Flaming Dove

by Daniel Arenson

  She began tossing sand onto the flames that shielded Beelzebub and Laila. Her angel troops helped, but could do little to stifle those flames. Horror burned inside Bat El, for she knew now that Laila had not come here for Zarel. It was not the Demon Queen she had emerged to face. Why couldn't you run, Laila? Why couldn't you just flee to the forest? She kept tossing sand into the fire.

  With a crackle and burst of smoke, the fires suddenly guttered, flickered, and died. Bat El blinked, the smoke and heat blinding her. When she could see again, she froze, unable to move. The crowds too froze, gasped, and stood staring. Beelzebub, King of Hell, and Laila, daughter of Lucifer, lay in a pool of blood. Beelzebub lay on his back, eyes staring toward the sky, unblinking, lifeless. Laila lay against him, as if they were lovers in sleep, embraced. Blood flowed from Laila's chest.

  A sob fled Bat El's lips. For a moment it seemed that Laila too was dead, but then Bat El saw the half-breed's lips moving, whispering. Her halo of fire guttered like a dying candle. She's still alive.

  The angels and demons stared from a distance, not daring to approach. Bat El alone rushed to Laila's side. She knelt by her half-sister, weeping. Blood covered Laila's breast, soaking her clothes. More blood stained her pale, ashy face, and her black hair clung to her brow with sweat.

  "Laila," Bat El said, "I'm here."

  Laila tried to whisper, but her words were silent. Bat El placed her arm under Laila and cradled her, holding cloth against her wounds. The cloth turned red.

  "My baby sister," she said, "you're going to be okay. I'm going to heal you."

  Laila lay in Bat El's arms, her skin so pale, her eyes unfocused, her hair damp with sweat and blood. The half-demon blinked weakly and struggled to raise her hand, to place it in Bat El's palm. She opened her lips and tried to talk, but no sound came out. She coughed, then managed to whisper. "Is Volkfair okay?"

  Bat El turned her head and looked. The great black wolf was dead, pierced with shrapnel and demon claws, burned with fire. She nodded. "Volkfair is fine," she said to Laila. "We healed him."

  "But you cannot heal me," Laila said, skin white, lips colorless, eyes glassy. "I am banished from Heaven. Demon blood flows through my veins and out of my wounds. Forever has God's grace passed over me, and forever would the healing godlight be forbidden to me."

  Bat El wept. She could say nothing. Bat El had always been able to heal her brethren, to wash away the wounds of this war with godlight and piousness, but Laila spoke truth. Here lay one whom God's love would not heal. She kept her hands pressed against Laila's wounds, the blood trickling between her fingers, mingling with her tears.

  Laila turned her head weakly, staring toward Michael with blurred eyes. "Michael," she whispered. "Come to me, please."

  The archangel stood between the ancient ruins, arms crossed, gazing upon the scene. He hesitated a moment, then stepped forward and knelt by Laila, the fire of her guttering halo reflecting in his armor. He clasped Laila's hand. Her clawed, pale hand seemed so small in his large, calloused one.

  "Laila," he said softly.

  She licked her lips. "Take Earth," she said to him. "I give it to you. Make it a good place for Volkfair to live. Give him a forest, where he can run and hunt and be as a king. Michael—"

  But Laila said no more. Her breath died, her eyes stilled, and it seemed to Bat El that, for the first time, peace flowed over her sister.

  Bat El let her chin fall to her chest, and she wept, her hair covering her face, Laila in her arms.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Upon the Mount of Olives they stood, rows of angels, thousands of them, the sunlight glinting against their iron armor and spearheads. Around them flowed the ruins of Jerusalem, biblical ruins kindled with sunlight, weedy, fluttering with birds. The city was quiet today, and even the birds seemed subdued, as if they too knew to grieve. For thousands of years had the living buried the dead upon this hill, from ancient days when olive trees grew here, to this war of Heaven and Hell. We bury this war here today too, Bat El thought, among the countless bodies.

  They carried Laila's body upon a wooden litter, wrapped in white shrouds. A soldier's funeral. Dressed in unadorned white, her hair hidden in a cowl, Bat El carried one end of the litter, staring forward blankly, feet silent upon the pebbly path that led to the grave. Michael carried the other end of the litter, dressed in his ancient armor, a white rose pinned to his breast, Heaven's flower of mourning. They bore the litter between the rows of angels, the sunlight on them.

  They reached the grave, dug by an olive sprig. Once olive trees had covered these hills, burned away in war. They will grow again, Bat El thought. She and Michael lifted Laila to place her underground, by the body of her wolf. She felt so light in Bat El's arms. As they tossed soil into the grave, Bat El stared down with dry eyes, watching the earth cover Laila's shroud. She had no tears left.

  "Let a soul torn in half, outcast among the living, rest now in the silence of peace," she whispered. "May angel wings and godlight, forbidden in your life, carry you to your endless sleep. Goodbye, Laila, princess of the night."

  A tear then did run down her cheek, and Bat El lowered her head and closed her eyes. You won't feel torn anymore, Laila. You'll never feel pain or fear again.

  Bat El walked alone that afternoon through the silent, still streets of Jerusalem. No more demons filled this city, and no more ash covered the sky. Flowers grew between cracked cobblestones, birds sang, and weeds grew from the walls. She had the city to herself, and Bat El wandered the ancient streets, the biblical walls, these old hills. She remembered her first days in this city, seeking Laila through streets where demons roamed, troops of angels at her sides. Most of those angels were dead now. Nathaniel was gone, so was Raphael. The demons had taken Beelzebub underground, to bury him in Hell.

  So many gone.

  Bat El lowered her head. "Goodbye, Beelzebub," she whispered. "Goodbye, Laila." The two loves of her life, taken from her in one day. Bat El sat down on a fallen wall, looking up at the sunlight, the birds who flew from ruins to ruins, pecking for seeds.

  That night, she stood with Michael on the wall of the Crusader fort, staring to the sea. The demons were gone from the fort, but to Bat El, it would forever be the place where Beelzebub imprisoned her, then loved her. The waves rolled against the beach, whispering in the darkness. The wind from the sea blew salt against Bat El's lips, brought a chill to her bones, and ruffled her hair. She wrapped her swan wings around her for warmth. Michael stood by her, for once not wearing his armor, his lance gone. The flames had washed away from the world. The forces of Hell had retreated into their pits to mourn their master. Heaven had won its war, but to Bat El, the world seemed more horrible than ever, more frightening and cold. For a long time, she stood silently by Michael, watching the waves.

  "So what now?" she finally asked. "We usher in an era of peace and beauty and holiness to Earth? An era with no demons or evil?"

  Michael sighed. He stared into the sea, and was silent for so long, that Bat El thought he would not respond. He looked so much like his brother to her. When he finally spoke, his voice was so low, she had to lean toward him to hear. "Do you really believe that, Bat El?"

  She raised her eyebrows. "Of course I do. That's what we always fought for, for twenty-seven years here on Earth, for thousands of years since Lucifer's rebellion, for thousands of years since the first sins of mankind. Now is our time to bring in truth and light and build the kingdom of God on Earth." Her eyes were moist. "What else have so many died for?"

  Michael smiled, then sighed again, his smile gone as fast as it had come. He placed a hand on her shoulder and looked down at her. "Bat El, Laila was never Lucifer's daughter. I lied to you."

  She stared at him. Her heart thumped, and a tremble took her knees. "What do you mean?"

  He looked back toward the sea. The waves were almost invisible in the night; Bat El could see only crests of foam where starlight caught them. Michael placed his hands against the fort's crenell
ations, lowering his head. "I'm sorry, Bat El. I know my story hurt you and many people. Laila was your full sister, born of both your mother and father. She was purely of Heaven, and no demon blood ever flowed through her."

  Bat El's head spun, and the fort seemed to sway beneath her. She too placed her hands against the battlements, for fear that she'd fall. She laughed mirthlessly. "You're crazy, Michael. Have you seen Laila? Bat wings grew from her back, like a demon's. Fire burned in her eyes and haloed her brow. Evil filled my sister, alongside her goodness. How could demon blood not have been in her?"

  "Was there demon blood in Beelzebub? In Lucifer?" Michael shook his head. "Angels too, they were; angels who turned evil, fallen and banished. Laila was born with bat wings. She was born with fangs and claws, born different than other angels. The godlight burned her. So we made up a story, to protect our vision of what Heaven should be, to maintain our purity in the eyes of Earth and Hell. We lied. We said that it was Lucifer who fathered her when he raped your mother. It was easiest for everyone to believe. So we hid the truth."

  Bat El was crying now, trembling, weeping like she could not when they buried her sister. She wrapped her arms around Michael and cried against his chest. "And what is the truth?" she said, tears on her cheeks and lips.

  Michael took a long breath. "That there is evil inside all of us, inside of me, inside of you, inside all angels." He stroked her hair. "A kingdom of godlight and piousness? There is no good and evil, Bat El; only men, demons, and angels trying to make sense of a big mess."

  The waves whispered over the sand and lapped the boulders below. The clouds moved in the wind, and Bat El saw the stars, their light gentle, glistening against the water. Suddenly the starlight seemed so bright to her, she ached. She did not think she could bear it.

  She stared at the waves, haunted, numb. Michael took her hand. "Let's go back inside, Bat El," he said. "We'll have some brandy. Let's go back home."

  * * * * *

  It began to rain. Michael lit a fire in the fireplace, then poured himself and Bat El glasses of brandy. They sat at his oak desk, listening to the fire and rain. Bat El held her glass with both hands, looking at the golden spirits, not drinking.

  This is where I first told Michael that my sister returned to Jerusalem, she remembered. Here is where this all started, and here it ends, in this room of lies and secrets.

  "Michael," she said quietly, looking into her glass. She licked her lips.

  "Yes, Bat El?" He sat looking into the flames.

  Bat El ran her fingers around her glass, then placed them on her belly. "What would a real half-breed be like? A child born of an angel mother, whose father truly was the demon lord of Hell?"

  He looked up at her, raising his eyebrows. He shrugged. "I don't know. I don't think I want to know. Why do you ask?"

  She looked at him. "Michael... I'm pregnant."

  Afterword

  Dear reader,

  Thank you for sharing this story with me. I hope that it entertained, excited, and maybe even moved you. I hope you feel that it was worth the money and time you spent on it.

  If you do, please tell your friends—talk about Flaming Dove on Facebook, your blog, Amazon, or just over your backyard fence. Thank you!

  If you're looking for something new to read, you can try my other fantasy novels:

  Firefly Island tells the story of Aeolia, a slave girl with psychic powers.

  The Gods of Dream tells of Dream, the world good dreams come from, and its war against the kingdom of Nightmare.

  Eye of the Wizard is a fantasy adventure full of swords, spells, and skeletons.

  Feel free to email me your thoughts. My email is Daniel@DanielArenson.com. I look forward to hearing from you. I'm glad we spent this time together, and I hope to meet you again between the pages of another book.

  Daniel

  Acknowledgements

  I'd like to thank a few people for their help with Flaming Dove.

  Thank you, Elvira Orlando, for reading the early draft, encouraging me to publish it, and helping with every step along the way.

  Thank you, Janelle DeCelis, for your thoughts on the rough draft, and for long conversations about the characters.

  Thank you, Timothy Lantz, for your beautiful cover art.

  Thank you, Mark Prins, for your thorough edit of the manuscript.

  Thank you, beta readers Jo-Anne Odell and Brenda Gath.

  For help getting that first chapter just right, thank you Charlene, David, Kristin, Mike, Mindy, Ori, Rebecca, and Tullio.

  A DANCE OF CLOAKS

  by

  David Dalglish

  If you enjoyed Flaming Dove by Daniel Arenson, you'll enjoy A Dance of Cloaks, a new fantasy novel by David Dalglish.

  Thren Felhorn is the greatest assassin of his time. Marshalling the guilds under his control, he declares war against an allegiance of powerful nobles. His son, Aaron, has been groomed since birth to be his heir. Sent to kill the daughter of a priest, Aaron instead risks his own life to protect her from the wrath of his guild. In doing so, he glimpses a world beyond the iron control of his father.

  Here's a preview from A Dance of Cloaks:

  For the past two weeks the simple building had been his safehouse, but now Thren Felhorn doubted its safety as he limped through the door. He clutched his right arm to his muscular body and fought to halt its trembling. Blood ran from his shoulder to his arm, cut by a blade poisoned with a potent toxin.

  "Damn you, Leon," he said as he staggered across the wood floor, through a sparsely decorated room, and up to a wall made of plaster and oak. Even with his blurred vision he had little difficulty locating the slight groove with his fingers. He pressed inward, detaching an iron lock on the other side of the wall. A small door swung inward.

  The powerful master of the Spider Guild collapsed in a chair and removed his gray hood and cloak. He sat in a much larger room painted silver and decorated with pictures of mountains and fields. Slowly he removed his shirt, being extra careful pulling it over his wounded arm. He felt lucky the toxin was meant only to paralyze him. Most likely Leon Connington had wanted him alive so he could sit in his padded chair and watch while his ‘gentle touchers' bled him drop by bloody drop. The fat man's treacherous words from their meeting ignited a fire in his gut that refused to fade.

  "We will not cower to rats that live off our shit," Leon had said while brushing his thin mustache. "Do you really think you stand a chance against the wealth of the Trifect? We could buy your soul from the gods."

  Thren had fought down his initial impulse to bury a shortsword in the fat man's throat. A terrible mistake in hindsight. They had met inside his extravagant mansion, another mistake. Thren vowed to correct his carelessness in the coming months. He had tried to stop the war from erupting, but it appeared everyone in Veldaren desired chaos.

  If the city wants blood, it can have it, Thren thought. But it won't be mine.

  "Are you in here, father?" he heard his elder son ask from an adjacent room. Thren held his anger in check.

  "And if I was not?" he asked.

  His son Randith entered from the other room. He looked much like his father, having the same sharp features, thin nose, and grim smile. His hair was brown like his mother's, and that alone endeared him to Thren. They both wore the gray trousers and cloaks of their guild. A long rapier hung from one side of his belt, a dagger from the other. Randith's blue eyes met his father's.

  "Then I'd kill you," Randith said, a cocky grin pulling up the left side of his face.

  "Where is the mage?" the guildmaster asked. "Connington's men cut me with a toxin, and its effect is troublesome."

  Troublesome hardly described it, but Thren wouldn't let his son know that. His flight from the mansion was a blur in his memory. The toxin had numbed his arm and made his entire side sting with pain. His neck muscles had fired off at random, and one of his knees kept locking up during his run. He had felt like a cripple as he fled through the alleyways of Veldare
n, but thankfully the moon was waning and the streets empty, so none had seen his pathetic stumbling.

  "Cregon isn't here," Randith said as he leaned toward his father's exposed shoulder and examined the cut.

  "Then go find him," Thren said. "And where is Senke? He was supposed to bring me word from Gemcroft."

  "Maynard Gemcroft's men fired arrows from their windows as we approached," Randith said. He turned his back to his father and opened a few cupboards until he found a small black bottle. He popped the cork, but when he moved to pour it on his father's cut, Thren yanked the bottle out of his hand.

  "Why isn't Senke here now?" Thren asked.

  "I sent him away," Randith said. "With war brewing, I figured it best he help protect our warehouses."

  Thren grunted as he dripped the brown liquid across the cut. When finished, he accepted some strips of cloth from his son and then tied them tight around the wound.

  "You should have kept him here," Thren said when the pain subsided. "Where is Aaron? If you won't fetch the priest, at least he will."

  "Lurking as always," Randith said, contempt in his voice. "Reading, too. I tell him mercenaries may soon storm in with orders to eradicate all thief guilds, and he looks at me like I'm a lowly fishmonger mumbling about the weather."

  Thren held in a grimace. "There is a reason I am letting the priests have him. We will need their good graces whispering in the ears of the king. He must be nine, for whatever superstitious reason of theirs. It won't be long now."

  He turned his head and raised his voice.

  "Aaron! Your family needs you, now come in here."

  A short child of eight stepped into the room, clutching a worn book to his chest.

  A shame Marion never saw him grown, Thren thought. He is her son, not mine.