“There’s no service here tonight,” he started, and his eyes widened for a fraction of a beat as he seemed to register who he was looking at. Joey kept walking. “You aren’t welcome here.”
“Noted,” Joey said, brushing past him.
“I’m not going to stand for this,” he said, and there was a scuffle behind him. Joey looked back over his shoulder to see Danny catching the old reverend by the shoulder and steering him into a pew.
“Then you can sit for it,” Danny said. “We’ll be out of your hair in a minute. This isn’t negotiable.”
Joey started to turn back around. A moment later there was a sizzling sound, followed by Danny swearing. Joey turned bodily to find his brother’s hand around the reverend’s throat, his forearm blistered and smoking from the vial of what Joey could only assume had been holy water that the reverend had thrown on him.
Joey sighed.
“I really wish you hadn’t done that,” he said.
“What now?” Danny asked through clenched teeth.
“Knock him out,” Joey said. Blackwater jerked and lashed out for a moment, and Danny’s hand clenched around his throat. Joey counted him off in his head, thirty seconds, then sixty, and Danny let him go to slump into the pew.
Danny turned his forearm over in the wisplight and looked to Joey.
“I’ve had worse,” he said. He curled the hem of his jacket around his forearm to wipe what was left of the water away and made a face as he did so. Joey nodded.
“Hang in there, this shouldn’t take long,” he said.
They headed back into the sacristy and Joey studied the statue of Iaric Kernaghan for a moment before moving around the side to where the door was meant to be. Just like Ely said, there it was.
“Any idea how to open that?” Danny asked.
Fire lit up Joey’s left hand and he pressed his palm to the surface without a word. The glow pushed out from the center and to the edges of the ward, letting the door swing open for them.
“I’ve seen a glyph pattern like this one before,” Joey said. “There’s one under the Ninth Circle.”
Even to him, his voice sounded a long way off. He pushed through, heading down the spiral staircase and into the open room below. Just like Ely suggested, it led into the catacombs.
“What now?” Danny asked. Even as he whispered, his voice echoed over the damp walls.
“Now, we go find another exit,” Joey said. “You got anything to mark the walls with?”
Danny flexed the fingers of his right arm and a plume of flame appeared over them. He smudged his fingertip along the wall and left a mark there.
“Good enough,” Joey said. “Let’s go.”
There was plenty of catacomb to explore. He wasn’t sure how long he and Danny were down there. He remembered the layout of the city and imagined it as they walked, and even as he did, they got lost a dozen times before he finally found what he was looking for.
He did find another door. When he slipped out, he found himself in the basement of the Ninth Circle.
It had been over an hour and the Gate Street Players picked the wrong moment to make a grab for more territory. Ophelia Trezza passed over the alley like a shadow, landing on the apartment complex roof over the narrow square where it was happening. There was a civilian man sprawled out on the ground in a semi-circle of men in Gate Street’s colors. Alric Kessel had a sub-machine gun propped against his massive, meaty shoulder with a 50 round drum attached. There was a sigil burned into the side and even from up here, she could recognize the sequence of interlocked characters that spelled ‘accuracy’ in old enochian.
Or, more literally, ‘may my arrow find its mark’.
“Listen up folks,” Alric said. “This guy here doesn’t think he has to do what we say. Has it in his head that Trezza’s going to come and save him.”
He kicked the man in the back of the head hard. The man stopped trying to get back up.
“I have news for you,” Alric said. “Trezza’s busy and he ain’t gonna come for you now. So you’re all gonna play nice. Get your shit together, comply with our demands, and we don’t put multiple bullets in each of your witless heads.”
“Well,” Ophelia said, pitching her voice so everyone in the square below could hear her, “You’re right about one thing. Joey isn’t coming. You really fucked up, Alric. If Joey were here, he might show some restraint. You got me instead.”
She let her four ashen wings spread out behind her, and by the light of the trams passing overhead, her shadow fell upon them. The golden glow of the sigils on her armor reflected off of the tops of the wisplight lanterns. Several faces were caught between shock and amazement. For an instant, she felt like the hero of one of those radio dramas.
Then Alric scowled at her and leveled his gun. He let loose with a bloody roar, the sound of his fire echoing over the stone walls and brick road. Ophelia’s quartet of wings beat once, sent a peppering of bullets off course and spiraling into the bricks below, and pulled her into a dive with a speed no bird could have matched.
Her son was still out there.
Her son was out there and alive, and this creature was in her domain, threatening and harming her people, because he didn’t think she was going to be here to stop him.
She loved Callum with all of her heart, of course she did, and there was nothing she wanted in the world more than to find him and take him into her arms like she thought she would never get to do again. She had to prioritize her people. They were more important than what she wanted.
As far as she was concerned this man was standing in her way.
The ratta-tatta-tat of the gun was deafening. She could feel the rain of plaster and stone on her wings and back as she descended on him, arms igniting to the shoulders in silver seraph’s fire. Her arms were not as quick as her wings. There was no time to draw her sword in this instant.
She caught him first in the arm holding the gun, disrupting his fire. The four men he’d brought with him converged on her, bringing the gunfire to a crescendo as they planted their feet. The steam-and-sulfur scent of gun smoke bit the air.
Ophelia’s hand closed around the front of Alric’s thick neck and squeezed. The fire flashes of their sub-automatics were swallowed by the divine glow of Ophelia’s breastplate as the hail of bullets pinged back and onto the road around her. This plate had been designed to withstand hellfire and the jaws of purebred demons. Her right two wings fanned out as she turned, pushing another volley off course in a gust.
How long had it been since she’d had to take an angry rakshasa in hand to hand combat, she wondered? Her blood sang to her, punctuated by the cadence of the battle. She felt like herself for the first time in years.
As good as it was for her soul, her body wasn’t conditioned like it used to be. Her instinct was to bring Alric in front of her, to put him between herself—and more importantly her people—and the gunfire of the men he’d brought here with him.
Alric didn’t budge.
She turned her head back to him just in time to see the wicked grin crossing his wide frog-like mouth. That mouth only grew wider for a moment as he opened his entire head and a bluish, perfectly articulate imp’s tongue lashed out to wrap around her still flaming right arm. He should have burned. It should have done something. The slime on the thick appendage sizzled, but if Alric was hurting at all he made no sign of it.
Before she could get her left hand up to grasp the tongue and try to pry it away, he’d used it to throw her across the alley and into her frightened line of civilians. In the arc of her fall, it whipped out a second time and when she landed, she made a grab for a claymore that was no longer in its scabbard but lying several feet behind Alric Kessel. She wanted to shout, to tell the people not to be stupid and to get out of there, but the cacophony had deafened her and the odds that anyone would hear over that racket were negligible. She beat her wings, planting her feet, and silently prayed that the wind from them would be enough to keep all of them safe.
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It bounced along the four walls of the square and began to kick up like a maelstrom, bringing with it dirt from the road and only seeming to make the steam-and-sulfur scent of gun smoke stronger.
Figures were still moving in the smoke. It was clogged and impossible to breath. Visibility was low and she couldn’t hear. She couldn’t even catch scent to help orient herself, but it was impossible for Alric Kessel to hide his behemoth figure.
He was coming right for her. She realized, then, that she must have been like a beacon in all this smoke between her seraph’s fire and the enochian glyphs shielding her breastplate. She took a step forward and saw him weave to the side.
By the time she reached him, by the time she got close enough to make out any details, he had that awful tongue around the throat of a frightened woman. Her fingers grasped frantically around the spit soaked muscle, trying to free herself. She might as well have been clawing at a tram cable for all the good it did.
Ophelia slowed. He could still see her from the angle his head was tilted, but only just. And that mouth was hellishly wide. Her fire wouldn’t do a thing against that tongue and she knew it.
But he wasn’t going to close his teeth on it.
Ophelia balled a fist and rushed forward suddenly. Alric took a startled step back and she shoved her right fist down into his throat, her arm sinking into his too-large mouth nearly to the elbow. His eyes widened, bugging out as he realized he couldn’t breathe.
There was an awful sucking sound as he unwound his tongue from the civilian woman’s neck. It was a concession. Ophelia did not intend to give one back. Her left hand gripped his tongue, pulling hard to keep it extended.
There was a wheezing clicking sound from deep down in his throat, one that couldn’t quite escape around her fist. She could feel it bumping wetly against her knuckles. For a beat, she thought he was trying to speak, to beg for mercy.
Then she realized he was laughing.
Even as his face started to purple from her choke, she found herself staring down the barrel of his rifle, aimed at her unarmored, unprotected face.
The ear-shattering bang of a gun broke the beat of tension. She hadn’t even realized the gunfire had stopped, or that she was starting to be able to hear again, but there it was. One single shot.
Ophelia was still standing and Alric’s sub-automatic was lying on the bricks. Her right hand clenched and she shoved it harder into his throat. He thrashed, and she kept her feet planted. His arms wailed at her from either side, but she stood with her arms out to guard and what blows landed, she took well. She had been trained to the Hellwatch and she would not be beaten by an imp. Not even an eight foot tall one.
Ophelia barely heard the thud as his massive body hit the ground, but she felt it rattling through the bricks. Second nature kicked back in as she remembered they were not alone here. She turned her face to the four Gaters, but left her fist where it was. It was seven minutes to suffocate. She would take no chances.
The scene was a strange display of mimery, to her, around her ringing ears. One of them was trying to replace his drum with shaking hands. Two of the others were staring at her with wide fearful eyes. The fourth had dropped to the bricks, his mouth open in a silent shriek as he clutched at his leg. The others hadn’t noticed.
The two that stared at her noticed her eyes on them, and turned to break and run. Moments after the third managed to get his drum into place, he took a step back and then another bullet caught him in the thigh and he went down. She could hear his screaming now, this one and the first.
The smoke was starting to settle. A small shadow passed overhead and Ely landed between her and the crippled Gaters. She cocked her head at them, as if she wasn’t sure what they were, before kicking their rifles out of reach, then turned to face Ophelia.
“Ely, what are you—”
Her voice sounded like it was coming from a long way off in her ringing ears. Ely furrowed her brow and walked up to her on too-quiet footsteps and offered her pistol hilt first, nodding to Alric. Ophelia still hadn’t taken her fist out of his throat.
Ophelia shook her head and glanced at the gun. Fortunately, Ely seemed to understand. When she spoke, she raised her voice so Ophelia could hear it.
“Take your hand out first,” Ely said. “When I pull this trigger he might have a reflex and imp jaws are steel strong.”
Ely was right, and Ophelia found herself surprised at her width of knowledge. Ely pressed the barrel of her gun against Alric’s forehead, and waited until Ophelia had removed her hands to pull the trigger. Even with her ears ringing as they were it was blisteringly loud.
“Come on,” Ely half said and half shouted. “We need to leave before the Hellwatch comes.”
And they would come. Ophelia was sure about that. Instead of answering, she gave her daughter a nod and manifested her own wings. Without asking, Ely walked over and picked up one of the injured men. Ophelia slid her claymore back into its sheathe, took the other and the two of them left the square. She couldn’t stay, regardless. She still needed to find Callum.
As they flew, Ely took point. It was a long way before they finally landed, perching on the roof of one of their own warehouses in the dock district, and by then, Ophelia’s ears were starting to clear. She watched Ely with concern.
“Why did you follow me?” she asked.
“You went alone,” Ely said, her voice crackling just a little bit from the strain of yelling earlier. “And you didn’t take a gun. And you followed me when I went to the Academy to do research so I thought it was only fair.”
“You knew about that, did you?” Ophelia asked.
“Now I do,” Ely said.
Ophelia couldn’t help but smile.
“You’re really growing up, aren’t you?” she asked, sighing.
“Enough that you need to worry about me less,” Ely said. “Certainly you need to worry about me less than you need to worry about Callum.”
“I’m always going to worry about you Ely,” Ophelia said. Ely glanced up at her and raised a red-black brow. Ophelia chuckled, reaching out to put an arm around her and pull her in for a hug. “No matter how old and powerful you get you’ll always be my baby.”
Ely relaxed a little bit, her forehead on Ophelia’s shoulder.
“I love you too, Mom,” she said.
There was a moment that Barghest knew well upon entering a room, when the people inside took note of someone entering and visibly didn’t approve. That was the case when he entered the Nightingale’s Nest.
The singer on the stage kept crooning in a distinctly male voice framed by a feminine body and the kind of eyes that could stop a man dead in the street. The show went on. The rest of the conversation stopped dead and eyes shaded by every color of the rainbow fixed on him as he entered.
“Is there something I can do for you, tin can?” a woman’s voice asked. He turned to face her and found the eyes staring up at him, impossibly blue, were looking up from his elbow. Her hair was black and bobbed at her chin, and the smile on her lips seemed natural. The patrons of the club continued to stare, some curious and some seeming ready to lunge at him at a moment’s notice.
Barghest got the impression that this woman could tell them to lie down and die for her and they would do it.
“I need to speak to a nightingale,” he said, meeting her eyes. “I have cash.”
“Not a common occurrence that we get Hellwatch in here,” she said, walking around his back and giving him an appraising look. “You would think you’d come more often. This case have you stumped?”
“Witchcraft works,” he said, “but it’s too unreliable to prove a case. They won’t accept it at court. I need information for personal reasons and I’m willing to pay.”
“Not everything we know is garnered through magic you know,” the woman said. She started to walk and crooked a finger for him to follow. He did.
The bag in his pocket with the bloody carpet fibers felt heavy to him. Slowly, the conversa
tion in the room began to pick back up as people seemed to lose interest. He followed the woman down a hall and up a spiral staircase into a featureless white room with two chairs and a bistro table between them.
“What does the Hellwatch captain need to ask of the nightingales for personal reasons, then?” the woman asked. She took her seat and kept those blue eyes pinned on him.
“I was working with someone on a case and she’s gone missing,” Barghest said. “I need to find her. I need to find her fast before something worse happens.”
“Three hundred sigils,” Rune said, “and I give you three answers. Do you know her name?”
“I know her nom de guerre,” he said. “I’m sorry, people who hunt demons tend not to want to let their true names out. I have her blood.”
He pulled the bag from his pocket and held it out to her. He wasn’t any different than Augury in that regard. He’d been born Damon Black, but he hadn’t called himself that in his mind in a very long time.
“A good focus,” the woman mused, taking it. “You’ll want it back when I’ve finished, I assume?”
“Yes,” he said. He couldn’t do any of it himself but he knew enough about how Witchcraft worked to know not to leave Augury’s blood in the hands of one. His throat felt dry. He drew out a roll of glyphed notes and set it on the table.
“Three questions,” she said. She took the fibers from the bag and her eyes began to glow. “Begin.”
“Where is the mercenary Augury?” he asked.
“The Fallen Ones have her,” she said. “They are planning to sell her off as a sacrifice. There is a high price right now for those of cambion blood and they plan to take no chances on acquiring another afrite.”
Barghest got to his feet. They had nests all throughout the northern part of the city and he knew where every one of them were.
“Which holdfast?” he asked.
“By the bridge,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said. He held his hand out for the fibers.
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