Queen of the Immortals

by T. R. Hamby

  When he finally gave up his search he circled over the only campfire near the Nuolja trail. Now he felt a rush as he homed in on the camp. Gabriel was sitting by the fire, and Barry stretched his wings, landing lightly beside him.

  He shook out his feathers and cocked his head at Gabriel, as if to say, What’re you doing?

  Gabriel was relaxing against his pack, performing tricks with his knife. The Blade flashed as it spun in the air.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I don’t have anything else to do.”

  He reached over and stroked the feathers on Barry’s chest. His shirt was off, which Barry appreciated.

  He finally turned. He didn’t quite know how it worked, only that a certain movement seemed to bring him back to his human body. The world rushed around him, spinning quickly, until he was human again, crouching on the ground beside Gabriel.

  Gabriel kissed him before asking, “Anything?”

  Barry shook his head and sat down. “Nothing.”

  Gabriel sighed. “This is hopeless.”

  “Nora and Mel found more bodies, eh? She must be over there.”

  “She must be jumping back and forth, with the other missing victims being spread out all over the park. And we haven’t found the other hikers who chose to stay. Why are humans so stupid?” He added, poking his knife in the dirt. “It’s practically like a horror movie out here.”

  “Living on the edge,” Barry muttered quietly.

  He had no idea what to do. He hadn’t seen any more fires on this trail but that one time, when they had agreed to split up. He wondered if it would be a good idea to Travel back to Mel and Nora, and help them with their search.

  Suddenly Gabriel stiffened. Barry looked at him as he scrambled to his feet.

  “My sister,” he breathed, and he grabbed his shirt and threw it on. “She’s Calling me.”

  Barry stood up too. “Is it the baby?”

  “No idea. I have to see--you’ll be all right? I’ll be quick--”

  “Yeah, go on. I’ll be here.”

  Gabriel kissed him--hard this time--and then vanished.

  Barry felt a little deflated, standing alone by the crackling fire. He hoped the baby was okay--and Serene, too, despite their differences. He had never expected to find love, but now that he had, dealing with difficult in-laws mystified him.

  He picked up Gabriel’s knife and sat down. He had learned a couple tricks himself, and spent some time twirling it in his fingers.

  It happened very fast. He felt a Presence coming from across the fire. He jumped up, and an arrow whistled over the flames and buried itself into his shoulder.

  Pain burst in the joint, and he swore, grasping the shaft with his left hand. It was a small arrow, only about ten inches long. It was painful even to touch, and he swore again, doubling over.

  He heard a familiar chuckle--an angry chuckle.

  “I thought I already killed you,” Ceres said, coming around the fire. “What, are you an Angel now? You can’t be….I hope human-made arrows will still kill you….”

  She smirked, eyeing him greedily. “Maybe I should use a Blade instead.”

  He scowled at her, breathing heavily, trying to muster up the strength to yank the arrow out of his flesh. If he couldn’t remove it, he couldn’t fly.

  “And your fingers are back,” she whispered, confusion masking her anger. “I wanted to keep those.”

  “You killed those people,” Barry spat, and she smiled coolly.

  “Eleven so far. I was surprised some of the humans stayed after word got out that hikers were missing. Supremely stupid.”

  She glowered at him. “You were stupid to come back, however you did.”

  “I came back to kill you,” Barry hissed, and she pounced.

  She removed a knife and swung. Barry ducked, grabbed Gabriel’s Blade, leapt forward and buried it into her leg. She shrieked, and sent her boot in his face.

  Stars popped in his vision as he whirled onto his back. Christ.

  He opened his eyes just as Ceres wrenched Gabriel’s knife from her leg. She came down with it, and Barry grabbed her wrist and threw her to the ground.

  She looked stunned. She hadn’t expected him to be as strong as her.

  “Even ground,” he growled, spitting blood in her face.

  She shrieked, furious, and kicked him again. Her boot made contact again, and he swore. She straddled him, picking up her knife, but he grabbed her wrist again, and they rolled, grappling with the Blade.

  Ceres grasped Barry’s throat and squeezed, continuing to wrestle over the knife. Barry grabbed her shoulder and wrenched her arm from its socket.

  She howled, and he threw her off of him. She flew several meters and landed in a heap.

  Barry sat up, and in one swift movement yanked the arrow out of his shoulder. Ceres was pushing herself up, growling.

  He darted to the side, sprinting, feeling his shoulder slowly knit itself back together.

  Then he jumped, bursting into a mass of feathers and talons. He faltered, his shoulder still injured, but then gained height, beating his wings through the pain.

  He looked down; Ceres was standing, enraged. He saw her go for her bow, and he dove. She looked up just in time to see his talons coming at her face.

  She screamed as he tore at her eyes. Blood and flesh poured down her face, and she stumbled away, gripping it. Barry landed, turned, and stood, human again.

  He looked at her. She was lying on the ground, a hand over her face, moaning and whimpering, writhing. She didn’t look anything like the powerful Amazon she was a few moments ago.

  His heart was slowing as he watched her. When he realized she truly wasn’t getting up, he looked around for Gabriel’s knife. He found it, and slowly walked toward her.

  She must have felt his Presence come near. “No--please,” she breathed, trying desperately, blinded and injured, to shuffle away. “Please don’t kill me.”

  Barry wasn’t moved. He knelt beside her, and his heart began to race again.

  He had never done this before.

  “Please….please….”

  He ignored her pleas, took the Blade, and firmly slid it across her throat.

  He did a good job, clearly hitting an artery. Blood pumped out of her, staining the snow scarlet. She grasped her throat, writhing and choking. But in a moment she was still, and her body disappeared.

  Gilla

  Gilla and Palmer were rolling on the floor, punching, kicking. They crashed into the bed, the walls, the bookshelf. Palmer was vicious, grabbing Gilla’s hair, kneeing her in the ribs.

  She didn’t know if she could win this fight.

  No, focus. She could do it. She was stronger than him; she was unkillable, invincible.

  Palmer finally grabbed her by her hips and threw her into the bookshelf. Gilla crashed to the floor, grimacing. Books showered onto her, and she shielded her head.

  She looked up. Palmer was racing to his bureau. He tore open a drawer and extracted a Blade.

  Now Gilla saw red. She pushed herself off the floor, raised a hand, and focused.

  It didn’t happen right away. She was too disoriented, too intoxicated. But after a moment--in which Palmer started after her--his hand threw itself outward, releasing the dagger.

  Palmer cried out as if he’d been burned, and Gilla jumped to her feet. She charged him and bowled him over, sending both of them towards the floor--

  The room blurred, and there was a rush. They were jumping through space, Palmer clumsily Traveling them to--

  A bar. A crowd of people paused to stare at them.

  Then a boardroom, closed up for the night.

  And then, an apartment.

  They landed hard on the floor. This time Palmer shoved Gilla off of him, and they scrambled to their feet.

  Gilla stumbled, fell, and then got back up. Her head was positively throbbing, and her stomach was very nauseous.

  She looked around: The apartment wasn’t decorated,
wasn’t painted. No furniture, no nothing.

  Palmer spat blood and looked at her. “What are you?” he breathed, incensed.

  Gilla just scowled at him. She was ready.

  Palmer took a step forward. “Speak! I said--”

  Gilla raised her hand, and with a simple twitch, Palmer’s head jerked. His neck snapped, and he collapsed.

  There was a long pause.

  Gilla watched as Palmer twitched on the floor, eyes wide with terror. She approached him, breathing heavily. He looked up at her, bewildered and in pain.

  Gilla took a steadying breath, and removed the knife strapped under her dress. Palmer let out a fearful moan as she knelt beside him.

  She rose once it was done, after his body had vanished.

  He was dead. The bastard was dead.

  Suddenly there was a noise. Gilla frowned, and looked around. It was muffled, but sounded like a woman.

  A woman screaming.

  Shit. Where was she?

  She followed the noise to a back bedroom. The door had a padlock on it, and muffled pounding could be heard on the other side.

  Jesus.

  Gilla smashed the lock and wrenched open the door. At first the woman cowered, apparently terrified that she was Palmer. But when she saw Gilla she sobbed, and threw her arms around her neck.

  “Oh god, thank you, thank you,” she cried, shaking like a leaf. “Thank god you came, thank god….”

  Emily Stanton.

  Gilla held her, stunned. The little bedroom had a bare mattress on the floor, blankets, a TV. Not uncomfortable living, perhaps. Except for the blood on the sheets.

  Gilla shivered, and she felt very, very sick.

  The woman pulled away, brushing at her eyes. “Are the police coming?”

  Gilla hesitated. She took her hand, and together they ventured out of the building.

  They were on an abandoned street, still very early in the morning. It was cold, and the two huddled together for warmth.

  Gilla took out her phone. The screen had shattered, but she was still able to text Michael.

  On Lee Avenue, she typed. R u OK?

  He texted back right away. Yes. On my way. You OK?

  Yes. Have ES with me.

  Alive?

  Yes.

  Emily clung to her, and together they sat on the curb, shivering.

  “He made me come with him….” she whispered. “I remember him coming to my window, grabbing my hand….and then nothing….I woke up here….and he was….”

  She began to cry, and Gilla held her. She knew exactly how she felt, and it made her stomach turn even more.

  “Where is he?” she whispered, looking around fearfully.

  She looked at Gilla, who hesitated. There was no easy way to say it. She took a finger and slid it across her throat.

  Emily let out a sigh, holding a hand over her heart. “God, thank god. Never again.”

  You are brave, Gilla signed. Emily frowned, and Gilla pointed at her. Then she took a fist and gently beat it against her chest.

  Emily managed a smile. “Thank you….um….who are you?”

  Gilla simply shrugged. Her head hurt too much to think of a smart answer.

  Michael

  When he arrived on Lee Avenue he found Gilla and a brunette woman sitting on the curb together. They stood when he approached, and the woman steadied Gilla before she could fall over.

  “You’re all right?” he asked.

  He was mostly asking Gilla, who looked awful. There was some dried blood on her mouth, her dress was disheveled, and her face looked green.

  “Are you police?” the woman asked uncertainly.

  Michael hesitated. “More like private detectives.”

  “Oh,” she murmured, apparently dazed. “Like Sherlock Holmes.”

  Michael smiled, and nodded gently. “Yeah.”

  He looked her over. Her clothes were dirty, and there were purple bruises on her neck. She shivered in the cold.

  His stomach lurched, and he slipped off his coat, wrapping it around her. She murmured a tiny “thank you,” pulling the coat around herself.

  They couldn’t leave her alone. Michael dialed 999, and the three waited on the curb for the police to arrive. Gilla laid her head on his shoulder, and Michael slipped an arm around her waist. He had only seen her this drunk a couple times. She would be in for a world of pain in the morning.

  They stood as soon as the first cruiser turned onto the street, and the woman took an anxious step forward. Michael took Gilla’s hand and tipped them backward.

  They were both quiet when they landed. Michael made sure Gilla was uninjured--pointlessly, of course, since any injuries she had sustained would have healed by now. They only answered a few questions--where was Palmer, where was Cecille.

  “Did he….did he hurt you?” Michael asked softly.

  His heart pounded. He needed her to be okay. To not suffer as she had suffered with Will.

  They were sitting on their bed at the Westminster house. Gilla stared at her hands and swallowed. She took a shaky breath and shook her head.

  Just groped me, she signed.

  Michael felt a mixture of fury and relief.

  Then Gilla got up and stumbled to the bathroom. Michael knew what was coming. He followed behind, rubbing her back and holding her hair from her face while she was sick. At one point she weakly insisted that he leave, but he ignored her, and she was grateful.

  He spent the night taking care of Gilla, alternating between helping her to the toilet and lying on the bed thinking.

  He had killed. For the first time he had killed--with his bare hands, at least. The most he had ever done was indirectly--chasing a villain into the sea, finding humans for Mel to dispatch. This time he had done it, and he felt monstrous.

  He didn’t know why. It was, at the very least, self defense. And not only that--she had clearly deserved it. She had been helping Palmer this whole time. She needed to be dealt with.

  Then he thought of Lilith, and his insides sickened. God, what had he done? He had used his sister as a weapon to kill an innocent woman, Mel’s love. He had destroyed every good thing in his life in one action.

  He thought of that woman, the brunette who Gilla had freed from Palmer’s prison. Then he thought of Lilith. Young, innocent, vulnerable.

  He ran a hand over his face, squeezed his eyes shut. God. What did it matter if he had killed an evil Angel? What he had done thousands of years ago was far, far worse.

  In the morning he made some coffee and took it back to the bedroom. Gilla was stirring, and she peeked at him from under the blanket.

  “Hey. How are you feeling?” he murmured, setting a mug on the end table.

  Her face was pale, and her hair was a mess, but otherwise she looked well. She offered a weak thumbs-up, and he smiled.

  She then took his hand.

  Suddenly he felt flushed, a little dizzy. He frowned, staring at their hands clasped together.

  He should talk to her. Tell her what he was thinking. It was obvious there was something on his mind.

  “I’m thinking about Lilith again,” he found himself blurting. “I’m a monster. I killed her. I don’t deserve to be alive.”

  Gilla sat up, whipping her hand from his. He stared at her, still a little dizzy, as she signed, No, no. I absorbed his power. I didn’t mean to make you say that. I’m sorry.

  It took a moment for her words to register. Michael took a shaky breath, and lowered himself onto the bed. Shame washed over him, and he hunched over, holding his head in his hands. Gilla drew close and stroked his shoulder soothingly.

  He shivered. He wasn’t sure what had unnerved him the most--his dark thoughts, or that Gilla had drawn them out of him so easily.

  Gilla finally patted his arm, and he looked at her. She was still pale, and her expression was pained, worried.

  I’m sorry, she signed.

  “It’s all right,” he sighed, running his hands through his hair. “I’m fine.”


  She got his attention again. You deserve to be alive, she said firmly, her face set. You deserve to be alive for me. And for our family. We all love you, even Mel.

  “You shouldn’t--”

  Yes, we should, she interrupted, her hands flying.

  He watched her. It made him happy to see her defending him, trying desperately to convince him that he deserved her love. He didn’t quite believe her--but it didn’t matter. He was here, and he wasn’t going anywhere.

  She was right. He had a family now. Punk kid included.

  Suddenly he heard something.

  Mica. Mica.

  He jumped to his feet. “Serene,” he said, to a bewildered Gilla. “She’s Calling--could be the baby--”

  Gilla gestured for him to go.

  “You’ll be okay? You’re sure?”

  Yes, go, she replied, waving him away.

  Michael nodded, looking at her one final time before stepping backward.

  He fell upwards, until his feet landed on a clay floor.

  He was in a house, on what looked like the second floor. Outside a nearby window he could see the lake, glittering in the sun. There was a warm breeze, and the room was bright.

  There was a small crowd before him. Michael saw Judith, Helena--and he knew instantly that the child had been born.

  The others stepped aside, and there was Serene, sitting in a chair with a bundle in her arms. Her cheeks were pink, and she was smiling--beaming. She caught sight of him and grinned.

  “Hey,” she greeted as he approached.

  He drew beside her. The bundle in her arms was an Angel--a very small, very new Angel. It was fast asleep, its little hands resting by its head. It was olive-skinned, with dark hair, rather like its father. But it had Serene’s face--her eyes, her nose, her mouth.

  “It’s a boy,” she said quietly.

  He smiled. Happiness and pride flooded him, and he kissed her cheek.

  “What did you name him?”

  She shot him that smile he had missed. “Sydney.”

  He tried not to laugh. “Very Australian.”

  “It’s my favorite city,” she murmured, brushing a knuckle against her son’s cheek. “Hopefully I can go back soon.”