by L. A. Banks
“Daniel, this can’t be easy for you, watching me leave like this. But I wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t think you could handle every aspect of this life we share. You’re my hero.” With this, tears fell. “I don’t know how I lived without you all the years you weren’t in my life. And I’ll do my damnedest to get back to you.”
“You will come back to me,” Daniel said, his voice full of conviction. His eyes were clear and determined. His mind could accept no other scenario.
They kissed briefly after which she joined the others on the terrace. One by one they flew away leaving Daniel behind, looking up into the night sky.
The Pritzker Pavilion was designed by world-renowned architect Frank Gehry and the band shell consisted of massive panels of stainless steel that looked somewhat like the sails of a Clipper ship folding in and out in continuous motion. Although, this effect was only when the light hit the stainless steel. During the day, or at night, the band shell was a magnificent example of architectural design.
Music lovers usually filled the seats. Tonight, the audience was no less enthusiastic about the spectacle to unfold before their eyes. They were divided. The Sons of the Morning Star claimed the seats and in order to keep the peace, the Grigori claimed the space on the lawn.
Sarai and Nighthawk began walking toward each other from opposite ends of the stage. The referee, a male Grigori of advanced age and wisdom, stood in the center of the stage awaiting them.
Once they arrived, the referee said for all to hear: “To my left is Sarai Wingate who accuses Nicolas Armaros of deceiving her to the extent that she made love to him, thinking he was her husband.”
Gasps arose among the audience.
The referee raised his hand, and the audience immediately became silent.
“Mr. Armaros is also accused of kidnapping Mrs. Wingate’s husband and his assistant who is in intensive care now due to heart failure. She is expected to live.
“Mr. Armaros, how do you answer to these charges?”
“We all know this is only a formality,” Nighthawk said, his steely eyes on Sarai. “My sword will speak for me.”
The referee gave the sorcerer who was standing off stage a signal with his eyes, and the sorcerer muttered an incantation under his breath. It was a spell that forces the accused to speak the truth.
The referee regarded Nighthawk once again. “I say once more—How do you answer to these charges, Mr. Armaros?”
Nighthawk clamped his mouth shut, but he was compelled to open it and say, “You don’t have all the facts. If my people hadn’t bungled the kidnapping and bruised both Daniel Wingate and his assistant, I had planned to drug them, put them in bed together, and let Sarai Wingate discover them. Such would have been her rage, she would have gladly killed them in an instant. Her husband would be dead, and her guilt would have driven her into my arms again. If my insane mother, a sorceress with suicidal tendencies, hadn’t grown a conscience in her old age, I might have gotten away with it. But she no longer had the stomach for manipulating other peoples’ lives.”
“You wanted to trick me into killing my own husband?” Sarai screamed at him.
The referee stepped back as the two of them drew their swords. He flew up and out of range. Once again he cued the sorcerer. It was time to amplify the voices of the combatants so that everything they said could be heard by the audience.
“After that,” Nighthawk told her, “it would have been easy for you to join the ranks of the mighty.”
The Sons of the Morning Star cheered on their hero.
Swords held defensively, he and Sarai circled each other. They were both attired in all black. Sarai in leather—a bolero jacket, slacks and motorcycle boots.
A duster with a split tail covered Nighthawk’s sleeveless T-shirt, jeans and combat boots. They were still taking the measure of each other when he said, “After I cut your head off, I’m going to cut that brat right out of your womb.”
“What’s the matter, Armaros, jealous of a human? You’re never going to get that child your mother prophesied. She’s not here to cloak your appearance now. I would never have let you near me if I had known it was you!”
“Liar!” he shouted back at her. “You loved me once. You told me that when you thought I was Daniel.”
“There’s a thin line between love and hate and, buddy, you’ve crossed it!”
Cheers from the Grigori.
“You didn’t act like you hated me when I was giving it to you day and night. And I hate to disillusion you, darling, but that floating act happened only because you had another Nephilim in your bed instead of a puny human. Your powers are not evolving.”
Cheers from the Sons of the Morning Star, along with lascivious laughter.
“Oh, shut up and fight!” Sarai said, and struck out at his mid-section.
Nighthawk easily deflected her thrust, and forced her backward with a series of rapid jabs of his own. Sarai, light on her feet, and with lightning reflexes, had no trouble withstanding the assault.
They danced back and forth across the stage, sometimes with him on the defensive and sometimes with her. They were equal in skill, and nothing either of them said to the other caused them to lose concentration.
Sparks flew from the heavy broadswords as steel bit into steel. Because they were Nephilim their strength did not desert them. Each hit, each thrust had as much force behind it as the first ones. Sarai realized they could go on like this until dawn.
Therefore, she decided to take Daniel’s advice and offer forgiveness. “You can’t beat me,” she said.
“Just give me a little more time,” Nighthawk said, gritting his teeth. He swung his sword in an arc that would have taken her head off at a 90 degree angle if he had succeeded.
Sarai blocked the blow, both hands firmly on the handgrip, and shoved him away from her. “We can be at this until the next Millennium,” she said. “Or I can tell you that I’ll forgive what you did as long as you leave the city and never come back.”
Nighthawk growled as he ran toward her, his sword held high. When he was within two feet of her, he spun around, aiming the sword at her waistline in an attempt to cut her in half.
Sarai executed a perfect back flip from the standing position and landed on her feet. Whereupon, she knelt on one knee and drove her sword up to hilt into the belly of the charging Nighthawk. He gasped in pain, his breath suddenly gone from his body.
Their eyes met. His were astonished. He hadn’t expected to be defeated by her. Hers were full of sympathy, but still determined. She hadn’t wanted it to come to this. She’d offered him a way out but, like a fool, he had refused her gesture.
She slowly got to her feet, pulled the sword from his belly, and beheaded him.
It was done.
Sword held at her side, bloody tip pointed downward, she turned and walked away.
Since 1996 national best-selling author Janice Sims has published fourteen novels, including paranormal romance, and has had stories included in nine anthologies. And she’s just getting started. She lives in Central Florida with her husband and daughter.
You can visit her on the Web at www.janicesims.com or write her at P. O. Box 811, Mascotte, FL 34753-0811.
CREEPIN’
ISBN: 978-1-4268-0186-0
© 2007 by Kimani Press
The publisher acknowledges the copyright holders of the individual works as follows:
PAYBACK IS A BITCH
© 2007 by L. A. Banks
THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT
© 2007 by Donna Hill
VAMPED
© 2007 by Monica Jackson-King
BALANCING THE SCALES
© 2007 by J. M. Jeffries
AVENGING ANGEL
© 2007 by Janice Sims
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