by Joy Nash
Lucky looked around. “Are you alone in here?”
“Not any longer.”
The angel fell flat on his back, laughing. “You’re so funny,” he said, popping back up again. “What’s your name?”
“Maweth.”
“Maweth? That’s a funny name. Except...” Lucky’s forehead wrinkled. “Wait a minute. Doesn’t that mean d—”
“Death.” It just figured the first spark of intelligence Lucky exhibited would go there. “Yes. Yes, it does. That’s exactly what it means.”
“But—you’re not dead. You’re alive.”
“Not really,” Maweth said. “I exist. That’s not exactly the same thing as being alive. I’m a demon, you see.”
The angel’s eyes went round, like two shiny blue marbles. “A demon? I know about demons. They consort with evil people and get them to commit even worse sins. They’re big, mean, and—” He brought his hands up to his forehead and wiggled his index fingers. “—they have horns. But—” The little angel lowered his hands and blinked. “You don’t have horns.”
“Yeah,” Maweth said. “I guess I’m different that way.”
“But—you just can’t be a demon. You’re nice!”
Maweth rolled his eyes. That old stereotype again. “What law says demons can’t be nice?”
“Um...celestial law?”
“A bunch of xenophobic bullshit, celestial law is.” Suddenly incensed, Maweth jumped to his feet. “I’m telling you, demons are as nice as the next guy. Or at least,” he amended, “we can be, when we want to.”
Lucky looked up at him a little uncertainly. “If you say so. But you do wear an awful lot of black.”
“It’s just a color.”
“Not a very friendly color.” His brow furrowed. “And your face looks kinda like a skull.”
“Not my fault,” Maweth said with a scowl. “I am what I am. Not everyone can be pretty like you.”
Lucky’s wings perked up. “You think I’m pretty?”
Give me strength. “Of course I think you’re pretty. Because you are pretty. By any objective standard ever conceived.”
“Oh. Thanks, I guess.” His cheeks puffed out. “So, then. If you’re Death, does that mean you kill people?”
Oh for the love of— Maweth threw up his hands. “Why,” he complained loudly, “does everyone always assume that?”
“Um...because it’s logical? By any objective standard ever conceived?”
Maweth doubted the dimwitted cherub would recognize a logical construct if it flew up to his face and punched him in the nose. Lucky did, however, have an impish sense of humor. Maweth liked him all the better for that.
“No,” he said. “It’s not logical, because it’s not true. I don’t go around killing people. That’s a vicious human lie.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really. The truth is just the opposite. The human race created me.”
Lucky’s eyes widened again. “They did? Why?”
“To cover their tracks. They ate some stupid apple and death was created. The next thing you know, they invented me, the personification of death, and blamed me for the whole sorry episode.” Maweth made a sound of derision. “And you know what? They’ve treated me like bull crap ever since. They curse me, defy me, avoid me, run from me, and fight me. Oh, sure, some of them actually come looking for me, but only because they think I can solve all their problems. As if I could.” He turned and slammed his fist against the wall.
“Ouch.” He shook his hand. “It’s so unfair. Humanity pulled the whole Grim Reaper mythos out of its collective behind. And now, because of them, I’m stuck here in this blasted mirror.”
Lucky blinked three times, his long eyelashes fluttering. Otherwise, he seemed unfazed by Maweth’s outburst. “Um...how?”
“How what?”
“How is it because of humans that you’re stuck in a mirror?”
Maweth slumped against the wall. “Because of the rotten reputation they’ve pinned on me. That’s why the Nephil wanted me.”
“A Nephil?” Lucky blinked. “I know about Nephilim.”
“Do you?” Maweth snorted. “Then you should know to stay away from them, for crying out loud. Soulless beings with no hope of an afterlife tend to get crazy ideas. The one who caught me—Dusek—wants to live forever. He thought imprisoning me would do the trick.” Maweth snorted. “Idiot. Doesn’t work that way.”
“The Nephilim are bad people,” Lucky said. “Very bad.”
“Well, I don’t know if all of them are bad.” As a victim of prejudice himself, Maweth always strove to give the other guy the benefit of the doubt. “I only know the one. And yes, he’s a rotten bastard. Dusek is the Alchemist clan alpha. His ancestor is the Watcher Azazel.”
Lucky nodded vigorously. “I know about Azazel, too. He’s the fallen angel who invented war. Raphael banished him from Earth. Forever.”
“Too bad he didn’t banish all Azazel’s descendants while he was at it. Dusek’s a creep. And don’t get me started on that ring he wears.”
“What’s wrong with his ring?”
“It’s made of alchemic gold. It focuses his magic. It’s got a face instead of a stone. A face that looks just like him.”
“That sounds creepy.”
“Creepy doesn’t begin to describe it. The face moves. Blinks its eyes and opens its mouth. It’s like the thing’s alive.” He shuddered. “Maybe it is.”
Maweth pushed off the wall and onto his feet. “So. Delightful as it’s been chatting with you, you probably should be going.”
Blink. Blink. Sparkle. “Oh, really? Why?”
“Are you serious? Because of Dusek. He can’t see into the mirror, but even so, you don’t want to be here when he shows up.”
“Oh.” Lucky looked around doubtfully. “But...are you sure? I hate to leave you here all alone.”
“I’ll manage,” Maweth told him. “Just go.”
“Well...all right. If you really insist.”
“I really do.”
Lucky zipped into the air. For a moment, he hovered. Were those tears in his blue eyes? Ridiculous. “Good-bye.”
Maweth’s eyes felt funny, too. He made a shooing motion with his hands. “Go.”
The cherub nodded. With a buzz of iridescent wings, he sped toward the surface of the mirror. The quicksilver bent like a trampoline, then, with a pop! Lucky went through.
Maweth sighed and flopped down on his back. Strangely, he was already missing the little—
The quicksilver bowed inward. Pop! The cherub reappeared. He swooped down to the bottom of the mirror and flopped down on his chubby butt.
“Hi again,” he said.
Maweth couldn’t believe it. “What are you doing?” he exclaimed. “Why are you back?”
“Well,” Lucky said. “About that. I decided I don’t want to go yet. You’re too lonely.”
“But...I’m used to being lonely,” Maweth said, more than a little nonplussed. Lucky was worried about his feelings? How unspeakably sweet. A warm glow expanded in his chest.
He squelched the heat. “Look, you have to go.”
Lucky crossed his arms. “No. I don’t think I do.”
“Of course you do!” Maweth exclaimed. “You can’t possibly stay with me.”
The angel blinked his innocent baby blues. “Oh, yes, I can.”
***
It might’ve been a damn sight better, Lucas Herne thought, if he hadn’t survived his Ordeal. And he’d tried to not survive it. He wasn’t sure which was more humiliating—that he’d attempted to die, or that he’d failed.
Or that he wasn’t—most days—sorry he’d taken the coward’s way out.
Even after all he’d been through, during his Ordeal and after, Luc didn’t quite want to be dead. It was, he supposed, only natural. A Nephil’s survival instinct was incredibly strong. When no afterlife waited on the other side of death, a person tended to cling to the few years on Earth he’d been given. Much as Luc fantasized about Ob
livion—its peace, its beauty, its goddamned nothingness—he couldn’t honestly wish himself there.
He could, however, wish he’d never been born. He wished that with all his heart.
A door slammed. He turned toward the sound.
From the outside, Mab’s warehouse looked like a tumbledown wreck. It could’ve been a barn thrown up some fifty years ago and since forgotten. The structure stood on a slight rise of land, surrounded by swamp.
It was easy to imagine a stiff wind knocking the place over flat. The illusion was that good. Rotting wood and peeling shingles were, in actuality, concrete and metal. The sagging doors were reinforced steel, guarded by both Druid wardings and an excellent human alarm system.
Two men emerged from the warehouse, carrying the last of the cargo. Dressed in camo gear with AK-47s slung across their backs, they looked like bad news on its way. Luc wasn’t impressed. Arms crossed, he watched the pair stow the merchandise in the back of a dirty white van. Two dozen 19-kilo bags of turf fertilizer, the kind commonly sold at any home and garden chain retailer. At least that was what the printing on the bags said.
The payment, tight rolls of hundreds stashed in a black backpack, lay on the ground at Luc’s feet. The boss of the two—Luc knew him only as Buzzard—was a ridiculously overstated character: massive biceps, shaved head, a jaw that could cut steel. He carried, Luc estimated, seven hidden weapons in addition to the semi-automatic in full sight.
Luc, by contrast, was unarmed. And alone. He felt not the slightest trepidation. The van’s tailgate slammed. Buzzard gave Luc a curt nod. The man was no idiot—he’d been buying from Mab for a couple years now. Luc didn’t think Buzzard quite knew who—or what—he was dealing with, but he knew very well where a fight would get him. He climbed into the driver’s seat without a word.
The other idiot—a strutting fool with more hat than cattle—didn’t have the sense of a frog. Instead of heading straight to the passenger door, he stopped, turned, and pointed his weapon at Luc’s head.
Luc raised his eyebrows.
“Throw the pack this way,” he said. “Nice and easy.”
Luc didn’t move.
“Now, I said.” The rifle’s muzzle jumped. “Or I’ll—”
“Hornet!” Buzzard leaned out the van door. “Get in the fucking van!”
“In a minute. After I get what I want.”
“Fuck, no. We talked about this. Don’t piss him—”
Buzzard’s warning was lost in a barrage of rifle shot. Luc felt each bullet strike—most of them in his chest and stomach, one in his right shoulder, a couple in his limbs. One dead center in his forehead, which hurt like a motherfucker. The rest weren’t much more bother than blackflies.
Magazine exhausted, Hornet stood, chest heaving, mouth agape. Far from falling down dead in a puddle of his own blood, Luc was still standing and hadn’t moved so much as an inch.
“Wha—?”
Buzzard was out of the van, arm half-extended, eyes darting nervously between Hornet and Luc. His face flushed beet red. “Damn it, man, I’m sorry. Hornet shouldn’t’a done that. But fuck it, he’s new, he don’t know—”
He cut off as Luc’s eyes swung toward him. Swallowing hard, Buzzard inched backward, feeling behind him for the van door. Once he located it, he scrambled into the van, slammed the door, and cranked the engine.
Blood dripped from the holes in Luc’s body. It trickled downward, staining his shirt and jeans. He looked up. Anger colored his vision. The bayou took on a red cast. His skin tingled, dark opal lights gliding just under the surface. His demon nature was rising.
He did nothing to stop it.
Buzzard’s tail lights disappeared around a curve, the squeal of his spinning wheels swallowed up by cypress, moss, and mud. Hornet jerked his head back toward Luc. Luc’s wings unfurled, ripping through the t-shirt he hadn’t bothered to take off. The shredded cotton cloth fell away. Hornet’s jaw went slack. A violent shudder passed through him.
“Holy fuck. What are you?”
His legs gave out. He fell on his knees in the dirt, trembling hands extended. A gagging sound emerged from his throat. The stupid slob was trying to beg. Or, maybe, pray. Hell of a lot of good either would do him.
If he’d had any balls at all, he would’ve taken off into the swamp. No one was stopping him. Not that he would’ve gotten far. In Mab’s playbook, one strike and you were out. Permanently.
Luc probably should feel sorry for the poor bastard. He didn’t. He hadn’t felt much of anything—other than self-loathing—since his Ordeal. Nothing else was left. Nothing but the weight of wood and stone around his neck.
Arthur had warned him. Luc hadn’t believed him. He’d believed Mab when she’d told him he’d stand as her equal.
He’d been a fucking fool.
He eyed Hornet. The man was curled up tight, blubbering like a goddamned infant. He sobbed harder as Luc approached. Hardly worth the trouble of killing, but the trouble Luc would bring down on his own head if he let this pitiful excuse for a human escape wasn’t something Luc wished to contemplate. He leaned down and grasped the dealer’s ears with both hands. Lifting the asshole’s head a couple feet off the ground, he gave his neck a tidy twist.
His legs kicked. Luc let go. For a moment the body teetered, as if wondering which way it should fall. It decided on face-forward in the mud.
Fool should’ve run. Or at least screamed. Should’ve fought like a madman for every damn second separating his miserable life from Hell. What was that poem Arthur was so goddamned fond of?
Rage, rage against the dying of the light...
Luc nudged the corpse with his boot, heaving it over onto its back. Hornet’s mud-caked face bore an expression of imbecilic surprise. Had he really thought death so unlikely? He was a drug dealer, for fuck’s sake. He should’ve been expecting it.
Luc flicked his wrists, calling his hellfire. Sparks of green gathered in his palms. One good blast combusted the corpse. Flesh and bone burned, until all that was left of Hornet’s sorry-ass life was a heap of muddy ash.
Luc stared at the remains for a long moment. Eventually, he came back to his surroundings. Insects buzzed, frogs croaked. He looked down at his body. The bleeding had stopped. The wounds were already scabbing over. Pain—at least the physical variety—was gone.
How many humans had he killed in the past couple weeks? Ten? Fifty? How many of those had he mauled, before disgust had overwhelmed his bloodlust? It hardly mattered. He was Mab’s weapon now, whether she stood beside him or on the other side of the Earth.
He stood beneath the branches of a water oak. A faint rustle sounded above him. Fuck. He closed his eyes and let his demon body fade.
When he was fully human again, he opened his eyes. Without looking up, he said, “Get down here, Zephyr.”
A skinny teenaged girl, all long limbs and awkward grace, immediately dropped from above. She landed on her feet without so much as a stumble. Flipping a thick auburn braid over her shoulder, she peered up at him. “How’d you know it was me?”
He regarded his half-sister with exasperation. “What other dormant could spy without me noticing?”
“Cybele.”
Luc flinched. Of course, Cybele. Cybele was the reason Zephyr was so stealthy—Luc’s twin had been giving clandestine magic lessons to their half-sister for a year or more, since the first flashes of the girl’s magic appeared. Now that Luc was Mab’s thrall, this was dangerous knowledge for him to have. Mab had been furious when Cybele disappeared without a trace. If the alpha discovered Zephyr’s magic promised to be almost as strong...
Luc scowled. “Damn it, girl, you shouldn’t be following me. Not during a pickup. Those men would kill you soon as look at you.” After they raped her, but he didn’t add that.
“Those two? Come on. If you couldn’t tell I was here, they sure couldn’t. Besides,” she added, “you wouldn’t’ve let them hurt me.”
Damn right. He’d’ve murdered both of them just for
looking at her. “You shouldn’t be out here. Where’s Auster?” Auster was Zephyr’s twin.
She made a sound of derision. “Playing video games. It’s all he ever does anymore.” Her brows drew together. “I’m bored without Cybele here.” She watched him closely. “Know where she is?”
“No. And I don’t want to.”
Her green eyes, so like Cybele’s, betrayed her fear. “She went after Arthur, didn’t she?”
Luc let out a long breath. “I reckon she did.”
“Think she found him? You think he’s even alive?”
“I have no idea. Come on. Let’s get out of here. You shouldn’t have seen me kill that human.”
“Maybe not.” Zephyr looked older suddenly, well beyond her thirteen years. “But...I’m glad you killed him. He was horrible. And I’m glad I finally got to talk to you. I’ve missed you. I was afraid when you came back, you wouldn’t care anymore.”
“Of course I still care,” Luc said. “About you and about Cybele.” And that was the truth, he realized with a start. Maybe his emotions weren’t quite as dead and buried as he thought. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.
A shadow passed overhead. He looked up sharply. Three dark shapes glided above the trees. His heart plummeted.
Zephyr’s gaze followed his. Color drained from her face, rendering her freckles even more prominent against her pale skin. “Mab’s back,” she whispered. “With Rand and Hunter.”
Luc jerked his head toward the house. “Go. Now.”
He didn’t have to tell her twice. With a frightened glance skyward, Zephyr ducked into the vegetation and scampered away, cloaking her path with illusion as she ran. He wished he could follow. But for Luc, escape was impossible.
He was Mab’s thrall. There wasn’t enough world in which to hide from her.
FIVE
A man lay in the grassy verge, his head a few feet from the rest of his body. He’d been a big bloke, middle aged and round-faced. A laborer with muscular chest and arms, and a stomach running to fat. Now the bloody mess of his muscles and sinew spilled across the road. One leg had been mauled quite thoroughly. The femur bone had been broken and its marrow sucked out.