by Gwenda Bond
Luke and I glance at each other.
“You passed the test,” I say as grandly as possible.
“Flying colors,” Luke adds.
Solomon levels the lance at us and it’s only remembering that he can’t hurt me that keeps me from running in the other direction. That and the con we’re trying to sell him.
“I’m not really a guardian,” I confess. “I’m allied with Luke here, whose father is—”
“Lucifer Morningstar, sovereign king of Hell.” Luke shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “He needed to make sure you were up to the task you’ve set for yourself.”
Solomon absorbs this. I wonder if Luke has any anxiety about what happens next, or if it’s only me that does. Maybe he doesn’t get anxious. No, that can’t be it. Everyone does. He must be excellent at hiding it, is all. Probably comes with the demonic starter pack.
Or with a dad like his you don’t show weakness to.
Suddenly, I’m grateful that ours ran out on Mom and only bothers to send a card with fifty bucks every year on our birthdays.
Solomon slowly shakes his head and then he chuckles. Save me from people who chuckle. “That’s why we got you instead of Rofocale, the minister. He sent his son.”
“The crown prince,” Luke says. “You could have been a touch more polite…”
Solomon waits, bowing his head slightly. Does that mean he’s buying it? The rest of the cultists do the same.
Luke dusts off his hands. “But bygones. We have bigger worlds to fry.”
“Sir, it’s happening,” one of the cultists says and holds up a phone.
Solomon lifts his hand and bares his teeth in that awful smile. “Speaking of that…”
“What’s happening?” I ask. My pulse quickens. Are we too late?
“Our first move,” Solomon says. “The weather today is cloudy with a chance of fire and brimstone.”
“Where?” Luke asks and feigns appreciation. I hope he is, anyway.
“Here.” Elerion lifts one hand from the lance and sweeps it around us.
“The angelic host outside will love that.” Luke whistles.
This is not good. We have to get the Holy Lance back, stat.
Luke must read my mind. He stretches and does a sort of yawn with an eyebrow arched. “You should let Callie have a go with that thing, as a favor to me. Father loves her.”
Solomon Elerion hesitates.
The clatter from the hallway reaches us. We all swivel toward it.
I figure we’re made and dive toward Solomon. I get one hand on the Holy Lance and it glows. Not pure white, not the darkness from before, but a mix of both as we struggle.
“Get her off,” Solomon says.
His cultists come at me and Luke begins knocking them out one by one with a hand in front of their faces. Since they can’t manage to grab me, presumably because of Solomon’s promise that I won’t be hurt, Luke’s strategy is effective. Although some of them manage to evade him, and the room descends into general mayhem.
Especially when Jared jogs through the door, Mag right behind him.
Solomon wrestles free from me and backs off to stand against us.
“I should’ve known,” he says.
“Yeah, you should’ve,” Luke says and knocks out the last cultist with a lifted palm. “Too bad you made that deal.”
“The deal doesn’t say anything about hurting you.” Solomon lifts the spear and points it at Luke.
My body thrums with the knowledge: He’s not wrong. He wouldn’t be that brave, would he? To threaten the devil’s son?
“Luke wasn’t lying about who he says he is,” I say.
“Then his father would probably thank me.” Solomon frowns as if thinking. “I don’t think this is fitting company for a prince of Hell. So, what will it be?”
“He’s not wrong,” Luke says to me. “He can’t hurt you and that’s what matters.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “No way. You promised to help me. Jared, catch!”
I toss the keys from the ceiling to Jared and lunge forward again.
I don’t go for the spear. Solomon is still holding it up, which leaves a crucial part of his anatomy unprotected. Jared darts around me and jabs the keys toward his face, raking them down one cheek, then dancing away.
Solomon’s roar of pain leaves me able to spike my knee hard right into his crotch. He moans and shoves me back before his knees crumple and …
The spear flies free.
“Luke!” I shout.
Luke doesn’t move for a long second and then he rushes in and grabs the lance with both hands.
The glow turns a soft red. Luke’s face tells me everything I need to know about how it feels for him to hold it.
He’s in agony. His scream confirms it.
He said it didn’t hurt him before … Another lie … But why? Why didn’t he tell me?
Solomon gets up and stalks toward Luke but Jared throws himself at the cult leader’s feet, hanging on to halt his movement as he attempts to keep walking. I start wide to get to Luke.
Solomon attempts to push Jared off him, which must not count as hurting. The two grapple.
“Get away from them!” Mag has found the painting meant to be Tesla’s beloved pigeon in the mess against the wall. They rush forward, gripping it in both hands, and bash it over Solomon’s head.
Which goes clean through. I’m impressed.
He staggers and—
He falls, his head sticking through the painting.
I finish my journey to Luke as quickly as possible and pry at the Holy Lance. His eyes are closed and he hangs on like his life depends on it. “No, I won’t give it to you. No.”
“It’s me,” I say. “Callie.”
Luke sucks in a gasp of air as his fingers release. His legs give out and he crumples to the floor.
Then I’m flying backward with the Holy Lance in my hands, the relic emitting a light so bright it seems to come from inside me and outside at once. We did it. We got the lance away from Solomon Elerion and his awful order. I didn’t honestly get to this point in my brain, because I wasn’t sure we’d be able to do it.
Definitely not this fast.
There’s one question in my mind: What do I do now?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
LUKE
The pain is inescapable, my body untethered from anything but its howling madness. The flaming river Phlegethon flows through my veins, fills my lungs, and there’s no escape. I burn from the inside out.
Finally, I could truly make Porsoth happy. I could write a whole treatise about the target level of suffering to inflict. My hands on the spear have yielded an exact prescription for maximum torture.
Over the course of what could be eons but is probably at most a minute or two, the sensation of not death, but suffering that seems to have no end, begins to, well, end. Or taper off, at least. The sensation fades like a scream getting farther away.
I’m back on the floor in my shell of a body. Which might be a burned-out husk, but I’m in it. I wonder if I look as exhausted as I am.
I’m weak. Too weak to open my eyes. Survival is a question.
If I do, I’ll never forget the utter wrong of my hands on the lance. A good so powerful when it came into contact with me, it tried to obliterate me.
“Luke, are you all right?” Callie asks. “I need some help here.”
A cool palm touches my cheek and I gasp, blistered by a sense of calm and light. I drag my eyes open.
I back away when I see that she has the spear in her other hand. She looks like an avenging angel. A faint white halo surrounds her, along with an image of a Tesla coil on the ceiling. Nice decorating touch.
“Luke, it’s me,” she says.
“I know,” I say and let my eyes drift closed again. “Just stay back.”
“Do you think he’s dying?” Jared asks, and I hear the underlying Is that a bad thing? in his tone. Nice solidarity, bro.
“He’s not dying,�
�� Callie snaps back.
I wonder what they’ll think when they find out about her soul. That it’s pledged to me and darkness. What if Father tortures Callie the way I was just tortured?
I can’t bear it.
“Luke, I need your help. Please wake up.”
She’s pleading. My weak heart responds to it.
“What help?” I manage to get the words out. She appeared fine to me. Glowing, actually. The picture of health and vitality and unstoppable power.
“We should tie up Solomon Elerion,” Mag says.
“I can’t believe you put that painting right over his head,” Jared says.
Mag sniffs. “Tesla’s pigeon is too good for him.”
Callie responds to them. “Just check for a Hand of Glory. If they don’t have one, we’ll lock them inside the room.”
“Good idea,” Jared says.
“I have my moments,” Callie returns.
They don’t need me. Just like I thought. Callie’s got her own little army, practically as good as the two outside. Certainly more fun to hang out with.
Hands shake my shoulders. “Luke, wake up. I’ve put down the lance. I need you.”
I force my eyes open again and stare up into Callie’s. There’s a storm brewing there. Doubt. And yes, need.
“What’s next?” she asks. “What do I do now?”
It becomes clear that she’s being absolutely honest.
She has no idea what happens next. And she thinks that I do. She needs me. Or believes she does, anyway.
There’s truly a first time for everything.
I manage to push myself up to a seated position and extend a hand to her. She helps me to my feet. I wobble.
Once we’re both relatively convinced I’m not about to fall, she lets go and picks up the Holy Lance. There’s that glow again. Callie of Good.
Jared holds his phone up so we can see the screen. A headline shouts apocalyptic news, along with a photo of gouts of flame. “I don’t want to interrupt, but there’s apparently fire and brimstone storms going on all over the place outside,” he says.
“He said that was their first move,” Callie said. “Any ideas?” she asks me.
“Start there.” I gasp the words. I suck in a breath, and say the next stronger. “Stop it.”
I don’t bother—because I don’t feel up to it yet—to explain that one apocalypse will likely trigger, to put a point on it, all of them. Most religious traditions are more intertwined behind the scenes than people realize. This is an extinction-level event in the making.
But it’s not like Callie needs more pressure at the moment.
“Right.” Callie frowns at the Holy Lance in her hands. “And I do that how?”
I can’t help smiling at her. “You’re way smarter than him and he managed to make it work. Just will it.”
Callie’s frown deepens as she examines me. “Are you going to be okay?”
Again with the worrying about me. I’m not used to it. I don’t know how to wave that off. I feel something akin to devastated. My throat chokes back up.
“Right as rain,” I grit out.
“I hope you like rain,” she says and our gazes hold. I remember standing in the night in Lisbon together what feels like a lifetime ago, when she was in pain from traveling in my manner. Now I can barely stand from the assault of good, but I aim to aid her. How far we’ve come.
Literally and figuratively.
That might be a hint of tears at the back of my eyes. I inhale sharply.
Gather your wits about you, Luke.
“Callie?” Mag interrupts our staring contest. “Fire and brimstone—”
“Raining from the sky,” Jared finishes. “Better get on that.”
Callie squints at me. “When all this is over, you’re getting a milkshake.” I’m puzzled, until she specifies. “Best treatment for most non-fatal injuries.”
“Milkshakes are Mom’s cure-all,” Jared says. “She’s going to kill us, you know.”
“I know.” Callie sets her shoulders. “Okay, I’m going to try this.”
“Should we get out of here first, in case he wakes up?” I ask.
I’m getting stronger by the second, so maybe this milkshake cure idea has something to it. But I still don’t want to deal with Solomon Elerion again anytime soon. Not if it can be avoided.
“Yes,” Jared agrees.
Mag locks the door we came in, the one that opens into that little vestibule. Meanwhile, Jared flicks open a portion of wall to reveal a hidden keypad, then punches in a series of numbers. That triggers the exit door to the hallway to open.
Callie hugs the lance to her with one arm, and reaches her opposite hand to me. “Lean on me,” she says.
I can’t resist, even with the possibility I might burn.
Surprisingly, touching her when she’s also touching the lance doesn’t hurt. It’s nice. That sense of peace and calm radiates through me.
Maybe not all good things hurt me.
“Wow, Luke, that is some major moony look,” Mag says.
“I do not,” I protest, “have a moony look. Impossible.”
“You kinda do,” Callie says. She shrugs the shoulder nearest me. “I don’t mind.”
“Let’s go,” I say with an eye roll I don’t mean.
We shuffle through the exit into the hallway. Jared secures the door behind us.
“Oh my god,” Mag says, pointing toward the front windows.
The scene outside is much, much worse than seeing it in a photo on a small phone screen. If Mag hadn’t been able to say that word without making thing worse, I’d wonder if I was back home.
Fire rains down in heavy gouts amid angry gray clouds that I’m betting fill the air with the reek of sulfur. The whole thing is akin to a volcanic eruption, but coming from above. Most of the fire burns out on the way down, but that just means we probably won’t die in fire caused by it. Yet.
“I always thought fire and brimstone was just an expression,” Callie says.
I see her face tighten into resolve. She marches toward the door and extends the Holy Lance out in front of her with both hands.
“Stop it,” she says. Then adds, “Right now.”
Nothing happens. There’s movement on the street outside. An angel winging low. Some flying demons pass the other way. The armies are inching toward real conflict.
“Stop it right now,” Callie tries again. “No more fire and brimstone.”
And again, no change in the horrific conditions.
Callie heaves a sigh and lowers the Holy Lance. She turns to me with a bewildered look.
“Why isn’t it working?” she asks.
I have no idea. You shouldn’t have put your faith in me.
“I’m not sure … Visualize what you want in detail and believe in your ability to stop it.”
She whirls back toward the windows. I step as close as I dare with the lance active.
Callie closes her eyes in concentration. After a long moment in which nothing changes, she sighs and opens them. “It’s still not working. What now?”
I’m turning out to be useless in this crisis, but I know someone who will have an answer. “Porsoth,” I say. “He’ll know what to do.”
We walk closer to the windows, staring out into the smoke and fire and angels and guardians and demons and hell-beasts along the road. There’s still an empty sort of no-man’s-land on the road directly in front of us. Sure, fire and brimstone rains down the whole way, but it’s a path.
“How do we get to him?” Callie asks. “Can we call him here?”
“Best not to draw too much attention to him, not while he’s babysitting Bosch. Rofocale might not realize he’s here. He could be called to combat.”
Callie frowns, concerned. “Bosch won’t be hurt by the fire, will she?”
“With Porsoth in charge? Not likely.” I gingerly take her arm, careful not to touch the Holy Lance. “We’ll have to cross the street to him though.”
; “Take an umbrella. No, that’s not going to work…” Mag glances around the lobby frantically for something to shield their best friend and it’s one of the sweetest things I’ve ever seen.
“That part I can handle,” I say.
I press the front door open and form a smoke canopy to cover us. After all, Mag’s right. A regular umbrella would burn.
“Be right back,” Callie says. “Or as soon as we can. Keep an eye on Solomon. He’s tricky.”
“We got it,” her brother says. I’m beginning to understand what Mag sees in him. He’s solid backup in a crisis. “Go.”
“Jared?” Callie hesitates.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry. I really am oka—good with this.” She ticks her head toward him and Mag.
“I said go,” he says, playing the long-suffering brother. But I see the sheen in both his and Mag’s eyes.
Hell’s bells, I still feel it in my own. None of us are sure we’re going to make it through this. That’s the only explanation.
Callie turns to me expectantly and I say, “After you.”
“Be careful!” Jared says. “I’m supposed to be in charge.”
Callie and I catch eyes and almost laugh, but then the heat hits us like a smackdown.
* * *
The trip is not what I’d call fun, even protected from the worst of it.
First off, fire falling from the sky makes the place into an oven. Callie’s constantly brushing sweat from her face, but there’s nothing I can do about that while maintaining our covering.
Then there’s the occasionally jeering demons who start to menace us, until they notice me and then they start mocking Callie. I could do without it, but we don’t have time for trifles.
Sometimes priorities truly suck. World ending, et cetera. And I made a promise. A promise I’m going to see through.
At last, we stand in front of Porsoth, who grips a wide black smoke umbrella in one hand and a panting Bosch’s collar in the other. He’s made himself and the dog hard to notice, and we slip into the pocket of his working as if it’s a niche in the wall of reality.
“You were successful!” Porsoth says. Then I watch it connect. We were successful, but things are still progressing toward apocalypse now. “What’s the trouble?”