew. Some claim this figure is female, but most depictions are male. An enigma, even among demons."

"Asmodeus, demon of destruction, but also lord of wrath, greed, and vengeance. His name is synonymous with ruin."

"Belphegor, considered one of the seven princes of Hell, the chief representative of the deadly sin of sloth. He's the one who whispers 'why bother?' into the ears of men."

"Bael, also one of the seven Princes of Hell, commander of sixty-six infernal legions."

"Adramelech, Grand Chancellor of the underworld, eighth of the ten archdivils. Some texts describe him with the body of a mule and the tail of a peacock."

"The famous Lilith — first wife of Adam according to certain apocryphal texts, mother of demons, seducer of men, killer of newborns."

"And finally Nahenia, about whom very little is known, shrouded in mystery like few others."

Hauten's voice filled the room, and no one dared interrupt. Even Danielle had looked up from the report pages, drawn in by the storytelling.

"Alright, everyone." He closed the book with a definitive thud that felt like it broke a spell. "Your assignment will be to choose one of these categories, led by one of these demons, analyze it as thoroughly as possible, then pick a specific figure from that group and explain what makes them unique."

A murmur moved through the classroom. Some people started taking notes immediately. Others groaned.

The two hours wrapped up amid heated debates — *"But is Lucifer actually a demon or a fallen angel?"*, *"Was Lilith really Adam's first wife?"* — questions and explanations that Hauten fielded with endless patience and increasingly unsettling detail.

The professor finally wrapped up his monologue, tucking his Demonological Abecedary back under his arm like a handbag, and snapped everyone out of the almost trance-like state he'd put the whole class in.

It was only once he walked out the door that everyone seemed to wake up from some kind of collective dream.

I turned to Danielle and immediately noticed she hadn't absorbed a single word of the entire lesson — she'd been too buried in the pages I'd given her. Her eyes were flying across the lines, her lips moving barely perceptibly as she read.

"Danielle, are you done?" I asked, anxiety creeping up on me for my friend. "Stan's going to be here any minute."

Just saying his name made my stomach clench.

"Yes, Jolie, thank God!" Danielle set the pages down on the desk, rubbing her tired eyes. "I thought it was never going to end. How much did you write?"

She straightened her dark bob a bit, trying to make herself look a little more put-together.

"Try to remember the main points of the topic," I told her, dropping my voice as other students started filing in for the next class. "Otherwise he's going to figure out the report isn't exactly yours."

"Right." Danielle nodded, but the fear in her eyes hadn't fully gone away. "I just hope he doesn't call on me — even though I know that's wishful thinking."

She gave a shrug that summed up everything she felt about the situation.

"Indeed, Miss Jacketstone — very wishful thinking."

Dimithryus Stan's voice cut through the air like a blade.

Everyone spun around at once.

He was in the doorway, leaning against the frame in his usual posture — arms crossed, broad shoulders, expression unreadable. Dark gray shirt, black pants. No jacket. Sleeves rolled up to the elbows again, showing off those forearms and part of the tattoo.

His gray eyes landed on Danielle with an intensity that made me want to step in front of her, put myself between them.

"Since she's exactly who I'll be calling on." He pushed off from the doorframe and walked into the classroom with measured steps.

The silence was absolute. Nobody dared breathe too loudly.

Stan crossed the room to the front desk, setting his black leather briefcase down on the surface with a sharp click. Then he turned, gesturing with a tilt of his head toward the spot beside the whiteboard.

"Right this way, please."

His tone was polite, almost courteous — but there was something cold underneath it, something inevitable.

Danielle looked at me for one instant — just one — and in her eyes I saw pure terror. Then, with slow, almost mechanical movements, she stood up.

The scrape of the chair legs against the floor seemed deafeningly loud in the silence.

She gathered the pages with trembling hands and made her way to the front, while Stan held his rigid stance — arms crossed again, eyes fixed on her like a predator watching its prey.

I stayed in my seat, heart hammering, knowing I had just made a choice.

A choice that was going to have consequences.

And as I watched Danielle position herself in front of the class — pages clutched between shaking hands — I caught Stan's gaze for just a fraction of a second.

Those gray eyes landed on me for the briefest moment — cold, sharp, like he knew exactly what I'd done.

Then he turned toward Danielle, and the moment passed.

But I knew.

He knew.