Fire, Fury, Faith

by N. D. Jones

  It would be worth it, the time away from Serwa. The controlled tremors in her voice when she’d accepted Issa’s refusal to return home sent a dagger straight through his heart. It will all be worth it. Please, God, let it all have been worth the sacrifice and pain.

  A frisson of demonic energy had Issa hiding deeper into the bleak darkness of the vacant home, wings retracted, solid wall against the raised peaks of his wings. It was finally time, time to face the demon, time to separate Ethan O’Leary’s soul from his worthless body.

  It had taken a month to set up the meet, to draw the coward to this home. Yet it had taken Issa even longer to discover—to admit—that he was no Hunter Angel. O’Leary had eluded him time and again, always one step ahead, enjoying the chase, mocking Issa’s feeble efforts.

  The hunt was a chronic series of missteps, sophomoric maneuvers, and building frustration.

  Hunt. Run. Escape.

  Hunt. Run. Escape.

  Hunt. Run. Escape.

  Endless wasted effort, fury and pride a subpar recipe for success, yet a brilliant one for failure. But Issa wouldn’t fail tonight, not again. No more. Ethan O’Leary would die. His execution date set by Issa, the exact time of death the only unknown.

  The front door creaked when it was opened then closed. Then there were steps. Soft, cautious ones on the hardwood floor, coming closer, moving deeper into the ranch-style house.

  Come, moth, to my flame.

  “I’m here, Malik. You left the door unlocked.”

  Ah, that voice, the sickness that had invaded Serwa’s dreams, morphing them into nightmares and sending her into a fit of shrill cries. Issa remembered those nights well. His loving touches barely enough to coax her off the ledge, preventing Serwa’s plummet into emotional oblivion.

  How many nights has she cried since you left, Issa? How many nightmares did she have to fend off alone because you had to have your revenge, your damn justice?

  Issa refused to think of that now. With force, he pushed back the image of his wife, her beautiful face with the sweetest, most kissable nose he’d ever seen. The one she’d passed on to their girls. No, he wouldn’t think of her…of them now. Later, yes, later when his mission was complete.

  Another creak and more steps, the distance between them was shrinking, threatening to shred Issa’s patience. But he had been patient.

  Five months.

  Of thinking.

  Of hurting.

  Of hating.

  Of missing. Her.

  Issa scanned the modest room one last time. There were built-in bookshelves on three walls, each bookcase divided into six modular sections, plenty of space for an avid reader’s collection of books. But the shelves, with the exception of a smattering of odds and ends, were bare, outing the owner of the home as a fraud. And he was, on so many levels. Issa and Nathaniel had captured the real Malik.

  The plain oak doors to the library slid to the right and left.

  “Come in,” Issa said, watching as O’Leary’s six-foot frame filled the entryway, his limp, fire-engine-red hair bright in the dimly lit room.

  Face pale, eyes keen, O’Leary searched the shadows, finally settling on Issa’s solid form. The brass torch lamp behind the demon in the eastern corner of the room provided the barest of illumination. But it was enough for Issa to make out the demon who’d tried to kill his wife. But it wasn’t enough light for O’Leary to see Issa clearly. That wouldn’t do. Not yet.

  O’Leary moved farther into the room, his lanky body filling out the fitted, black khaki pants and dark-blue dress shirt he wore. The tie with blue, black, and white triangles was loose, the top button of his shirt undone, Adam’s apple a skinny protrusion.

  Ethan O’Leary appeared to be nothing more than an average American man meeting with a friend after a hard day of work. How utterly normal, if the individuals involved weren’t both in hiding—one a rogue demon on the run, the other a fallen angel. Or that would have been the case if Issa hadn’t hijacked the house and the disgraced angel’s identity, going undercover as Malik, a member of Angels Against Angelkind.

  That wasn’t the name of the band of angels and demons who’d aligned their ideologies and powers to challenge God and her most loyal servants. Angels Against Angelkind was a name Issa had given them, his hunt for the elusive Ethan O’Leary having unearthed a dangerous alliance. The full extent of the organization’s reach into the angelic and human realms wasn’t yet known. Nathaniel was leading the investigation, Malik the first to be caught and punished.

  Ethan O’Leary would be the second, but there would be no trial for him. He’d already been found guilty in absentia. Given the execution order, Issa’s right hand throbbed from the desire to call forth his Sword of Judgment.

  Not yet. Pay first then death.

  “I should’ve known the rumors about you were true.”

  The man shifted uncomfortably, eyes squinting at Issa, his partial demon sight better than that of a full-human but not good enough to pierce the angel’s magical shroud.

  “I was told you were an angel of mystery, one who kept to the shadows, let his actions speak for him.” O’Leary cleared his throat before taking three steps, moving closer to the wooden desk that separated them.

  Issa increased his angelic mists, thickening the shadows around him, further concealing his face, altering his voice that much more.

  O’Leary’s gray eyes turned demon green, shifting his benign college-boy face into something feral, lethal even, the nerdy professor façade slipping just a bit.

  “Well, Mr. O’Leary, it wouldn’t do for me to be incautious. I’m here because someone tipped off that bastard Nathaniel. But I escaped, made it to my safe house before those Hunter dogs sniffed out my trail.” Issa gave what he hoped was an evil laugh, the kind he’d heard when those slave traders thought he and his tribesmen to be easy prey, ripe for whatever awaited them on the other side of the unspeakable ocean. He didn’t submit then, never even considered giving in, but sometimes a good brain was better than brawn. When pushed to the wall, ego needed to give way to common sense.

  That was how he’d finally trapped the smiling piece of demon shit in front of him, how he’d managed to bring two warring tribes together, how he’d won the heart and enduring love of his beloved Serwa, and how he would defeat Ethan O’Leary.

  Well, Issa admitted with a suppressed growl, brawn has its place, right in O’Leary’s Howdy Doody face.

  “Yeah, the Hunter Angel, he and his squad have made life a bit more…interesting of late.”

  “Interesting?”

  “Well, you know. They’re fun.” O’Leary laughed. “They have no clue how to capture a demon. Sometimes I wonder where they get their information about us, perhaps one of those so-called horror films from the eighties.”

  Apparently, the fact that he’d just insulted angels, “Malik” included, either didn’t register with the redheaded freak, or he simply didn’t care.

  O’Leary laughed again before clearing his throat, false humor dropping. “Look, the O’Leary clan and the three other families that comprise our community are tired of living in the shadows, tired of being treated like second-class shit, especially by those Chosen assholes.”

  Chosen assholes. Yeah, Issa and Serwa had been called far worse. Here was where demons like the O’Learys and some Heaven-born angels, Malik, for example, agreed.

  O’Leary puffed out his chest and raised a long, thin thumb, pointing to himself. “My ancestors date to the beginning of time, the first angels, God’s real Chosen ones. If God wanted to elevate a species to full angelhood it should’ve been my kind, not a bunch of humans who haven’t evolved beyond the use of ten percent of their brains.” He looked as if he wanted to spit more than bruised sentiment. “But no, she views us as a curse, a blight on her precious human realm, creatures that should’ve never been birthed.”

  Issa had heard it all before. Many Heaven-born angels were no better in their superior thinking than the demons they hunted. Desp
ite Nathaniel’s best efforts, he couldn’t shield the Chosen from such prejudicial sentiments. Since all the Chosen had once been human, they understood—unfortunately—how discrimination worked, how insidiously wicked it could be, and how difficult it was to overcome. Tribal warfare and the slave trade had taught Issa well. People like Ethan O’Leary were not new. No, such sense of privilege and entitlement was as old and plentiful as the grains of sand of the great Sahara Desert.

  “We should be the ones,” O’Leary continued to wail, a two-year-old’s temper tantrum having nothing on a spurned demon. “But token humans have the power that rightfully belongs to my kind. My. Kind!” he yelled, lifting his arm and undoing the button on his shirt. He shoved the shirt up. “True angel blood runs through my veins.”

  And human blood. Purist demons always conveniently forgot that part.

  “Is that why you attacked the female Chosen Angel?” Issa knew his voice sounded harsh, threatening even. But he had to know. To hell with Nathaniel’s plan to pump the rogue demon for information about Angels Against Angelkind. This was Issa’s mission, the only moment he would ever have to speak with the flaming purist.

  Issa had tried to convince himself that the reason for Serwa’s attack didn’t matter. He’d surmised she’d been targeted. Why else would a demon deliberately put himself in an angel’s path? Go out of his way to cause havoc in the region under Serwa’s protection unless he wanted to get her attention. But that hadn’t mattered either, because Issa had no intention of allowing her attacker to live long enough to make the same mistake twice. Yet being within striking…killing distance of Ethan O’Leary, Issa knew the truth of his own delusion. He needed to know, craved the explanation no matter how twisted. Maybe then he could persuade himself that he truly wasn’t to blame.

  O’Leary laughed. It was a hearty bellow that shook the windows, a vile sound that had Issa fighting not to jump across the desk and rip the demon in two. Bare hands twitched from the desire to do just that. Instead, he gritted his teeth, willing calm from the deepest recesses of his core.

  “For centuries, the O’Learys, the Millers, the Faheys, and the Quinns have intermarried, forming a clan stronger than any other demon family. Full-humans weaken our gene pool, taking instead of giving power.”

  For some, it always boiled down to power. For demons. For humans. For angels.

  “So we removed the human factor, cloistered ourselves, breeding with only other strong demons, carriers of the angelic trait, making us stronger, surpassing other demon families ages ago.”

  “But that wasn’t enough for you.” It was never enough, not for people like Ethan O’Leary. Bastards like him always wanted more, a craving, an addiction more potent than the Earth’s gravitational pull.

  “Hell no.” O’Leary re-buttoned his shirt, demon green eyes sparkling even brighter. “I wanted to become leader of my clan, so I had to show them. Show them that I was the best and only true choice. Show them that only I could manipulate the impotent human mind. Convince the weaklings to do my will. Bring terror to their hearts. Show God that she’d made a mistake in ignoring us, imprisoning our forefathers. That we no longer need her grace…or her love.”

  O’Leary walked away from Issa. Jerky, agitated steps had him spinning back around, waves of sulfuric anger wafting from the demon. “But every bomb, every burning building, every explosion, that bitch was there, stealing my glory.” O’Leary kicked a chair, sending it flying into an ottoman. “She saved them. Not all, but most. Where there should’ve been pain, blood, and terror—lots and lots of human terror—she gave them hope, light, life.” Another chair went flying, smacking into an ocean-blue mosaic vase. “That Healer bitch was ruining my fun, and my bid for clan leader. The news should’ve been about the horror of the day. Instead, it was about her. Stupid humans hailed her as their savior, recording her humanitarian efforts and replaying them over and again in the news. That should’ve been my time, my fame, not some Chosen whore’s, who’s too stupid to protect herself.”

  The bubble burst and all Issa saw was red. Not the red of the fire demon’s hair, but the bloodlust housed inside of a Guardian Angel, the lust that had blossomed into inglorious crimson roses of life and death over the past five months.

  “So I set the dumb bitch up, whispered sweet nothings into the ears of those petty religious anarchists and waited for the fireworks to begin. Her territory to protect, but my bombs, my mind slaves to wield. It was sooo easy,” the demon boasted. “She came, as I knew she would, swooping into the fray, thinking of others, not giving a thought to her own safety.” O’Leary snarled a laugh. “She should have, though, I was right there, waiting, wanting. Wanting to hurt her, make her burn, feel my power. And she did. She burned, screamed, cried. And it was the most glorious bonfire, the sound of utter agony an orgasm for the ears. Her agony. My revenge. My ascension to clan leader.”

  Issa whispered an incantation, focusing on the magical wards he’d set earlier, invoking the power of his spell. Thunder crackled. The midnight sky grew darker, and bolts of lightning raced across the sky, traveling at a breakneck speed away from the house, away from the snarling fire and fury building within Issa.

  “But then some Guardian Angel sniffed out my trail and has been on my ass ever since. Rumor has it that he’s the bitch’s husband, another Chosen. So that’s why I’m here, to broker a deal with you, Malik. I think we can help each other. I have an army of demons ready to bring the Hunter Angels to their knees. They’re willing to kill that bastard Nathaniel before taking out his entire Hunter crew. If I give the nod, if we can broker a pact, my army will be at your beck and call. All I need from you is the head of the Guardian Angel who’s been dogging my heels, daring to harass my family, friends, and colleagues, screwing up my motherfuckin’ life.”

  Issa remained quiet, but the walls of the library began to shake.

  “Did you hear me, Malik? I want that Guardian Angel dead, his wife dead. Bring them to me and I’ll—” O’Leary snapped his fingers and opened his palm. He snapped them a second time, a third, a fourth, a fifth. “What the hell?” He stepped closer to Issa. “What the hell is going on here, Malik?” He snapped his fingers for a sixth time. “I can’t—”

  “Summon your fire,” Issa hissed, dispersing his mists and bringing his face forward, out of the shadows. His right hand reached across the desk and found O’Leary’s throat. “I know, you worthless pile of camel shit.”

  O’Leary’s hands went to Issa’s forearm, trying to wrench free. Demon green eyes gone, only steely gray glared at him. “All your interbreeding powers are gone, Demon. Just another human. Nothing special, right O’Leary?”

  “This can’t be.” The demon jerked, eyes bulging, legs kicking against the solid wooden desk. Issa’s hand never wavered. “No one c-can take what G-God has given. Only she can do that, and you are not her.”

  Issa laughed, cruel and with bitter enjoyment. “Who said anything about taking? Perhaps if you didn’t shun your human side you would know more about magic.” Issa squeezed hard, fingers digging into tender, pale flesh before dropping the demon to the floor. “Specifically, magic runes.”

  Issa gestured, pointing his index finger until each symbol scribbled on the walls was visible, glowing scarlet and pulsing with ancient power. “North: Akofena, the sword of war, represents courage and valor. South: Akoben, the war horn, used to sound a battle cry, means vigilance and wariness. East: Gye Nyame, a symbol of the supremacy of God, Her renowned grace but unflinching punishment. West,” Issa ignored the demon’s backward scramble, “Nsoromma, child of the heavens.”

  Issa jumped onto the desk, coal-black eyes capturing O’Leary in a hostile gaze. “I. Am. A. Child. Of. The. Heavens. Me, a Chosen Angel whose symbols I drew with my own blood, whose power I brought to life through my faith, whose inspiration came on the wings of my wife’s tears.”

  Issa dropped to the floor, black combat boots heavy and loud, angelic wings exploding out as he hovered over the redheaded, depowe
red demon.

  “You fool.” Ethan backed farther away, slowly drawing himself up. “Those wards of yours not only dampen demonic powers but all powers.” The demon gave a cautious laugh. “Even Angels, you arrogant son of a bitch.”

  Issa’s only warning was a snarl. Then he was upon the demon, forearm going to his throat, slamming the bastard against a bookcase. O’Leary’s head cracked. Wood splintered. “You see, you leader of a clan of incestuous freaks, I loved every minute I was human. Didn’t waste or take it for granted. And”—Issa jammed his fist into O’Leary’s mouth and nose, then brought a knee to the demon’s gut, doubling him over—“I learned how to fight as a human, as a man. Did you?”

  O’Leary tried to defend himself, throwing punches and kicks, connecting with nothing but air. Issa ducked, dodged, countered. “No, I didn’t think so. Fire and teleportation are all you got. And once those are gone, you’re just another loud-mouthed punk who can’t take a punch.”

  Issa head-butted O’Leary. The sound of crushed cartilage warred with the demon’s screams. Trembling hands flew to broken nose. “Your guard is for shit.” O’Leary spat blood at him. Issa laughed, returning the demon’s insensitive humor from earlier with that of his own. “My father always said I took too much pleasure in the battle, playing with my prey instead of killing them outright.” Issa grabbed O’Leary’s wrist, breaking it. The demon screamed and cursed. “Seems he was right. Let’s play, Demon.”

  They did. Or rather, Issa did. Glorying in finally being able to unleash all his fire, all his fury, breaking and bloodying the way slave traders had tried to do to him.

  Backfist. Chambered punch.

  Men, grab your knives. We must protect our women and children.

  Jab. Hammer fist.

  Take me. Leave my family alone.

  Diving punch. Front kick.

  I’ll kill you all for what you’ve done.

  The bloodlust—current and ancient—had to be fed, Issa’s hands red and throbbing, O’Leary’s eyes, nose, and lips supplying the crimson elixir, beaten body the withering stalk.