At 11:34, Lucifer can send one of his minions to test one or more of us humans. We win the Test of Mettle by facing our demon, but as we have seen throughout the series, it's no simple feat. A set of rules agreed upon by both Heaven and Hell is in place. People react differently when faced with life-and-death decisions. Not only that, but Lucifer has countless minions at his disposal. The more powerful the demon used during a Test of Mettle, the more mischief, mayhem, and destruction that follows.
Lucifer will employ his most powerful demon--a general--for the Test of Mettle.
It grows late, though not quite 11:34. Two people are present: a strong, middle-aged man and his captive, Freya. Here is an unedited passage from the newest and, arguably, darkest Test of Mettle story written to date. It will be featured in "Bloodshed," the third novel in the 11:34 series.
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She sensed the rank foulness wafting in the air but remained idle, listless. What could she do? The man hunched over with a slight groan and dropped a metal tray of food the last few centimeters onto the floor. A chunk of bread bounced onto the floor. Though the man was obviously powerful, he strained to move and breathe, though she knew better than to test him. In her experience, she had learned the hard way that he was as agile as a street cat, though now she wondered if he was encumbered by some ailment. Maybe it was age. The man retreated from the cell—he did not lay a single finger on her—bolted the door, and Freya was mercifully alone.
Was something wrong?
Her keen eyes darted around, searching. Seconds ticked into minutes, yet there remained the blissful rapture of desolateness, of not being violated and beaten. However long she sat, watching and waiting, the cold, metal door remained locked and unmoving. Then, something happened unexpectedly. She opened a door of her own—this one in her mind—and let out a notion more soothing than a hot shower, which swarmed around her like a million honey bees around a single, perfect flower brimming with enough sweet nectar for each to get their fill. The intensity of that vibrant image hummed so loudly it was almost audible, and it deluged her inner self with such a blast of tranquility that, in that moment, her plight was forgotten. Freya was somewhere else, somewhere far, far away. The vision enveloped her in a cocoon of warmth that could only be manufactured by the rays shone from heaven. All things come to an end, and maybe she had witnessed the beginning of her end.
And there it was, freed at last, after being locked away in a mental prison long ago, staring back into her hardened, blue eyes. It was hope. The muscles in her taut shoulders slackened. Words—spoken softly in her mind, not her own but perhaps issued from the lips of an invisible angel—whispered in her ear.
Maybe God is answering your prayer.
It was as if a sliver of an ancient glacier suddenly fractured and a sheath of ice slid away, exposing her mouth, and the corner of her lips rose almost imperceptibly into a microscopic smile.
