Blood for the Dancer

by Dallas Mullican

  Shax’s words hit Dustan like punches to the gut. Anger rose hot inside him. The demon was right. He let his distaste for killing, and the horror he witnessed on the angel’s face cloud his resolve. They killed his family, for all intents and purposes, and would now kill him without a moment’s regret or hesitation. He could allow neither in his thoughts.

  The dwarf was correct about something else as well. Things would not remain so easy. Saerna warned him anonymity would not last. Sooner or later, the angels would anticipate his attacks. His skills and fortitude had better be ready.

  14

  Two for One

  Verdun, France - 1918

  Dustan stooped forward, hands braced on his knees. “I’ll never get used to that.”

  “Don’t be such a nancy-boy. It ain’t so bad.” Shax winced, one hand at his lower back. “Must admit, might’ve tweaked something myself.”

  They had traveled using the portals several dozen times now, but the wave of nausea following each jaunt did not lessen. Their trips had covered much of the world; any other means of transportation would have taken years. Although Dustan could enter the spirit realm, attempting to jump portals alone would have been suicide. He would need to linger in the realm, get his bearings, and locate the next gateway. Angels lying in wait would take him in no time. Shax, however, mapped out the routes beforehand. His talent for quick short hops through the portals allowed them to remain in the spirit realm no longer than the blink of an eye.

  “This city smacks of death,” said Shax, rubbing his nose. “Whole slew of battles and blood on this ground.”

  Verdun had indeed seen more than its fair share of war. Positioned in northern France near the Belgium border, The Battle of Verdun took place there in 1792 between French Revolutionary Forces and the Prussian army. The Napoleonic Wars stormed in and devastated the city through 1815. In the Franco-Prussian War, Verdun held out as the last French fortress to surrender in 1870.

  The most recent, however, had just subsided. Hostilities in World War I had ceased, but not before some 400,000 German, and a similar number of French, casualties mounted up at Verdun. The battle lasted over eleven months, finally ending late in 1916. War always drew a heavy spike in spirit activity. Both sides worked the despair and desperate hope permeating the cities’ attempt to recover.

  Dustan had dispatched his last foe in Paris. A particularly tenacious angel named Dumah, who fought with a pair of kama, one-handed sickles. With weapons unfamiliar to Dustan, the angel kept him on the defensive for much of the fight. Only a frantic parry followed by a whirlwind flurry from Blood Dancer turned Dumah’s attack. He protected his heart well, forcing Dustan to do things the hard way. Finally, as he felt his strength waning, Dustan managed to inflict enough damage to drain the angel warrior.

  By Shax’s count, Dumah made a hundred or so of the Host destroyed since New Orleans. Encounters spread out more than Dustan would like. With so many recruiting in the human realm, he thought their numbers would be more concentrated. Some did spend much of their time here, but most visited only in sporadic episodes, impossible to predict. Aamon sent a greater number of demons to monitor the portals, but things remained slow going. Making matters worse, the angels were now well aware of his existence, sneaking up on them undetected proved more difficult each time.

  “Who’s up?” asked Dustan.

  “Word’s Nakir’s driven his flag in deep here. Been recruiting in good numbers since the Germans moved up on the Hindenburg Line. Crafty and powerful, don’t toy with him. Take him down quick as you can.”

  Dustan nodded. He did not need the advice. Encounters grew more vicious each time out. Zaphkiel had placed a sizeable bounty on his head—command over a legion—every low to mid-level angel in the realm licked their chops for a go at him. He feared he would soon run out of fresh tactics and predictability meant a sure death.

  Early March in northern France remained cold. Dustan wore a knee-length topcoat over a wool jacket and trousers, cuffed and creased. Laced boots on his feet and a bowler on his head made him appear French unless forced to speak. He had now journeyed around the globe from the U.S. to Mexico City, Spain to Cairo, and a wide swath in between. The look and traits of the people he might mimic, but his heart would always feel British.

  The Châtel Gate, the only remaining section of the walls from medieval times, led onto La Roche Square. He passed Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Verdun and proceeded down Rue de Ru, admiring the impressive Episcopal Palace. After crossing the River Meuse, he moved into the Lorraine countryside beyond the city. Shax indicated Nakir often visited farms and out-of-the-way pubs. The French attempted to rebuild their lives, and it was proving an arduous task. Moods remained low even with the war’s end, the destruction of their city and villages reflected in hollow eyes and gaunt faces.

  An elaborate tunnel system, used to hurry reinforcements and supplies to various areas on the wall, ran beneath the city and into the surrounding area, emptying into trenches where scores of soldiers had fought and died. The subterranean burrows seemed a good out-of-sight location for Nakir to enter the realm. Dustan felt a wave of claustrophobia as his head dropped below ground level. Farther into Verdun, the tunnels became stone shafts with a multitude of storerooms and iron gates, but this far out from the city fortifications they existed as little more than mineshafts, all dirt and timber.

  Dustan caught the shimmer of a portal opening roughly a hundred strides ahead. He ducked into the shadows near the walls and waited. Nakir glanced his way for an instant before moving off in the opposite direction. Dustan followed, knees bent, keeping low. Up ahead, a turn led into a vast opening. The ceiling in the tunnels hovered inches above his head, but here it rose high, perhaps twenty feet. Wooden scaffolding stood against two walls and reached three quarters to a ceiling braced in timber and spoked like a giant wheel. Derelict machinery sat rusting, broken rifles and abandoned munitions scattered about.

  “So glad you found me. I thought you might never come.”

  Nakir stepped into the dim light provided by a grated hole in the roof. The grill shone on the floor in tiny squares of sunshine and pierced the packed earth like lances. A slight man, a shade shorter than Dustan, Nakir moved with grace and confidence. He shrugged off his overcoat, folded it neatly, and placed it on a barrel with his derby. Dark hair, parted in the middle, stuck to his scalp and glistened with pomade.

  “You are Aamon’s new pet?” He eyed Dustan up and down. “Hmm, you do not seem so scary to me. The young angels tell stories of the half demon who breathes fire and rips the still-pulsing hearts from the chests of cowering spirits.”

  “A bit graphic. No, I destroy them by the crate—a dozen or so to a carton, I think. I’m running a sale, by the way. Care to make a purchase? For you, I’ll cut it in half.” The two mirrored one another from across the room, creeping in slow movements along the circular wall.

  “Ha. Cut me in half will you? I am not some upstart fledgling who you snuck up on from behind.” Nakir raked a sharpened fingernail along the surface of a disassembled cannon barrel with a cringe-worthy screech.

  “No, you’re just another dead angel who doesn’t know when to shut up and fight.”

  Dustan dashed forward, summoning his sword as he went, in an attempt to engage the angel before he could muster a defense. Nakir drew twin, broad-bladed scimitars and fanned them one over the other in a dizzying whirl of steel and arms. He batted Blood Dancer down and to the side with one and swung a high slice toward Dustan’s neck with the other. Dustan recoiled and spun away from the slash.

  The angel darted in, bringing his blades down in unison. Dustan met them, a jarring tremor hammering into his shoulders. He lashed out with his leg and managed to push Nakir back with a foot to his stomach. Nakir whipped around Dustan’s next thrust like a matador and hacked for his head with a backswing. Dustan crouched beneath the blade and tried another kick, aiming his heel for the angel’s kneecap. Nakir slid from the attempt and sliced for his left arm
. An elbow caught Dustan on the jaw as he moved for the opening left by the missed strike.

  Nakir pressed the attack, forcing Dustan to retreat and stagger backward. The angel was faster. Dustan needed to gain some distance and regroup. He planted one foot and sprang up, twisting to the right. His feet touched the ground an instant before vaulting again and flipped to the mouth of the tunnel. A dozen steps now separated the two combatants. Dustan steadied himself and took a deep breath.

  “Not bad,” said Nakir with a sardonic grin. “Not good enough, I’m afraid.”

  Dustan heard a commotion from the scaffold landing above. As he craned his head back, the axe of a second angel descended toward him. He rolled to the side and came up on his feet in a crouch as the axe slammed into the dirt with a thud.

  Nakir laughed. “You have spoiled our surprise. I had hoped Bath Kol’s axe would split your skull.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.” Dustan stood, staring at the newcomer. “Two against one? Doesn’t seem very sporting. How to divide a single legion command?”

  “Oh, we will decide that between ourselves once we send you to the Void,” said Bath Kol. A tall woman, heavily muscled, she wore men’s breeches and a loose-fitting shirt. Long, blonde hair in a coiffure hung below her shoulders. She gripped a four-foot wooden shaft fixed with a silver double-sided axe head as though it weighed nothing, bouncing the weapon from palm to palm.

  Again, Dustan attempted to take advantage of the lull. With a quick feint toward Nakir, he spun and slashed hard at Bath Kol, going low, hoping to lop off her leg. The big woman anticipated the maneuver and easily stepped away from the slice. She rotated on her heel with a roar and slung the axe in a brutal sweep, aiming to remove his head. Dustan ducked and dove beneath the weapon’s trajectory. He flexed for Nakir’s attack.

  The angel struck Blood Dancer with one scimitar while bringing the other over the top. A gash welled from Dustan’s upper arm. He ignored the sting and braced in a squat. Nakir took no time to admire his handiwork, but continued on, hacking as he came. Sparks of steel and energy laced the air with clangs and hisses. Two more cuts sliced Dustan’s flesh, one to his mid-section, and a deep wound on his back delivered during a spinning withdrawal. The flat of a blade rocked against his right temple. His mind spun. He shook his head to dislodge the cobwebs. Slick, sticky crimson covered him from six inches above the waist to his thighs.

  Bath Kol moved up behind him. Sandwiched between the two, Dustan used their aggressive attacks against them, allowing the woman to close. As she swung her weapon, he lunged forward. Her axe flew inches from Nakir’s nose. The angel offered a scowl at his ally before resuming the assault. Both spirits rushed him. With nowhere to go but up, Dustan leapt onto the scaffolding. Two jumps put him on the landing.

  What now?

  As Bath Kol bellowed, her axe crashed into the support beams at the base of the platform. Dustan plunged down in the midst of splintering wood and landed hard, a pile of timber across his legs. Muscles blazed, his bones crushed under the weight. He shoved at the planks trapping his throbbing legs, but they budged only a fraction. Blood from three wounds saturated his shirt and trousers, leaving him weakened. Lightheadedness blurred his vision; the room teetered like the old clipper in a tempest.

  Bath Kol strolled forward, a satisfied smile on her lips. She hoisted the axe overhead, poised to bring it down in a two-handed blow. Dustan lamented he was going to die with so much left to do. A thousand questions and doubts flew through his mind. What might he have done differently? What mistakes had he made? Neither Nakir nor Bath Kol matched Valefar or many of the angels he had faced. He gazed at the victorious pleasure on the faces of his foes. Defeat stung deep…and at the hands of these two.

  No. Only one.

  Dustan clutched Blood Dancer’s blade near the hilt between thumb and fingers and hurled the sword like a javelin. The tip pierced Bath Kol’s chest. An astonished expression widened her eyes and stifled her war cry. She staggered a step and fell to one knee, the axe dropping to the ground with a clack. Her hands went to Blood Dancer’s hilt in a futile attempt to extract the blade. No use. With her strength sapped by the mortal wound, she could only clutch the dark leather and prepare for Oblivion.

  Both Dustan and Nakir shielded their eyes from the explosion. The eruption of Bath Kol’s energy set the remaining scaffolding and the litter of broken wood aflame. A thunderous echo rolled around the chamber in a deafening roar. Dustan’s legs knitted beneath the planks, but he still could not urge the weight off him. He glared at the surviving angel as Nakir flicked dust from his shirt and face.

  “Well done. You are impressive. Bath Kol was a mighty warrior, albeit a touch headstrong.” Nakir sauntered toward him, his infuriating smirk elongating.

  With his sword gone and his body trapped beneath the rubble, Dustan lay defenseless. Anger and frustration stole his fear.

  “Come on then, do it.” He shouted at the angel. Nakir took the invitation and moved in for the kill.

  In his mind, Dustan felt the scimitar plunge into his flesh, and heard jubilation in Heaven over his death ring in his ears. Anger slid along a gradient stream to rage, igniting a blaze within him born of humiliation and helplessness. Time slowed. Nakir appeared frozen, scorn locked on his face. Dustan’s frenzy melted away, replaced with placid calm. The energies inside him rose, surged, and coursed through his body. His palm stung. Not an unpleasant feeling, akin to the sweet impact of Blood Dancer finding its target.

  A pinprick of light materialized in his hand, growing swiftly. As it became an orb of cerise radiance larger than a ripe melon, he closed his fingers around it. Nakir paled, fear worming into his features. Dustan drew back and flung the orb with all his strength. Trailed in dazzling crimson sparks, it smashed into Nakir and sent him flying across the chamber to collide with the far wall. Dirt rained down; timbers shook with the force. With his energy swelling, Dustan mustered the strength to free himself. He shoved, and the lumber tumbled away. On wobbly legs, he stood hunched with hands on his knees.

  After a moment, he stumbled forward and retrieved Blood Dancer. Terror colored Nakir’s eyes. He lay on his back, a massive hole in his stomach. His essence seeped from the wound in cloudy gray-white streamers.

  “How…” Nakir whispered.

  “I’ve no idea. Lucky I guess.” Dustan spun Blood Dancer point down and plunged the sword into the angel’s heart. Nakir entered the Void with a miserable poof of light, all his power depleted.

  A fitting end for such an asshole.

  “No wonder Nakir froze. I’m not ready to believe you stilled time, but manifesting energy in a ball disassociated from your body…bloody hell.” Shax shook his head, amazement raising his eyebrows. “Never heard of any but archangels and demon lords manage the feat.”

  “It just happened. I didn’t try to do it.” Dustan had returned wearing Nakir’s shirt, a tight fit, beneath his topcoat. Fortunately, the coat hung low enough to cover the blood on his pants. His wounds, all but the one on his back, healed and disappeared. The other ran across his skin as a raised pink line. “Surprised me as much as Nakir.”

  “Ha. Nakir, real bastard, that one. Can’t believe he teamed with Bath Kol. Told you, spirits are arrogant. Even with the prize of a legion command dangling out there, didn’t think no two would join forces. Best keep up your guard. Shouldn’t be a trend, but they set a precedent, so could see it again.”

  “Not too soon, I hope.” Dustan donned a clean shirt. “Still, now that I have this ability…let them come.”

  “Hold your horses there, lad. Valefar told you, any expense of energy is going to drain you. Amount depends on how much you use and how often. So go too big with’t and bad things can happen.”

  Dustan nodded. “I know. I’ll use it sparingly. Only when I have to.”

  “See that you do.” Shax patted him on the shoulder. “Well done, lad. Taking out two angels at once. Whew. Worthy of Valefar himself. But don’t get cocky.” Shax grinned and vanished.


  Dustan reclined on the bed. The ache in his legs and the sting on his back still lingered, but his satisfaction overwhelmed the pain. He closed his eyes, a faint smile playing on his lips. He began ritual of sorts he had practiced since the first angel in New Orleans. He summoned a vision of his mother and father seated at a long golden table, a feast laid out before them in course upon course. They beamed with pride as Dustan approached. He hugged them and set the weapons of Nakir and Bath Kol at their feet.

  15

  A Glimpse of Things to Come

  Atlanta, Georgia - Present Day

  “How does it feel to be a hundred and fifty years old?” Shax doused hot sauce onto a burrito.

  “I don’t feel a day over twenty-two,” said Dustan with a grin.

  “Heh, don’t look it either. Perks of demonhood, lad.” He took a bite and sneezed. “Christ, this is going to burn coming out.”

  “Shax, too much info.” Dustan’s face pinched in dismay.

  “Ha. Anyway, how things go with that last one…forget the name.” The dwarf plopped down on the sofa, his burrito in one hand, a Bud Light in the other.

  They had arrived in Atlanta a fortnight earlier, tracking a low-level angel. Beneath notice in his own realm, a poor warrior, the angel had nonetheless shown an impressive talent at recruiting. Posing as a homeless man, he had gained pledges from half the vagrants in the city. Preachers promised salvation at the missions, but the down-and-out only attended for a hot meal and a warm bed. By becoming one of them, the angel earned respect over time, and rather than making lofty promises, he tickled their buried ambitions little by little.