Harsh Gods

by Michelle Belanger

  I heard Lil rummaging around in her clutch purse. A couple of items clattered to the floor—a tube of lipstick, a ball-bearing, and three green beads that looked like they’d come from Halley’s rosary.

  “Hey,” I hissed. “Didn’t you smash that thing?”

  Lil ignored me. Still digging in the handbag, she made a little sound of triumph.

  “This’ll do.”

  The next instant, she vanished. I peered under the sedan just to be certain. Above the stink of motor oil and gasoline, I caught a faint whiff of ozone. I also caught sight of one of Lil’s ghost ferrets. The blonde-furred creature chattered at me, haunches wriggling.

  “Great,” I sighed. “Did she leave you behind to babysit?”

  The thing twitched its whiskers, fairly grinning. It snaked behind a wheel well, then tumbled playfully against my ankle. It wasn’t a flesh-and-blood creature, but I could still feel its impact, like an intimation of weight.

  I wondered where Lailah’s soot-gray screech owl might be. Lil was attended by a host of spectral animals, and each held some enigmatic tie to her sisters. I still hadn’t worked out whether the animal spirits represented her sisters, or somehow were the sisters in totemic form.

  A sharp tug on my ankle garnered my attention. I didn’t react much at first because I thought it was the ferret again. Then I felt the distinct grip of fingers digging for purchase against the leather shaft of my engineer boot. A streaked and dirty hand extended from beneath the vehicle at my back.

  Like a tattered version of Rambo, the guy had belly-crawled all the way across the parking level, a knife clenched between his teeth.

  I should have been more vigilant—the truck behind me had oversized tires, so it stood higher off the ground. The undercarriage provided the attacker ample space to maneuver.

  “You had one job, ferret,” I snarled. The little critter sneezed its objection. I jerked my ankle, trying to break free of the floor-troll’s grip. The emaciated hand clung with a desperate strength, and its owner dragged himself closer by inches. With his other hand, he went for the knife.

  The instant I saw the glint of the steel, power leapt to my fingertips. It was instinct—but my hands were on the grip of the gun. It was a good thing I wasn’t dumb enough to ride the trigger, or I’d have squeezed off at least one accidental round—and probably shot my damned toes off.

  I used the burst of power to fuel my speed, angling forward and bracing a shoulder against the floor. With the guy still scrabbling to hamstring me, I fired off two quick rounds at point-blank range.

  They got him in the forehead and in the cheek. This close, the bullets didn’t tear things up too much going in, but the back of his head erupted in a mess. For a frozen instant he stared at me with wide, startled eyes. They were hazel, shot through with striations of a pale yellow-green. Some elusive quality fled the depths of those glassy orbs and his head tottered forward, blood streaming from his distorted mouth.

  The grip on my ankle went slack. He dropped the knife, though I couldn’t hear its clatter through the ringing in my ears.

  The scent of hot metal mixed with the tidal-pool stench of his blood. I crouched there staring mutely as the dark fluid spread closer to me by inches. It washed over the knife, one of my brass casings, and I still didn’t move.

  I’d meant to kill him, but did I have to?

  The guy looked to be in his mid-forties, his features weather-roughened, his hair prematurely grayed. The jagged white line of a scar ran across his scalp from his temple. The knuckles on his outstretched hand were battered with old, puckered wounds, as well. This guy had seen a rough life. The way he’d snuck up on me suggested a military background.

  The Rephaim didn’t care if these people wanted to be his soldiers. He forced his influence on them—like I’d almost done to Halley. It helped if they were battered by drugs, biology, or trauma.

  Could this guy have been saved?

  “What the hell are you laying there for?” Lil squawked. She seized the collar of my leather jacket and yanked. I was a hundred and eighty pounds of wiry dead weight, but she had my upper torso a couple feet off the ground before I could twist away.

  “Quit it,” I objected. I flicked the safety back on.

  “Dead people. Parking garage,” she snapped. “Major hospital one lot away,” she added. “Get your ass in gear, Anakim.”

  “They’re all dead?” I levered myself up, tucking the gun back in its holster. Then I worked my jaw, trying to get my ears to pop. Everything still sounded tinny in the wake of the gunfire.

  Remy sauntered over, retrieving his fedora. Frowning, he stuck a gloved finger through the hole near the top. A matching hole, crisped around the edges, went out the other side.

  “I doubt I’ll be able to salvage this,” he sighed. He tucked the perforated hat reluctantly beneath one arm. “I can stay and make certain Roarke is the one who gets to the scene,” he offered. A spatter of crimson arced across one cheekbone, fresh enough that it was still gleaming. He seemed unaware of it until Lil pointed. Self-consciously, he swiped a finger across his cheek, looking back to Lil. She nodded.

  “You have a handkerchief or something in your purse?” I asked, scrubbing at the faint speckling of blood on my knuckles. I probably had it on my face, too, considering I’d shot the guy at such close range. I couldn’t feel it, but my nose was still thick with the wet copper tang.

  “A bandana work?” She shoved her hand into the purse and yanked out a square of patterned blue cloth.

  Without answering I took it and bent to scoop up the two spent casings from my gun. They’d gelled into the blood already, sticking a little and leaving a negative space where I plucked them from the floor. Lil made a disgusted noise.

  “You didn’t say you wanted it for that,” she grumbled.

  I ignored her, wrapping the casings till I was sure none of the wet would seep through to my pocket.

  “I would have taken care of that,” Remy offered.

  “I don’t want to get into the habit of leaving shit like this behind.” I pocketed the wad of bandana and fished out my keys. “Let’s go, Lil.”

  “Zaquiel,” Remy called after me.

  “What?” I stopped, but I didn’t turn around. Lil kept walking.

  “You never answered my question,” he huffed.

  “Which question?” I asked wearily.

  “The glyphs,” he said. The words came out harsh and clipped, and loud enough that he didn’t seem to care if we were overheard. “Which one are we dealing with?” he demanded.

  I debated briefly the consequences of invoking the Name.

  “Terhuziel,” I said.

  I heard my brother draw a sharp breath.

  “Oh,” he murmured. “Oh, my.”

  34

  Twenty paces from the Hellcat, I clicked the button on my key fob, then muttered an inchoate curse, fighting the urge to smash the useless bit of plastic to pieces.

  Lil, who was ten paces closer to the car than I was, walked through the pitchy shadows of the parking garage like she was out for a lazy Sunday stroll. On hearing my bellyaching, she turned and shot me a bemused look.

  “Problems?”

  “Fucking batteries,” I snarled.

  She snorted. “Be glad the mortals haven’t figured out how to power their guns with that lithium-ion stuff. You’d be screwed.”

  That just reminded me of the man I’d shot in the face. Two people had died by my hand in as many days—maybe unavoidably, maybe not.

  One floor below us, I could hear Remy moving things around—and by “things,” I meant bodies. Under the scheming auspices of his Decimus, Saliriel, Remy had been manipulating criminal investigations in the city since the days of the Mayfield Road Gang. I shouldn’t have resented the Nephilim’s influence over the local police—it enabled me to fight some of the nastier things that ran amok in the city, and not end up with a jail sentence.

  A necessary evil.

  Didn’t mean I had to like
it.

  I ground my teeth, and moved faster to get the fuck out of this lightless vault of death and cars.

  * * *

  Dropping into the bucket seat behind the wheel, I unlocked all the doors from the controls on the armrest. The engine turned over with a comforting rumble, and I felt grateful for one aspect of the parking garage—the cover it provided. If I’d parked in the open lot, I’d have spent the next ten minutes scraping snow and ice off the car.

  The iPod skipped from Nick Cave to Jim Morrison crooning “Riders on the Storm.” I didn’t even remember that being on the playlist.

  Lil squinted, then threw her head back and laughed.

  “A personal soundtrack with a side of irony?”

  I had an inkling now it was Lailah, exerting some kind of control over the sound system. Just then, it was a tease more than a comfort, and the frustration at my continued inability to perceive her reached critical mass. I yanked out the wires and chucked the device behind me without looking to see where it landed.

  “That temper, Zack,” Lil chided.

  “Stuff it,” I growled.

  She clucked her tongue disapprovingly. If she had any sense of her sister, she wasn’t sharing, which pissed me off more. I white-knuckled the steering wheel while I fumed, adrenaline from the fight still jolting through all my limbs. Lil grew bored, redirecting her attention to her phone. Squinting at my hastily scrawled sticky note, she entered the Kramer address into her mapping function.

  “Under five miles,” she announced. “Major roads till we get to Whitethorn. Shouldn’t be too bad, even with this snow.” She tilted the screen so I could see it.

  “I know the way to that part of town,” I growled.

  “So get a move on,” she urged.

  I put the car into gear, but kept my foot on the brake.

  “We need to check on Halley.”

  Lil gave a choking cough. “I can count six reasons that say we’re getting the hell out of here before Remy’s police friends arrive,” she snapped.

  “There were six?”

  “Counting the one you put down, yes,” she replied. “Now drive before we have bigger problems than a hit squad.”

  “The last time the hit squad was a distraction,” I said. “He’s not after us. He’s after the girl.”

  “The hospital has security,” she replied. “How far do you think they’d get?”

  “We got pretty far,” I answered.

  She smacked the dash. “At least move this damned thing while we argue.”

  Conceding that much, I pulled out and started threading my way down to the exit.

  “We just need to make sure she’s safe,” I insisted.

  “Mother’s Tears,” Lil hissed. Radiating impatience, she dug around in her purse, and produced a loop of string with half a dozen green beads still attached—and a single flat pink one.

  “For fuck’s sake, Lil,” I snarled—and nearly ran over one of the sprawled attackers as I took the turn to the lower level. Not that hitting him would do anything but make a mess. He was dead already. Reaching out with one hand, I tried to nab what was left of the rosary from Lil.

  She jerked it swiftly away.

  “You were supposed to destroy that!”

  “I did… mostly,” she allowed, dropping it back into her handbag. “But it’s this they’re tracking. Since you’re so hell-bent on keeping that girl alive, I thought it would be useful to draw them away.”

  “That’s—that’s brilliant, Lil.”

  She opened her mouth, then blinked in stupefaction.

  “Did someone drop you on your head, flyboy?”

  “I thought you wanted the girl dead,” I responded.

  She sighed. “I like to be prepared—and I know what kind of bleeding heart you’ve become.” She tossed her curls back from her face, her expression cold as the wintry night beyond the car. “I still think killing her would solve a host of problems, but I know to pick my fights.”

  That didn’t exactly leave me thrilled, but I didn’t push her on the subject. We drew up to the kiosk a moment later. The bar was down, and it was automated. Useless as fuck with the power still out.

  “Just drive through,” Lil said.

  I shook my head, putting the car into park. “Paint transfer,” I explained. “I don’t want any chance they can trace my car to the mess back there.”

  All it took was a solid kick from my size thirteens to crack the bar from its mooring. I toed it aside, then got back into the Hellcat.

  “Admit it, flyboy,” Lil chuckled. “You didn’t want to ding your shiny new toy.”

  “I hate this car,” I responded, pulling out of the parking structure.

  “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

  35

  It should have taken ten minutes, tops, from University Hospital to the address on Whitethorn. With the road conditions, it took closer to twenty. According to the radio, nearly eight inches had fallen in under an hour, and the city’s transportation department was caught unprepared.

  Ice and slush smeared the windshield. No snowplows were visible anywhere on the roads. Even Euclid Avenue—a main artery through downtown—was an uninterrupted ribbon of white. If any cars had passed through the storm before mine, the wind had scoured their trace.

  I missed my old Buick. The Dodge was a slick and gorgeous machine, but it simply couldn’t match the Buick’s traction. I crawled along, fighting not to fishtail every time I had to make a turn, while Lil grew progressively more restless beside me. Her irritation grated like fingernails on the inside of my skull.

  “Unless you want us to end up in a ditch, I’m not going any faster,” I said, heading her off.

  “You drive like somebody’s grandpa,” she complained.

  “Not everyone treats residential driving like it’s NASCAR.”

  “And yet I still get to where I’m going twice as fast, and without so much as a scratch on my bumper.” She gave a dismissive toss to her flame-kissed curls.

  “Yeah, you’re the epitome of a safe driver,” I replied. “So long as you don’t count the accidents you cause for the poor bastards who scramble to get out of your way.”

  “Their fault,” she sniped.

  Arguing with Lil was a Sisyphean exercise, so I dropped it. We were almost to the Kramer house anyway. I took a left onto Whitethorn—or at least where I thought the street was. Curb and pavement alike were blanketed by a foot-tall drift of snow.

  “How far does the little GPS doohickey say the house is down this street?” I asked as I nosed the Hellcat through the drift. If the snow got any higher, the car was going to stall out. I could already feel the heavy powder dragging along the undercarriage.

  She pressed a button and the screen of her smartphone cast eerie light on her face.

  “Not quite to the cul-de-sac.”

  I peered unhappily through the slush. Even with the heater on full blast, the wipers kept freezing up. The headlamps revealed a landscape more suited for the Winter Olympics than for driving anything short of a tank.

  “Fuck it,” I said. “I’m backing out and parking at the cross-street. At least the snow there wasn’t up to my grill. We can walk.”

  Lil didn’t object. I threw the car into reverse, backed carefully through the tracks I’d already cut on my way in, then pulled off to one side. Killing the engine, I opened the door. The bottom carved a neat arc through the snow piled up on the road.

  “Terael said this guy was still building his power,” I observed, slamming the door shut. “If that’s the case, I’d hate to see what he can do on one of his good days.”

  Lil barked a dry laugh. “You know the Flood story, right?”

  I shot her an incredulous look.

  “Temper tantrum in Mesopotamia,” she explained, and she smirked. I couldn’t tell if she was joking.

  Shoving my fists into my pockets, I slogged through the drifts toward the entrance to Whitethorn, aiming in the general vicinity of the sidewalk. The city
lay quiet beneath the thick shroud of snow, and only the blaring sirens of emergency vehicles cut through the chill night air. Lightning still fretted between the bellies of the clouds, but the wild peals of thunder had subsided to token grumbles. A stark and solitary beauty limned the blackened branches of all the laden trees.

  Still smirking, Lil followed a few steps behind, placing her feet neatly in the prints left by my boots.

  The Kramer house looked deceptively serene against this frigid landscape, draped as it was in a veil of pristine white. It was easy to miss the yellow gloss of police tape sealing the front door on the other side of the ice-encrusted screen. At the top of the driveway, I held my keys out to Lil.

  “You don’t need to stand around while I search the house,” I offered. “You can wait inside the car.”

  “Are you kidding me?” She shot me a look that rivaled the weather’s wintry fury. “I didn’t trudge through all this snow for shits and grins,” she snapped. “I’m going in there with you.”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “I want to do this clean and quick. I’ll pop in through the Shadowside, look for any sign of where the doc took Terhuziel, and then get right back out.”

  “I’m going in,” she said flatly. She shoved my keys away, hard enough that I nearly lost them in a drift.

  “It’s an active police investigation, Lil,” I protested. “If we both go in, we double the chance of leaving some kind of evidence behind.”

  “If you’re that concerned with evidence,” she said, “then you must have brought gloves, right?”

  I hadn’t, and she knew it.

  “Well, look here…” She withdrew a pair of blue nitrile gloves from her handbag and dangled them in front of me. “Imagine that. It’s like I know a thing or two about breaking and entering.”

  I resisted the urge to grab them from her hand. She’d only pull them away at the last instant, and I refused to be Charlie Brown to her Lucy.

  “You do your shadow-walk routine,” she continued. “I’ll wait for you to unlock the back door once you’re inside. That way, I won’t have to do anything so obvious as picking a lock.”