Harsh Gods

by Michelle Belanger

  “Hours of work?” I bellowed. “Is that what you call torturing an innocent little girl?” I couldn’t stop myself.

  “Nothing touched by a Rephaim is innocent any more,” he replied.

  Fuck his gun.

  Power leapt to my fingers. Hissing the syllables of my Name, I let my rage stoke the blue-white fire till all my muscles sang.

  “She was four!” I shouted. Kicking off the wall behind me, I lowered my shoulder and launched myself at him. My hands went for his gun.

  “Zack—” Lil called.

  I crashed heavily into his sternum. He coughed a startled breath and rocked back beneath my weight, but I might as well have shoulder-checked a tank for all it budged him. His gun hand jerked up, and I scrambled to seize it before he could point it anywhere useful.

  Digging the fingers of one hand into his wrist, I aimed for a pressure point while I closed the other hand over the ass-end of the pistol. Glocks were notoriously sensitive, and I was happy his finger wasn’t on the trigger as I twisted to break his hold on the grip. Power still crackled through my hands, and I used it to my advantage, jamming more than my fingers into the soft hollow between tendon and bone.

  The extra jolt did the trick—his hand jerked and I pried the firearm from his control. With his other hand, he cuffed the side of my head. Detective David Garrett might have been flesh and blood, but the thing that rode him made his fist feel like it had been carved from granite. The blow sent me reeling.

  I didn’t care—I had the gun.

  Thanks to the stupid makeshift booties, I skidded on the rug, barely managing to keep my feet. Righting myself, I dropped into a wider stance to compensate for my tricky footing. Gibburim Garrett maneuvered back a few steps. Before he could strike again, I brought the Glock up, sighting for the space between his thick brows.

  Those twin sets of smoldering eyes narrowed at me from above Garrett’s startled human face, and he froze—then he threw his head back and emitted a belly laugh that boomed against the walls.

  “Yes!” the Gibburim cried, teeth bared in a grin both exuberant and ferocious. “Shoot this police officer in reprisal for the deed committed in another warrior’s skin. That will be irony, if not justice.”

  I kept my finger poised, but my grip grew uncertain.

  “The hell with justice, just shoot him already,” Lil urged.

  “Will you be executioner as well as judge?” Shadow-and-Flame demanded through David Garrett’s mouth. Around his human eyes, I saw the smallest twitch of fear. “No thought, no hesitation, only fury and death. Is this not the very certainty you condemn in me?”

  Holding it stiffly to hide the tremor I felt, I pulled my forefinger well away from the trigger and lowered the gun. Garrett’s features briefly flashed relief, swiftly eclipsed by the Gibburim’s scorn.

  “I had hoped for better from you, brother,” he intoned. “There was a time when your rage was not so swiftly quenched.”

  “Get out,” I said, gesturing toward the door.

  Again that booming laugh pounded against my ears. Garrett’s voice dropped several registers, the second set of tones overwhelming the first. That other voice was so deep, it rumbled like bass at a metal concert.

  “Leave?” he responded. “Fah! To honor our past association, I will let you walk out without arresting you for the crimes committed in this tainted home.” At my look of incredulity, he sneered, “It would be easy enough. Does a lifetime in mortal prison appeal to your sense of martyrdom?”

  “Don’t give me a reason to hurt you, Gibburim,” Lil warned. “Carly would be disappointed if I wrecked these nails clawing that arrogant smirk off your face.” The threatening growl of an angry lioness punctuated her words.

  Garrett and his rider didn’t even spare her a glance—which was seriously stupid of them. Despite her joke about the manicure, Lil’s threat of violence was deadly serious.

  “Don’t even think about hanging this on me,” I snarled. “You murdered a four-year-old girl just to paint a message on the damned wall, and then got your ass kicked by the guy anyway.”

  Streaking flames leapt from the twin set of inhuman eyes.

  I’d struck a nerve.

  “You know the cost of such magics,” he replied.

  “Oh, sure,” I scoffed. “Cutting a little girl to ribbons while she begs you to stop—totally justified. And now you’re riding around inside a cop. I’m sure he’s as willing as she was.”

  “There is always a choice,” Shadow-and-Flame rumbled—but Garrett’s eyes didn’t look so certain. The thing riding him asserted control, and those scared, mortal eyes narrowed to match the inhuman ones. “This vessel cast his lot with me. But if you harbor doubts about my actions with the girl, then cease insulting me with empty words and call a trial. Or have you grown too soft in your retirement to even dare?”

  I almost agreed, right then and there, but stopped myself. Did we even have tribunals? A few moments before, he was goading me to be judge and executioner, so I had no clue. Neither Sal nor Remy had ever said anything of the sort, but would the Nephilim even bother? Likely not.

  That decided it.

  “I want to smash your face in for what I saw you do to that little girl,” I said, “but I’ll settle for a trial. Kaylee deserves at least that much.”

  “Dammit, Zack, don’t let him bait you into this,” Lil hissed.

  “If I am guilty,” he stated, “I will make reparations. If not, you will join me in hunting Terhuziel. Once I have locked him down with the new seal, we shall work together to purge everything from this city that bears his taint.”

  “You’re guilty,” I stated flatly.

  “Then we are agreed?”

  “Sure.”

  A hard, flat crack echoed through the hall. Lil’s palm, impacting her forehead.

  “Mother’s Tears, Zaquiel,” she cried. “You need a killswitch for that mouth.”

  We both ignored her. The Gibburim Garret grinned.

  “Then let us begin.”

  With a hissing exhalation, he called the power of his Name. The syllables washed over me like a blast of heat from an industrial oven, evoking sparks all the way down to the tips of my wings.

  Mal phāel.

  The acrid stink of sulfur filled my nose, and in the next instant, a blade leapt forth in Garrett’s hand—three and a half feet of blackened steel edged in blood-red flames. It was a hacking weapon, built like a falchion, but on a much larger scale. Falchions were typically one-handed weapons. This blade required two. It had a single sharp edge and a flat end that angled backward to a point. A wavering corona of heat spilled around it, chewing the air.

  “Shall we dance, my brother?” he asked. Gripping its over-long hilt in both of his big-knuckled mitts, Garrett held the flaming weapon angled protectively across his body. That maniac grin never slipped from his face.

  “Hang on just a minute,” I said quickly. “I thought we had an agreement.”

  “We do,” he replied. “Trial by combat. Honor must be served.”

  Fuck me running.

  “Zack, screw the honor-bound shit for once,” Lil snarled. “Just cut the vessel out from under him so we can get out of here.”

  Even as she said it, something tugged deep in my chest. Backing out now didn’t feel like an option. With growing trepidation, I kept my eyes locked on Malphael while I caught the edge of one plastic bag with my heel. I tugged till I tore my boot free, then did the same with the other one. No need for handicaps.

  Malphael took it for stalling.

  “Have you grown so weak you would concede my point without so much as raising your blades to meet mine?” the Gibburim taunted. He rose onto the balls of his feet, already swaying with the urge to strike.

  “I’m not going to help you purge this city when you think the murder of children is an acceptable action,” I replied. With a roar, I invoked the syllables of my own Name. Twin blades flashed to life in my hands, their wicked curves dancing with blue-white fi
re. I held the spirit-daggers out to either side, already planning where I’d plant them first.

  “Mother’s Tears, Zaquiel,” Lil groaned.

  “I shall take pity on you,” Malphael intoned. “The winner is he who lands a second strike after his first.” His eyes flicked toward Lil. “No interference from the hellcat.”

  My blades thrummed with a familiar weight against my palms. Slowly, I nodded.

  “Now bring it, asshole.”

  Lil made an exasperated noise, and I heard her smack her fist into the wall.

  “Fuck it,” she huffed. “You’re on your own. When you two are done with the dick-waving, let me know.” She turned on her heel and stomped off down the hallway, plastic bags crunching.

  All other words were lost to a blaze of light and fury.

  39

  We fought with a formality as familiar as my blades. For the first pass I lunged, swift and low, testing his reactions. Garrett was a big man, Malphael even bigger. While the Gibburim didn’t have to worry too much about physical barriers like the ceiling and walls, Garrett did. I drove him back past the archway that opened on the dining room, hoping to limit his mobility. There wasn’t a whole lot of room to maneuver in the hall.

  He dodged with unhurried grace, taking a step back but working it into a swift turn so he retained a clear angle on the opening. All the while he kept that cleaving length of blackened steel angled across his body, warding off any easy strikes.

  He had to expose himself to swing the blade, but the thing had such a massive reach, my head and shoulders would be wide open even if I tried ducking to get under his attack. We made a few more passes, each studying the other, neither fully committing to any strike.

  I fell back, keeping my body low, and readjusted my grip on my blades. The power singing through them thrummed all the way up my arms, focused by the endless repetition of three potent syllables in the substrata of my mind.

  Zaquiel.

  My magic, my station, my Name.

  It took both concentration and energy to maintain the weapons in such a physical form—but I’d had practice keeping them going in long fights with cacodaimons. The shape of my blades wasn’t a conscious decision, but it held a fortunate practicality. The less mass I had to focus, the less juice it took to maintain the things. Malphael’s blade—that was like a Humvee to my Corvette. A huge energy sink. Endurance was going to be a factor in this fight. If I drew things out, I could turn that to my advantage.

  Even better if I had my daggers.

  The thought came unbidden, complete with a vivid recollection of two very real steel daggers forged in the image of my spirit-blades. The memory—as well as the sharp pang of longing that accompanied it—was foreign to me. I’d never seen those daggers before.

  Had I?

  The intensity of the associations shattered my focus on the fight. Malphael made a pass and nearly got me square on the shoulder. At the last instant, I danced away, shoving the distracting thoughts to the back of my mind.

  Later.

  We circled again, and while I studied him, it occurred to me that his weapon had seemed even bigger in the Shadowside imprint of his battle with Terhuziel—comically big. Maybe that had merely been a distortion of the imprint, but it might indicate wear and tear on his part. Malphael had gotten his ass handed to him at the end of that fight, and he’d been running around in a new body since. That had to take a toll.

  The Gibburim could tell when I was thinking too hard, and before I could finish the next thought, he came at me, bringing his weapon down like an axe. I was half a heartbeat too slow to dodge, so I brought my twin daggers up, catching his sword where they crossed. Red flames met blue in a shower of angry sparks.

  He bore down, trying to break my defense with brute force. I held my ground, but all I could see was the wicked edge of the blood-rimmed steel a few bare inches from my nose. I struggled to get a foot into play, balancing precariously as I aimed for his gut. It connected. With a shout, I hurled him backward.

  Before he could fully recover, I feinted forward, making a half-hearted stab in the region of his stomach. That got the reaction I desired—he angled his body away, dodging the dagger, then brought his great sword down in an arcing swing.

  I ducked the blow with the intent of rolling behind him. As quick as I was with my blades, I would catch him in the small of the back while the momentum of his strike was still carrying him forward. Although I successfully avoided his blow with my physical body, he clipped me on the wing. I staggered, roaring with pain and fury, then pivoted near his unprotected back, too shocked by the bite of his steel to land a jab of my own.

  “You left yourself open,” he taunted.

  “Won’t. Happen. Again.”

  I crouched at the entrance to the dining room. Pain from my wing radiated all the way down to the tips of my fingers on my right side. That hand tingled sharply as I shifted my grip.

  Right. So we were playing with more than just our physical bodies. That changed the game. I hoped he understood the kind of shit-storm he just invited. Then again, it worked in my favor if he never saw it coming.

  Cocky now, he shifted briefly to a one-handed grip, rolling his wrist to cut a circle in the air with the massive falchion.

  “You want Terhuziel, right?” I asked.

  “I will not be distracted by your talking.”

  We sketched slow circles around each other, neither letting his guard drop.

  “Not distracting,” I continued. “A little extra wager on the outcome of this fight. Don’t you want something else if you win?”

  Ignoring the question, he drove me back with another powerful blow. I sidestepped in time, darting forward to catch his leg with one of my blades. Arcing jolts of power flickered against the walls as he swung his weapon around in time to block.

  “I want you gone,” I said. “Along with Terhuziel.” He feinted, and I danced away, falling further back into the dining room. He followed, and I grimaced to cover my smile. “Far as I can tell, you chased him here, and your little feud’s brought nothing but death and chaos to my city.”

  “Little feud?” he countered. Echoes of Malphael’s flames danced in the depths of Garrett’s eyes. “Have you strayed so far from your station in the House of Righteousness that you would demean our sacred duty?”

  No clue what he was talking about, but it sure sounded important. I dashed forward, rolling onto my good shoulder—careful this time to tuck my wings. I almost managed to hamstring him, but he was just a touch swifter, blocking with his sword again. Soot and brimstone stung my nose as I deflected his counterattack.

  Then he was in position, all the bits that were Malphael spreading wide to the vaulted ceiling of the dining room. I’d herded him effectively. Nothing behind him for about three feet, no walls pinning him on either side.

  “So what else do you want if you win?” I prompted.

  “You are losing.” He laughed. “Yet you would bargain?”

  “You know me. I’m cocky like that.”

  The molten cores of Malphael’s strangely twinned eyes danced with more amusement than fury.

  “Yes. I remember. You have always fought with the heart of a Gibburim.”

  Wasn’t sure that qualified as a compliment, but I kept that opinion to myself. He needed to agree before I launched this gambit.

  “So, if I win, you get the hell out and take Terhuziel with you. I don’t want to see your ugly face again.”

  “Only till the end of this flesh,” Malphael suggested. “Garrett, and Westland.”

  I chewed my cheeks to hold back my grin. Not long now. He made another sally. I responded with a flurry of blows, my blades arcing so swiftly they left blue-white trails burning on the air behind them. He defended by dodging or catching them on the edge of his sword each time—just barely.

  “I can agree to that,” I said. “What’s your price?”

  A smile split his face—both the Garrett-face and the visage of shadow and flame
hovering above it. It was a look born of blood, ferocity, and a naked lust for warfare. Tatters of memory stirred, and my mind welled with the roar of fire and the endless clashing of blades.

  I clung to my memory of his atrocity, because dammit, a part of me missed that wild music of battle.

  “You will come back with me,” he replied. The basso notes of Malphael’s voice thrummed beneath Garrett’s. “Pledge this flesh once more to our crusade.”

  “We don’t fight the Blood Wars any more,” I choked.

  “One must fight to keep the peace. You have turned your face away, but you know we remain our brothers’ keepers.”

  He is not the good guy, I reminded myself, but fuck, it was hard to argue with his sentiment. I had four of our brothers tucked away in my desk at home, and I sure as hell didn’t trust them enough to let them go.

  I fucking hated my family.

  “Fine,” I said evenly. “I’ll go with you if you win.”

  But I won’t let you win, you child-killing asshole.

  “Done.”

  The instant he agreed, I charged—phasing out halfway through. The Kramer house was one big Crossing thanks largely to Malphael’s unspeakable crusade. The brief transit through the Shadowside stole my breath and pressed like a low front against my ears.

  I popped back into reality immediately behind him, digging the tip of one of my daggers into the soft flesh over his kidney. It wasn’t a physical wound, but that didn’t mean it was painless.

  “Tag,” I hissed against his ear, then spun away as he turned to chop viciously across my arm.

  “That is a cheat,” he bellowed.

  My blades blurred again, neatly keeping his big-ass sword away from all of my tender parts. I noticed with grim satisfaction that the swirling aura of heat and flame was starting to fade. Effort gnawed a hole under my own ribs, but I was used to fighting on empty. I was happy to win this last point through a war of attrition.

  “Didn’t say I couldn’t,” I replied.

  “Then I will stop holding back as well.” Rage made curling drifts of smoke and embers rise from his words. I would’ve felt better about that if I knew what to expect.