Alaskan Fury

by Sara King

“Oh,” he said to the door. Very carefully, he pulled his hand back from the knob. Was this the Fury’s room? Was the Fury working with the Inquisition? In its own halls? How was that possible? Did the Inquisition not notice they were dealing with an immortal? Or had it noticed something else…like how pretty a Fury’s wings were?

  Probably where they got their myths of angels, he thought. He gave the entryway a considering glance. So, a Fury dens behind this door. The spells on the lock would easily take several hours to unravel safely without a disarming mechanism of some sort, and he sincerely doubted that anyone who had taken such care in her spells would have done something that imbecilic. Still, he bent and flipped over the doormat anyway.

  No key.

  Standing again, he glanced up at the crack of the jamb overhead. All around the entry, black ropes of seiðr twined around the frame, like deadly serpents waiting for the unwary. Easily another hour or two to unravel, to do it safely. He eyed the spells, grimacing, then took three steps to the side and went through the sheetrock wall.

  The Fury’s room was perfectly organized, with every book—including some ancient tomes that looked hundreds of years old—in its proper place on a shelf, and every personal object tucked neatly into a corner or crevice. Savaxian went to the books first and, upon finding them clean of the weavings of magical snares, he pulled a couple of the older ones down, flipped their ancient pages open, and then quickly tucked them under his arm once he saw the content.

  Blood magics. Tomes on it. Only the ancients had tomes on blood-magic. Most First Lands knowledge of seiðr had been destroyed during the second-to-last human winter, yet here he was, staring at a seiðmaðr’s treasure-trove worth ten times its weight in jewels. More than that. It was priceless.

  Grabbing a blanket off of the Fury’s bed, he began piling the best-looking books into the center—then said fuck it and grabbed the rest—and then knotted it and carefully hefted the entire collection over his shoulder. He found the little Second Inquisitor kit in a drawer filled with dozens of items of magic and enchantment that left his saliva glands in overdrive. Having no more space in his blanket, he took the drawer and dumped it into a pillowcase.

  Then he went about ransacking the rest of the room, taking every object of value right down to the heat-ensorcelled quilt. By the time he staggered back out of the room—having to radically enlarge the opening in the wall to fit back through—the Fate and its femboy were gone. Stumbling under the weight of his finds, Savaxian rounded the corner in the hall and went to the open door leading to the basement.

  “Here’s your blood!” he called, lobbing the lockbox down the stairs. Then he went looking for more treasure. This place was a gold mine. Every room seemed to have something new, some magical object, some ensorcelled blade or healing balm. Nothing as fantastic as the Fury’s, but every little bit counted. Savaxian was yanking a magical headset of some sort out of a duffel bag in an abandoned room when, behind him, outside, he heard the unmistakable whomph whomph whomph of a helicopter.

  “Thunderbird!” He yelled down the hall, scrabbling to carry all of his stuff with him. “Take care of that!”

  But the Thunderbird was shrieking something about a bad play, totally oblivious to the helicopter settling on the landing-pad right outside the front door.

  Hurriedly, realizing his prizes were in danger, Savaxian ducked into an unlocked door and, hastily shutting the door behind him, stuffed his finds under the half-made bed. He had the nagging worry that the Fate had gotten away from him, but he doubted that it had gone far, in the condition that it had been. He’d just have to Mark it the next time he saw it, for easy location later.

  Outside, the helicopter sounded like its rotors were spinning only inches from the wall. Getting on his tiptoes, Savaxian glanced out the window at the helicopter pad.

  A short, unpleasant-looking Third Lander in a half-form was marching across the tarmac toward the front door, wearing what looked like ensorcelled armor and bristling with a dozen swords and other weaponry.

  Is that void-titan bone? Savaxian thought, his heart making a startled double-thump. The ancients all had void-titan bone, but he’d never gotten the chance. Maybe this Third Lander would prove unfriendly and he would have to kill him. Or, on second thought, maybe he could be persuaded to get unfriendly. Third Landers weren’t the brightest candles in the crevice, and those swords looked expensive. Of course a barbaric Third Lander had no use for such works of art. They were wasted on him. Better to put them somewhere safe than to flaunt them and wave them around and risk breaking them.

  Speaking of that, he wondered if he was going to see his Damascus steel blade back from the Fury. All afternoon, he’d been trying not to think about all the dents and scratches he would have to polish out of its formerly-perfect surface, and it had left him in a foul mood. I was doing a good deed. A good deed that bards will sing about for a hundred ages. He had to keep reminding himself of that fact, because it continued to grate at him.

  Savaxian glanced again to make sure that his finds were secured in the darkness, then hurried back out of the room and shut the door, stepping into the hallway just as the Third Lander was rounding the bend.

  Immediately, the beast hesitated, sniffing the air. Then, slowly, it drew a long black blade from over its hunched shoulder and started stalking towards him.

  Excellent, Savaxian thought, allowing him to approach. He was trying to decide whether to decapitate or to simply knock the beast out when the creature came to a wary halt just out of reach.

  The Third Lander sniffed at the air again like an animal, then wrinkled its nose and scowled at him. “Get out of the way, dragon.”

  Savaxian bristled. “No.”

  “Listen, kid,” the Third Lander snapped at him, “I don’t have time to swaddle your ass. Get out of my way. I’m going to go free some folks.”

  “Kid?” Savaxian choked. “You’re a Third Lander. I could wipe my ass with your face and pick my teeth with your bones.”

  “Still a dumbass kid who’s in my fucking way. Smells like your balls just dropped what, a few years ago?”

  Savaxian’s mouth fell open. “It was centuries ago.” Well, more like one and a half, but still.

  The Third Lander gave him a long look, then glanced at the hall behind Savaxian. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way, but either fucking way, I need to get at the basement.”

  “Well, that’s really too bad, demonkin,” Savaxian snarled at the impudent weasel, crossing his arms, giving himself a few horns and some scales to heighten the effect.

  “Oh yeah?” the wereverine sniffed at the air again, like a dog on a scent. His eyes found the room where Savaxian had stashed his finds. “What’s behind that door?”

  “Nothing,” Savaxian said, dropping his hands quickly.

  The wereverine laughed. “Okay then, let’s go have a look-see.” He went to open the door.

  In a moment of blind fury and panic, Savaxian up-formed and lunged at the wereverine. “Mine!”

  The Third Lander jumped out of the way, allowing Savaxian, without anything to stop his forward momentum, to plow into a wall. “Sorry, kid,” he heard the wereverine’s muffled voice say on the other side of the sheetrock. “The world’s a really tough place when you’re stupid.” Then he started dancing past Savaxian towards the roomful of goodies.

  He’s going to take my things, Savaxian thought, horrified. Sheer fury powering him, now, Savaxian slapped the wereverine full in the stomach with his tail, slamming him back down the hallway in a skid of ruined linoleum. Yanking his head free of the wall, blocking the hallway once more with his body, Savaxian followed the wereverine with a furious bellow.

  “Oh shi—!” the wereverine cried, windmilling to get out of the way. “I wasn’t going for your—”

  Savaxian aided him in his endeavor, embedding him in the opposite wall. “They are mine,” he snarled, a full tide of rage powering him, digging his talons through the linoleum and tightening the fire-gla
nds in his chest. “I found them,” he snarled, flaring his wings and knocking more walls out. “You will leave them the fuck alone or I will roast you, you pathetic little fleabitten—”

  Up ahead, Thunderbird peeked his head out of the cafeteria to see what was causing the commotion. Upon seeing the wereverine hunched over, sword in hand, snarling, and Savaxian facing him off, the demigod sighed said, “You two fuck up the cable and you’ll be powering your own cities for the next thirty years.”

  “Call off the lizard!” the wereverine cried over his shoulder. “Tell him I wasn’t gonna swipe his stuff!”

  “He wasn’t going to swipe your stuff!” Thunderbird called halfheartedly from deep inside the cafeteria. Then, “Did you see that?! That fat fuck just ran the entire field and they didn’t stop him! Those incompetent fools! They’re gonna lose! Again! This is unfuckingbelievable!” A chair went flying through the wall of the cafeteria behind the wereverine. Savaxian barely saw it, so infuriated he was seeing red.

  “Okay,” the wereverine said slowly, “listen, kid. I’m here to rescue a pretty redhead. That’s it. I don’t give a damn about your stash or the huge, massive hoard of armor and weapons behind that locked door by your tail. All I want is the girl. Capiche?”

  Savaxian’s nostrils flared and he turned slowly to look at the locked door.

  The wereverine rushed him, grabbed him by a horn, and, yanking his head down in one heavy hand, slammed the tip of a sword into the soft hollow under his jaw so that the blade was digging painfully into his throat. “All right,” the wereverine said, eye-to-eye with him, “you listen real good, puke. You’re gonna down-form. Now. Then you’re gonna get the fuck outta my way or I’m gonna put this thing through your brain. Got it? I just spent the last eight hours mind-wrestling a sadistic Third Lander fuck so I could get my ass back here to rescue my damsel in distress before she bleeds to death, and I find my way blocked by a dumbass wyrmling who’s trying to snatch up everything that glitters before someone catches him with his hand in the cookie-jar. Now, I generally don’t give a shit what you take from these asswipes, but you are really starting to piss me off.”

  Savaxian took a deep breath, tightening the glands in his chest.

  The sword stiffened against his throat. “I never did like dragons.” It sounded…final.

  Letting out his breath in a defeated puff of smoke, Savaxian reluctantly down-formed and let the hairy little ape step past him. He was about to breathe a wad of fire down his back when a tremulous female voice cried, “Jack?”

  Savaxian glanced up to see a giantess of a woman stepping around the corner, pale and stumbling, yet completely wreathed in flames in his second-sight. Her eyes—fire-orange and glowing—fixed on the wereverine, and Savaxian watched the ethereal blaze brighten around her. Oh my gods, Savaxian thought, that’s the fucking phoenix. And if this was Jack… He watched as the wereverine rushed forward and threw himself into the Fourth Lander’s arms like an ugly little leprechaun.

  Why did he get the good girls? Savaxian was utterly disgusted at the exchange of fluids that followed. Then he remembered what the wereverine had said about locked doors and armories and, already well beyond the point where he cared about aesthetics or waking the neighbors, up-formed and slammed his fist into the nearest keypad-protected door.

  The wereverine’s kiss broke off in a muffled sound as the door went flying off its hinges, sailing into the darkened room beyond. “A dragon!” the phoenix squealed.

  Savaxian ducked his head into the room and allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Indeed, he realized, his heart suddenly beginning to hammer like white lightning in his chest, this was a storeroom of enchanted goods. Piles of enchanted goods. Armor and weapons was just the beginning…

  He felt something tap him on a flank-scale and he jerked his head back into the hallway to glare.

  “Ohmygod!” the phoenix giggled, her jaw dropping open as she stared up at him, orange eyes wide in glee. “You’re a dragon!”

  “Isn’t that nice,” the wereverine muttered, still standing where she’d abandoned him in the hall.

  “I always wanted to meet a dragon,” the woman babbled. “I read all those fantasy books as a kid, but I never thought, I mean, oh wow, you’re just so pretty,” she breathed. “Your scales are all silver and—”

  Savaxian down-formed and stepped past her, looking for the nearest pillowcase.

  As he started scurrying around, pulling stuff off of the shelves and dumping it blankets he pulled off of the beds in the neighboring rooms, he heard the wereverine say, “See? I told you they were selfish pricks…”

  Chapter 24: The Blade of Morning

  The man—a lieutenant, by the two gold bars on his neck—shouted into the receiver, “No, her wing is busted!”

  “That is a negative. We’re not under attack.”

  “It’s on its way. She says she can stop it.”

  “Negative, Lieutenant. We will neutralize the target advancing on us. Detain the creature for processing and return to base.”

  “Goddamn HQ fuckwads!” the lieutenant snapped, dropping the receiver. He was flushed with anger, and looked like he wanted to throw the radio against the wall. “Sorry,” he muttered, looking up at her abashedly. “They’re…uh…not sending the jets.”

  Kaashifah narrowed her eyes. “Let me talk to them.”

  “Sure, but it’s not gonna do any good.” The man offered her the radio, and, with great reluctance, Kaashifah took the Object of Science and spent a minute grimacing down at the receiver in her hand, trying to determine how the thing was operated.

  “Press that button there and talk,” the lieutenant said nervously, cringing as he pointed to a little black protrusion in the device. “Pretty self-explanatory. Gotta be. They make it for dumbasses like us…” He gave her a weak grin, then his eyes flickered again to her luminous wings.

  Kaashifah pressed the button. “Listen to me, you gods-damned mortal fools. A fallen angel is headed for your base, about to rip it completely apart. She has the powers of a magus at her disposal, so none of your bullets, grenades, or bombs will do any good. I am the only thing that can stop her, but I’m wounded. I need one of your jets to pick me up.”

  “You are unauthorized to use this band. Relinquish the radio to the proper authorities and turn yourself in to the custody of a representative of the United States government for questioning.”

  Kaashifah frowned at the radio, then at the blond soldier. “Did he hear me?”

  “Um, yeah,” the man said, wincing, “I’m afraid he did.”

  Kaashifah depressed the button again, losing patience. “Listen, you goat-pustule. Thousands are going to die. You need me to stop her.”

  “If you were going to stop her, you would have done so already. You are breaking international peace treaties and are committing war-crimes. Turn yourself over or our troops will—”

  The lieutenant grabbed the radio back from her. “Will what, you fucking desk-jockey retard? We’ve already given them everything we’ve got. Gas, grenades, guns…none of it works.”

  “Lieutenant, if you continue to hand over government equipment to the enemy, you will be court-martialed.”

  “Oh that fucker!” the Lieutenant made a disgusted sound and threw a chunk of snow out into the parking-lot. The remnants of his squad were squatting nearby, staring at Kaashifah with mingled wonder and curiosity.

  “So,” one of them said slowly in the silence that followed, “what’s Heaven like?”

  Kaashifah glanced at him, saw the plain desperation on his face, and said carefully, “I’m not sure. My kind are not allowed to enjoy it as mortals are.”

  The man’s eyes widened. “So…have you seen God?”

  “Not directly,” Kaashifah said, with a pang of bitterness. “He rarely deigns to show himself to anyone.” But that only seemed to spark hope in the men’s eyes.

  Frustrated, Kaashifah returned her attention to the radio before they could inundate her with more
questions. “Give me the receiver back. I’m going to try one more time.” When the lieutenant obligingly handed her the radio, she got onto the band and said, “Okay, human, maybe you weren’t paying attention, but my sister took out three of your jets in the space of a couple minutes. She then proceeded to devastate a good portion of Wasilla without even trying. If you don’t get off your ass and help me, she’s going to have nothing stopping her when she—”

  Her words were cut off by the sound of bombs going off in the distance.

  “Waa faqri,” Kaashifah managed. “She’s there.”

  One of the men beside her—a linguist, by the patch on his shoulder—cocked his head. “God’s angels are Arabic?”

  She turned to scowl at him. “They are of every race of Man.”

  “Yeah, ya dumbshit,” one of his friends snapped, smacking him upside the head, to the embarrassed blush of the previous speaker.

  But Kaashifah ignored the scuffle, trying to figure out how she was going to make it to Anchorage before it was too late. She could levitate, but it was much slower—hours, without her wings—and such a long trip would wear down her resources. She clicked on the receiver again. “Look, I can hear you fighting her. It’s not going to work. You need to help me get over there!”

  “Get off the radio! We need this band for command operations!” The man on the other end sounded panicked.

  Kaashifah wanted to scream. “Listen to me! There will be no command in a few minutes!”

  “Get off the damn—” someone screamed, but it was cut off abruptly. Then there was nothing but silence on the other line.

  “Damn!” Kaashifah cried, getting to her feet. She tested her wings again, but found the left one still sluggish and weak. Across the inlet, she heard multiple bombs going off, echoing across the water and the flatlands. The fight, it seemed, was already in full force. “What about a car?” she asked, glancing at the vehicles in the parking-lot in desperation.

  Two of the soldiers looked at each other, then one of them cleared his throat uncomfortably and said, “I, uh, had a lil’ bit of a misspent youth.” He coughed and scuffed a booted foot on the hard-packed snow. “I, uh, could probably hotwire somethin’ for ya.”