Dark Angel

by Kim Richardson

“Summoning an angel is the only way.”

  The cat arched a brow. “Do you have a name, oh wise one?”

  I frowned at his tone. “I’ll just name all the archangels I know of… one at a time. I’m bound to get one right—”

  “You’re going to summon an archangel! Are you mad?” cried the cat. “They’ll obliterate you on the spot just for occupying the same space.”

  “Not if they’re summoned in a circle they won’t.”

  “You’ve lost your mind.”

  “Maybe. But I’m going to make the Legion listen to me one way or another. Even if I risk having them come after me again. It’ll be worth it.” I let out a sigh. “Look. This gift, this curse, it’s got to be celestial. So the only way to stop it is with the angels’ help.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” grumbled the cat. “We are speaking about cosmic morons. I wouldn’t trust anything that smells like lemons and glows in the dark.”

  The light turned green and I drove off. I took the next exit and sped down Interstate 87 heading south. We drove in silence for a while, both deep in thought. I welcomed the silence. We knew each other well enough that silences were not uncomfortable.

  I also had a good sense of Tyrius’s moods and patterns of thought. My instincts told me he was tense, pulled as tight as guitar wire.

  “The witch won’t let you steal another of her grimoires,” intoned the cat. “Not after the first time. It’ll be cursed. Or worse, she’ll kill your ass. Is that what you want?”

  Without a grimoire, I couldn’t do squat. I didn’t remember the incantation to summon an angel. I wasn’t Evanora, and I wasn’t a witch, though I had been really impressed at her witching skills when she’d tried to remove Lucian’s gift from me with her blood magic ritual.

  I moved my gaze over to the Siamese cat. “Look, I’m being responsible this time. Okay?”

  Tyrius snorted. “How so? With your stellar ability of self-control?”

  “I’m not going to steal her grimoire,” I said, flicking my eyes back onto the road. “I’m going to have Gareth ask her to borrow it.”

  Tyrius let out a dramatic laugh. “You don’t borrow things from dark witches, Rowyn. Haven’t you learned anything? They don’t like to share. Trust me. I know. You get your hands on that grimoire and you’ll end up with no fingers. It’ll be cursed. I’m telling you.”

  “Not if Gareth asks for it. She likes him. He saved her life.”

  Tyrius’s tail flicked behind him. “She’s a dark witch. The only thing she likes are the warts on her ass.”

  Agitated, I focused on the minivan ahead of me and slowed down so I wouldn’t unintentionally hit it. “I can’t just sit here and wait for three days. I might not make it. Layla might not make it. Right now, this is my only chance of actually communicating with the Legion. I have to try, Tyrius.”

  The cat shrugged. “I know,” he sighed heavily. “Three days is a colossal amount of time for an archdemon, and who knows what the Legion’s answer will even be by then.”

  I looked at the cat, my pulse quickening. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s not like they said they were going to solve our problems, did they?” he said with an irritated acceptance. “That angel-born told you he’d come back with the Legion’s answer in three days’ time. What if they decide not to help?”

  Damn. I hadn’t thought about that. “It’s possible. Everything’s possible when it comes to angels. You see? It’s why I have to do something.”

  “And you think Gareth’s going to help you?” asked the cat.

  “I do,” I said.

  “And you think the dark witch is going to lend him one of her precious books. Do you?”

  “Evanora likes him,” I responded, knowing it to be true. “I’m willing to bet that if he asks to borrow her grimoire, she’ll say yes.”

  “Demon balls,” cursed the cat again, turning from me. “You think you’ve got this all figured out. Don’t you?”

  “Possibly.”

  The car’s motor sounded incredibly loud in the otherwise oppressive silence that followed. We drove for another twenty minutes until we hit Mystic Quarter. I pulled my car over to the curb, killed the engine, and got out.

  My stride grew stiff with anger, my boots clunking hard on the pavement as I trudged down Goblin Avenue in Mystic Quarter with Tyrius balanced on my shoulder. He whispered nasties in my ear like the devil cat he was.

  The warm air was strong with the familiar scent of sulfur and demon magic. The sun was down, but I knew this was when the district came alive. Mystic Quarter was colorful and strewn with the bizarre assortment of vampires, werewolves, gnomes, trolls, witches and other half-breeds. I even spotted a few faeries, who avoided me like the plague. I hadn’t seen any of the fae in the district for the past three weeks since I killed one of the Dark Arrows with my gift. They’d scattered after I’d killed their dark queen. It seemed they were only slowly returning to their city.

  “There goes the neighborhood,” exclaimed Tyrius as a growl escaped his throat.

  “Where else do you want them to go?”

  “In the ground. With worms in their bellies.”

  I hated faeries just as much as he did. But I’d prefer the fae stick to Mystic Quarter as opposed to roaming freely in the other human neighborhoods and cities. Here, I could keep my eyes on them.

  “You need to calm down, Rowyn,” commented Tyrius as he shifted around my shoulders trying to settle himself into a better position, “or you’re going to give yourself a heart attack.”

  “I. Am. Calm,” I seethed through my teeth, my anger tightening my gut until I thought I would scream.

  “Like hell you are,” Tyrius huffed. “You’re swinging your arms like a soldier and I can see the steam shooting out of your ears. You need to relax your ass, woman. I know this sucks—”

  “No. Really?” I shot back, my temples pulsing like my head was about to explode. “I never would have thought.”

  “Smart ass.” Tyrius released a long and loud sigh, his grip tightening around my right shoulder.

  “Don’t start with me, Tyrius.”

  “Don’t make me cut you, Rowyn. ‘Cause I will. Just listen. Okay?”

  A frown came over me, my gaze sliding around the cramped buildings in the district. Now that the charges of murder were reprieved and my name clear of all other accusations, I didn’t have to hide behind a hoodie or a guise. I strolled through the streets of Mystic Quarter with my usual Hunter prance—which was an I’ll-kick-your-ass-if-you-look-at-me-the-wrong-way kind of stroll.

  I wanted to kill something, and it had my adrenaline spiking through my body.

  Half-breeds walked past me, some giving me a wide berth, but most were just careful not to make eye contact. A male vampire leaned on a parked car. He was watching me like I was next on his dessert menu. His face broke into a smile, just enough to show off his pointy teeth.

  I matched his smile, my fingers brushing the hilt of my soul blade. He turned around. Oh. Well.

  “Okay, so the Legion is a bust,” said the cat, stifling my murderous thoughts as I pulled my attention away from the vampire. “We can work around that. We’ll figure something out. We always do.”

  “Right,” I answered, tense and edgy but moving my legs faster. “I’m not even sure I want their help anymore. Even if they offer it, I think we’re better off without them.”

  Tyrius moaned. “Stop being so overdramatic,” breathed the cat. “It doesn’t suit you.”

  “Says the baal demon who lives for drama.” I winced as the cat’s claws pierced into my skin.

  “Will you just shut up for a second and listen?” Tyrius growled.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No,” snapped Tyrius, his voice high with anger and irritation. “I know the only reason you came here was because you’re hoping to get into a fight. Am I right?”

  I made a face. “No, it’s not.” Damn that baal demon. This was the time when I wished
he didn’t know me so well.

  “Yes, it is,” said Tyrius. “Who do you think you’re talking to? I know when you’re lying. I know you, Rowyn Sinclair. You did the exact same thing to Mike Skiroski when you were thirteen. You picked the first dude who looked at you the wrong way—and wham! Down he went. The poor bastard’s only crime was he had a crush on you. Still, you kicked his ass. This isn’t going to help anyone. If you start beating up half-breeds… hell… you just got your life and reputation back. Don’t screw this up.”

  “I won’t.” I threw my gaze around, looking at the adjacent buildings to make sure I was going to the right way. Once I’d confirmed we were, I walked faster.

  I needed to reel in my emotions and think of something else. I needed to focus, to put all my attention on what really mattered right now, which was how Layla and I were to survive Lucian without the Legion’s help.

  And I knew just the remedy to make me feel a hell of a lot better.

  My boots clanked as I walked past a tangle of buildings all strewn together as though from lack of space. A sign over a decrepit two-story building that looked like it had seen many fires read THE WICKED WITCH BREWERY. STOP IN FOR A PINT AND A SPELL!

  Perfect.

  “You think they’ve got chicken wings in there,” questioned Tyrius. “I’m starving.”

  “They’ve got wings,” I commented with a tight smile as I made my way towards the pub. “Just not sure they’re chicken.”

  I felt Tyrius shrug against my neck. “Who cares. If it tastes like chicken… it’s chicken.”

  My boots thumped on the cement entrance as I walked up to the heavy wooden door with a doorknocker in the form of a screaming witch’s head, her face screwed up in pain and torment. Nice.

  I pulled open the door and stepped into the pub.

  3

  The witch pub was like all other pubs in Mystic Quarter—packed with all matter of half-breeds. Vampires, werewolves, faeries, trolls, gnomes, gremlins, and leprechauns were strewn about the space. I even spotted a cluster of pixies who took turns sipping out of a straw from an orange-looking substance at the bar.

  Though this was my first time stepping inside this particular pub, it had the same stink of beer, piss, and sulfur mixed with the lingering aroma of old vomit. But if you excluded the vomit, it was just dandy. Perfect for a quick meal and a pint of their own brewed beer.

  “Nothing like the smell of piss and beer to get your appetite going,” said Tyrius, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. “You think they have pie?”

  I tried hard not to laugh. I didn’t want to draw any misguided attention to myself right now because first, well, that would be bad. And second, I was still resisting the urge to kill something.

  A long gleaming wooden bar stood on the far left of the pub, fitted with barstools, and on each stool sat a half-breed. The windows were smeared with a thick film of black paint, blocking out most of the light from the streetlamps. The only illumination came from the fixtures on the ceiling that spilled a feeble green glow.

  I wasn’t surprised to see that the pub’s waitresses were witches, even the ones working behind the bar, and they were all female. I recognized the scent of earth, pine and vinegar as I moved past them.

  This was a witch pub, and unlike the other pubs, the witches didn’t need iron cuffs to dull the demon magic and energies, keeping grumpy witches and other half-breed from dueling in spells and incantations. No, here, they’d just magic your ass out.

  The chatter of half-breeds in the pub changed when they caught sight of me, and I didn’t make any eye contact as I worked my way deeper into the pub. The barmaid’s ebony-colored skin was a sharp contrast to her green metallic bustier as her long, elegant arms slung drinks along the bar. She worked with an amazing efficiency—probably helped along by a little magic, no doubt.

  Seeing one of the booths along the darkened windows empty, I made for it. Tyrius leapt off my shoulder and landed with a soft pad on the table. I let myself fall on the orange, faux-leather seat and stretched out my legs.

  I’d barely had time to pick up a menu, which was in the shape of a cauldron, when a witch bumped her hip on the corner of our table.

  “What’ll it be?” she asked, her dark eyes staring at me intensely. She was short and plump with a mane of glistening black hair that reached her waist, which almost had me drooling. She looked about fifty and smelled of witch, but I couldn’t easily tell whether she was a white witch or a dark one with so many different smells conflicting my senses in this place. The casual flick of her gaze to the soul blades on my hips told me she knew who I was, but she didn’t move, her gaze expectant and professional. She was treating me like… a real customer.

  I liked her immediately.

  Tyrius padded over to the edge of the table and looked up at the witch, his tail swishing behind him like a happy puppy. “What’s tonight’s special?”

  Her eyes widened at the sight of Tyrius, but her casual smile told me she was used to baal demons. “Toad noodle soup as a starter. With a serving of blood pudding.”

  Tyrius screwed up his face, the disappointment clear as rain. “You have any chicken wings?” he asked with such eagerness that the waitress’ lips parted in a little “o.”

  “No,” she said, “but our barbecue frog legs are really popular. Taste just like real chicken.”

  Tyrius’s ears perked up and he beamed. “Then I’ll have two plates, thank you.”

  The witch turned to me. “And you? What’ll you have.”

  “You have regular fries?” I asked and the witch nodded. “I’ll have some fries and a pint of whatever beer you have on tap.”

  “Moonshine, Witch’s Brew or Black Cauldron?”

  “Witch’s Brew,” I answered, thinking it was the only one that sounded remotely like a normal beer.

  Our witch waitress turned and wandered back towards the kitchen, just as my stomach growled.

  “Damn, woman,” said Tyrius and he laughed. “You got an alien baby in there I don’t know about?”

  I laughed. “Dumb ass. You should talk. Frog legs? Really? They could be rat legs for all you know.” I smiled, leaning forward and added, “Or cat legs—”

  “Rowyn!”

  I turned to see Layla and Danto approaching our booth. Layla, her lean and voluptuous body clad in a red leather outfit, sashayed her way over, looking dangerous and sexy. She was grinning, her eyes gleaming with a wild excitement. Danto, in his polished refinement, looked exactly as he always did—like the all the Goddesses in the world got together and molded him to their idea of perfection. He looked dignified and elegant in his black pants, matching shirt and glossy black shoes. He was a damn fine vampire, and he ruined it for all the other male species.

  “I didn’t know you guys would be here,” said Layla as she scooted herself in the seat opposite me, Danto sliding in next to her.

  “We didn’t either,” expressed Tyrius, his eyes towards the bar as he licked his lips.

  I gave Layla a warm smile. “We were thirsty.”

  “And hungry,” offered the cat.

  “We were just on our way out, but I’m glad we ran into to you,” said the pretty Unmarked. Her eyes widened. “What happened with the angel-borns? Did you speak to the angels? I can’t believe you can speak to a real angel. It’s crazy.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice, “What did they say about… about you know… the one with the red eyes?”

  My sudden small bubble of elation burst. “I didn’t speak to them.”

  A frown creased Layla’s delicate forehead. “Why not?” She pushed back into her seat, fumbling with a napkin. “Don’t tell me they refused to hear you. Because if that’s the case, I’m going to make them listen.”

  “Oh, they heard her all right.” Tyrius laughed bitterly. He pulled his gaze from the bar to look at Layla. “And the idiots just gave her a number.”

  Layla’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

  “It’s true,” I said, feeling heat rise from m
y neck to my face as the anger over my current troubles came crashing back. “They gave me a number. And when my number’s up, they’ll convene and decide whether or not to help me.”

  My gaze flicked to Danto. The vampire was leaning back into his seat, avoiding everyone’s eyes. He hadn’t said a word yet. But Layla thought about it, her expression irate and her fingers finally leaving her napkin.

  “What do we do if they don’t help us?” she asked, a thread of her eagerness to cause trouble coloring her voice. “How are we going to protect ourselves when he comes back?”

  I shifted in my seat. Lucian was coming for us. And when he did, we’d have nothing to protect ourselves. Damn. This was really not my day.

  My eyes fell on Danto again. It wasn’t like him not to ask questions and get involved, or speak for that matter. He’d certainly been very interested in my going to see the angel-born when I’d told him about it. Now he looked gloomier than usual, which was something I hadn’t seen since he and Layla had hooked up. What was wrong with him? I recognized that silence and somber expression. They’d had a fight. Possibly just a few moments ago. Oh. Dear. Though, it did pique my curiosity.

  “Food’s here!” Tyrius said, sounding relieved as he bounced up and down on the table and then moved back to make room for his meal.

  “Two orders of barbecued frog legs, one order of fries and a pint of Witch’s Brew,” said our witch waitress, setting a plate topped with fries and a pint of very dark beer before me. She placed a very large plate heaped with finger-sized, grayish, twig-like meats before Tyrius.

  The baal demon had his head already in his plate. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said between chews. “Hey, it does taste like chicken!”

  The witch smiled, her eyes flicking to Layla and Danto. “Do you two want anything else?” Her eyes settled on Danto, but Layla answered.

  “No. We were just leaving.”

  I paid for our food and drink and watched the waitress wander back to the kitchen. For a moment, there was silence except for the cacophony of voices swirling around us as we all lost ourselves in the diversion of sitting somewhere other than in my car.

  With my hand pressed against the cold glass, I took a sip of my beer and smacked my lips. “Hmmm. This is good beer.”