Fire, Fury, Faith

by N. D. Jones

  Crescent kick. Haymaker.

  These chains will never hold me.

  Issa allowed the demon to drop to his knees. His bare chest heaved, blood splatter telling the sorry tale of fire and fury. A hard, brutal knee came up, scoring O’Leary’s temple, sending the demon down to the carpeted floor, swollen eyes and mouth fighting to open. To plead? To beg for mercy? But there was no mercy in Issa’s heart, no plea contrite enough to stop the southbound train to Inpu he was about to send Ethan O’Leary on.

  Issa bent on one knee beside O’Leary, taking a fistful of red hair and pulling his face upward. “Dumb creatures like you think Guardian Angels are these nice beings who meekly watch out for and protect the innocent.” Issa tightened his grip on O’Leary’s blood-streaked hair, tearing strands from the root. “How do you think we protect those precious souls, O’Leary? Do you think we sing hymns and pray the evil away?” Another hard yank forced the demon to look at him, those closing slits of eyes barely containing his depleted wrath. “No, we kill the vicious beasts. Depraved souls like you, O’Leary, who know no other way of being, no other way to live, no other way to die.”

  Issa shoved O’Leary away from him and stood, towering over the man, wings extended in a cloud of retribution. “Playtime is over.” The Sword of Judgment appeared, and the rogue demon’s eyes widened. The shine from the large, long blade glistened in his teary eyes. But there was no repentance there. Issa could tell. What he saw was the fear of a demon who’d been caught and was about to reap the ultimate penalty for his crimes.

  The Guardian Angel sneered down at the demon, the point of his sword going to O’Leary’s chin, gently lifting until their eyes met. “You’re wrong about Healer Angels. They aren’t weak, or passive, or always practice nonviolence.” The tip of the blade nicked O’Leary’s chin. The demon’s eyes flickered to the blade, then back to Issa. “In fact, they are the most dangerous of us all, their magic surpassing that of even an archangel’s.”

  Issa remembered the rage that had overtaken Serwa when one of the slave traders had dragged her mother to the corner of their hut, stripping his long pants down as he went. Her mother’s wails were loud and desperate. Then Serwa was there. Her father’s favorite hunting knife in hand, blade arching and finding purchase in the neck of her mother’s rapist. Tears had soaked her face. The man’s half-naked body fell limp.

  Then the tears came in earnest, Serwa’s eyes going to her blood-coated hands, the hands she’d always used for saving lives. But she had taken a life, a life, as far as Issa was concerned, that was forfeited the minute the foreigner put one nonconsensual hand on Serwa’s mother. But his wife, well, she’d carried that guilt with her into death…and into rebirth. Issa wouldn’t allow her to go through that again, not for a sorry, inhumane lowlife like Ethan O’Leary.

  “You see”—Issa tapped O’Leary’s chin with the sword—”my wife, like most Healer Angels, keeps her baser instincts like anger and vengeance locked deep within. Nathaniel and I don’t fit into that category, though. We’ve just never been that magnanimous.” Issa shoved the blade deeper against O’Leary’s chin, a slither of flesh snagging the blade.

  O’Leary winced.

  Issa glared.

  “Serwa wanted to kill you, and she hated herself for it. Worse, the longer I took to bring you to justice, the harder it became for my wife to keep her fury leashed.”

  The Sword of Judgment began to glow, bright, yellow, and blinding. The time was at hand, time for Ethan O’Leary to die. “Get up.” Issa gripped O’Leary by the arm, forcing him to his feet. “As scared as you may be right now”—Issa leaned forward, his face inches from the demon’s—“it is nothing compared to how you would’ve felt if my wife found you instead of me. Healers,” Issa said, readjusting the handle of the sword, preparing to strike, “can make a body and soul suffer every disease, every trauma, every heartache they’ve ever healed. My wife, the one you called a bitch and a whore, could smite you down with a single, malicious thought. You’re a fool, O’Leary, who doesn’t even realize how lucky you are to have lived past that attack. Let me tell you a secret, one you will take to your grave.”

  O’Leary trembled.

  “You attacked a Death Angel. The only Chosen Angel gifted by God with two hands of power. By right, Serwa should’ve killed you that day. But she allowed you to live, saved her soul instead of taking yours.”

  The glow began to pulse, the Sword of Judgment hungry for its soul.

  “Please, don’t—” O’Leary begged.

  Too late.

  Issa plunged the blade into Ethan O’Leary, cutting through flesh, tendons, bones, and muscles, skewering his insides in search of—ah, yes, there—his soul. Tiny. Putrid. But there. Then it wasn’t, the Sword of Judgment opening its mouth and swallowing, filling its magical belly with practiced ease.

  Issa slowly withdrew the blade. An agonizing careen started but ended on a defeated cry of “Adramelech.” It was the last sound O’Leary would ever make, his demon name his final defense. Issa snorted. “‘King of Fire,’ my ass. Your mother set you up for failure, O’Leary.”

  Issa relaxed his grip on the sword hilt. Ethan O’Leary’s eyes were sallow, blank…dead. And so was his body. It fell to the floor in a boneless heap.

  Issa recited a prayer and released the Sword of Judgment. His gray mists surrounded the angelic weapon, then it and the sword disappeared, taking the demon’s soul to its final destination. Inpu awaited Ethan O’Leary. He wanted to be like his angelic ancestors. Well, now he could. Forever.

  Issa managed to reach the sofa before he collapsed. Finally, it was done. He’d had his revenge, protected his wife and the human realm from Ethan O’Leary. Proved his worth in the process, thwarted his nagging conscience. He waited, waited for the relief, the freeing of his heart, the emancipation of his own righteous soul.

  Nothing.

  He waited longer, wiping demon blood from his fingers and onto an ugly, plaid throw pillow.

  Nothing.

  Issa propped his booted feet on a sofa arm, looked out of the window for hours, and watched until the sun rose, ushering in a new day but with the same old scars.

  Nothing. Nothing. Nothing!

  Issa closed his eyes, stilled his shaky breath, and cursed himself and Ethan O’Leary.

  The demon’s death was supposed to bring him peace. Why wasn’t he at peace? What had he done wrong?

  September 2012

  Richmond, Virginia

  Serwa sat across the marble dining room table from Evlin O’Leary, cautiously watching the woman sip from an elegant teacup, the scent of orange schnapps subtle in the early fall air. It was the demon’s third cup since Serwa’s arrival. But the way O’Leary’s pink eyes shimmered and ghostly white face sagged, she’d been at it a while.

  Perhaps all night. Maybe a lifetime.

  Thin shoulders hunched in a flower-patterned dress that hung on the woman like an oversized bathrobe. The September breeze coming in from the open windows lifted the black and gold drapes, letting in the fresh smell of pine. Yet the demon just sat there, an unnatural shade of bright-red hair framing a weathered but still pretty face.

  Tired of waiting, and wanting nothing more than to leave this woman’s home, Serwa rose.

  “Don’t go.”

  Serwa looked down at the seated demon, felt a wave of annoyance and anger surge through her before tamping it down. “You called. I came. We’ve sat at this table for the last twenty minutes, yet you’ve said nothing more than, ‘Thank you for coming,’ and ‘Would you like a Danish and tea?’ ”

  The woman nodded. Her age-spotted hands swiveled the cup on the saucer. “I prayed.”

  “Yes, I know, that’s the only reason I’m here.”

  Evlin O’Leary gestured to the chair across from her. Sighing, Serwa slid her jean-clad bottom back into the chair, the leather soft and cool against the wing slits in her long-sleeve, teal pullover. Her wings had finally and fully healed.

  “You don’t un
derstand, Angel, I’ve never prayed.”

  The demon’s gray eyes stared into Serwa’s brown ones. O’Leary had prayed. Specifically, she had prayed for Serwa, using her angelic name no less, guaranteeing Serwa would hear her. Against her better judgment, Serwa had made the trek from Araceli to Manchester. A home she’d visited only once before.

  “I know it may shock you to hear this, but you aren’t the first demon to pray to me, or other angels for that matter.” Evlin’s eyes widened and her face hardened. With rage? Contempt?

  “That’s because they’re weak,” she snarled, picking up her cup and downing the last of her “tea.” “My clan doesn’t believe in such things…or the power of angels, especially the so-called Chosen.”

  If that were true then I wouldn’t be here

  Picking up the carafe, O’Leary poured herself another drink.

  “Since you don’t believe in the power of Chosen Angels, I can leave.” Tucking a wayward braid behind her ear, Serwa started to stand.

  “You needed me once and I need you now.”

  Serwa pushed to her feet, regretting her decision to come there, cursing her desire to know why Evlin O’Leary had prayed to her. But she would’ve come anyway, not to O’Leary’s home, of course, but to Richmond. Issa was still here, a lost angel on a misguided mission. She wanted him home where he belonged.

  “You came after that male angel did. You were nicer but no less determined to see my boy dead.” The demon took a healthy swallow of her schnapps and slammed the cup down, all pretense of southern manners gone. “That male angel, Issa he called himself, wanted to kill my Ethan. I could see it in his cold eyes.” Another deep swallow of her “tea.” “I thought he would slit my throat when I refused to tell him where to find my son. He stared at me for a long time. Even after I demanded he leave, those terrifying eyes just continued to stare.” Trembling hands reached for the carafe. “If looks could kill,” she mumbled, the fear in her voice evident, hands momentarily stilling until she regrouped enough to refill her cup.

  Serwa had been “nice” to Ethan O’Leary’s mother. But the woman would be surprised to know how close to the surface Serwa’s own bloodlust had been that day. Issa and his magic had helped her regain most of the control she’d lost, but not all. The trip to the human realm had been Serwa’s first since the attack.

  A test of her control—a humbling pass.

  An attempt to aid her husband—an abysmal failure.

  Issa, as protective as any chieftain, had come to Serwa through their mate bond for a month. Each night he would visit, Guardian Angel magic rising after the setting of the sun. Araceli’s darkness would tempt Serwa to find rest in its majestic bosom, but her nightmares soon banished such foolish desires.

  When her husband would come for her in the middle of the night, the coolness of his gray mists had lulled Serwa into sleepy compliance. The kind of deep, peaceful slumber Serwa hadn’t known since she was a child who’d slept in her father’s protective arms, her mother’s loving voice singing sweetly in the background.

  Yet Issa had returned that sense of naïve peace that only innocent babes experienced. His magic, but mostly, his love and devotion had driven the nightmares from her mind. Nightmares of an angel with too much power but too little control. “Death Angel,” her mind would whisper. An accusation but also a long-ago truth.

  The mists of Issa’s Guardian Angel magic would silence such an ugly, hard truth. Cocooned in his calming dream mists, arms encircled Serwa, hand stroked hair, ad lips spoke words of apology and regret.

  Then her mind would slowly begin to fade, releasing all thoughts of fear, pain, and death. A temporary yet blissful state. But such moments were enough for Serwa to rebuild her self-control and confidence.

  “The other angel wanted to know places Ethan would hide. You wanted something far more dangerous, his demon name,” Evlin O’Leary said, drawing Serwa away from her thoughts of Issa’s nightly ritual and his soothing mists. His magical touch and unwavering strength the reason why Serwa could calmly sit across from the mother of the demon who’d tried to kill her.

  Ethan O’Leary’s demon name had been Serwa’s request. She could’ve ripped the answer from the demon’s intoxicated brain, would’ve unrepentantly done so if not for her husband’s gray mist magic.

  “What kind of mother would I have been if I had given you his demon name? Ethan wasn’t a bad man. He maintained all of this after his father died of lung cancer.” She opened her arms, referring to the house at large. Evlin O’Leary stood. Her color-treated hair swayed with the abrupt movement. “And I didn’t even pray then. Not to you or any other Healer.”

  Sometimes love could be a convenient blindfold, for Ethan O’Leary was a very bad man, a hardened killer in fact. One who took perverse pleasure in other people’s misery. People like Serwa and those innocent worshippers she’d fought to heal before succumbing to her own pain.

  “Why did you pray to me, Demon? Tell me now or lose your opportunity, for once I leave I’ll never return.”

  Evlin O’Leary bristled, but she also spoke. “I’m dying of—”

  “I know. It’s a very common disease for demons, especially those from Northern Europe.” Serwa had sensed the demon’s illness before she’d entered her home that first time. The house and the demon reeked of the toxin.

  “I called you here to heal me, Angel.”

  Serwa figured it must’ve taken a powerful fear of death to have Evlin O’Leary, a purist demon, hater of all things angelic, to pray to a Chosen Angel for help.

  The frail woman walked around the imposing marble table, her slip-on shoes softly hitting the shiny wooden floor. The home, set in the Historic Manchester District, had a 20th-century stucco design but 21st-century renovations, making the Celtic inspired furnishings, pottery, statues, and prints scattered throughout the living and dining rooms, an unusual but expensive mix. Much more than a community college professor like Ethan O’Leary could afford.

  Terrorism obviously paid O’Leary well.

  Shuffling her feet, Evlin O’Leary made her way to Serwa’s side, the shorter woman gazing up at her with none of the haughtiness she’d shown her the first time they had met.

  “My husband died ten years ago. The cancer ate away at him. I watched him fight, having faith in him and his demon strength. But none of our home remedies worked.” The demon swallowed a silent sob. “Now my Ethan is gone, and I have no one. Nothing. Just an empty house full of memories.”

  “And you wish for me to heal you.” It wasn’t a question, just a confirmation.

  The demon nodded. Her face grim and sallow.

  Serwa closed her eyes and opened her third one, the angelic one that allowed her to see into another’s soul. She focused on the demon. Evlin’s soul came into view, tapping a soft, slow, weakened beat. No doubt about it, the woman was dying, had mere months to live.

  Serwa went deeper, pushing past the obvious decay, searching for the truth, the heart within the soul. There, huddled in the corner was Evlin O’Leary’s heart soul. Serwa reached for it, but it cowered deeper into the shadows. She called the soul to her—gently, reassuringly.

  With caution, the heart soul showed itself completely. It was a tiny, underutilized part of Evlin O’Leary, hidden, afraid, but still there, still viable.

  Serwa opened her eyes and found Evlin O’Leary studying her with fierce resentment. Before Serwa could give the woman her decision, the fear of rejection roared to life in the demon’s eyes, bleeding from wolf gray to a hopeless shade of demon green.

  “I knew it. You can save everyone else but you won’t save me.” She snorted, turned, and shuffled back to her chair and her schnapps. “I should’ve known. I’m nothing more than the mother of the demon who almost killed you, the woman who turned her back on you in your time of need. Why I expected mercy from an angel, I’ll never know.”

  Dejected, she swallowed the remaining contents of the carafe.

  Serwa could’ve left then. The cruel, unfo
rgiving part of her whispered for her to do just that. It told her Evlin O’Leary had birthed, raised, and protected a monster and that the demon deserved her fate. Sixty-eight years were long enough. She needn’t be given more.

  Let her die, Serwa. No one will blame you if you did. Just walk away. Walk away and be done with the O’Learys.

  She shook her head, squelching the blistering ache crying out for vengeance. The same ache that grew into an inferno when a slave raider had ripped her daughters from her arms, cast the pair aside, deeming them too small and inconsequential for what was to come. She’d given into hatred and violence then. Fought. Cursed. Killed. A madness of sorts. A freeing of the mind but a hardening of the soul and heart.

  Serwa could leave the demon to suffer and die alone. Or…

  “Healers can choose whom we save. God has left that to our discretion, trusting us to know which souls are worthy of saving and which are not.” Serwa placed both hands on the table and leaned in. “Tell me, my child, what you will do with a second chance at life?”

  A single whispered answer. “Pray.”

  “For what?”

  “Forgiveness.” Tears fell, no longer swallowed. “For myself. For my son. For our cursed souls.”

  Serwa reached across the table, her smooth brown hand finding O’Leary’s white, wrinkled one. The demon grasped the offering, bringing it to her lips and placing an unexpected kiss to the knuckles.

  She smiled down at the young-old woman, then freed her wings and her magic. “Say my true name, Evlin O’Leary. Speak it, open your forgotten heart soul and allow me passage within. Hold it, have faith in it, and it will have faith in you. In this, I believe. In you, I will forgive. Now, say my name and let it be done.”

  Six Days Later

  Southern Ghana, West Africa

  The dry countryside could benefit from a hearty downpour of rain. The grass was more crackling brown than crisp green. And while the air smelled of fresh cedar, it held a sticky thickness typical of this region of Ghana.