by Vox Day
“What is it,” Brien asked him.
Derek shook his head, and pulled a rolled-up plastic sandwich bag out of his jacket.
“Were we ever that clueless and geeky? Did we ever need to fit in so bad?”
He didn’t have to tell Brien to whom he was referring. Brien nodded slowly, reached into his pocket then flicked his lighter to fire up the half-smoked fattie in Derek’s mouth.
“Yeah, I’m afraid we were.”
Derek inhaled thoughtfully. The glare from the house lights passing through the tree branches cast a strangely patterned shadow over his face, as if he were a Maori warrior or maybe a Dark Lord of the Sith. Brien couldn’t see his eyes, lost as they were in the darkness.
“I think you’re right.” Derek said at last, although his voice was too tightly suppressed for Brien to tell if his friend was feeling sad or just reminiscing. Then a cloud of smoke exploded in his face as Derek laughed and was himself again.
“So do you think we should just kill him now and spare him the misery?”
Brien grinned wryly. “That might be kinder.”
The Walter’s house was a cozy, unpretentious rambler across the street from the lake. Mrs. Walters was a tall, attractive woman with a southern drawl who didn’t seem at all put out by her surprise guests. She made a comfortable bed for Christopher on her living room couch, then hurried off to the kitchen to heat up some cider for Jami and coffee for her husband. Mr. Walters called the doctor, who promised to come right over, and he must have lived quite close because his car pulled into the driveway less than five minutes later.
Jami was impressed by how smoothly Mrs. Walters steered her into the kitchen and away from Christopher when the doctor arrived. She didn’t protest, though, she just felt grateful to be able to sit down with her mug of cider and small plate of cookies and relax for a second. For some reason, she’d felt that everything was going to be okay from the moment she walked into the Walters’ modest little house. Everything about them felt safe, and friendly, and good. In fact, she felt so comfortable that for a moment, she almost forgot what had brought her here.
It made her curious, and before she thought about it, the question had slipped out of her mouth.
“Has your husband ever had any problems with his heart, Mrs. Walters?”
The older woman raised her eyebrows.
“My goodness, no. Why would you say that, honey?”
Jami wished she’d bitten her tongue instead of opening her big fat mouth, but as she looked into the concerned brown eyes of the other woman, she knew she wasn’t going to lie to her now.
“Well, because when I found my brother, he was lying right by your husband. He was unconscious too. I guess, I’m pretty sure, um, that he had a heart attack or something.”
She winced as Mrs. Walters raised a hand to her mouth in shock. That was stupid, she accused herself. Why worry her about it, since her husband was obviously okay. He’d carried Christopher all the way to his house without any problem, after all.
“Charles? Oh, no….” The woman shook her head. “That doesn’t seem possible. Charles has always been very healthy. He keeps himself quite active. He used to be quite an athlete in his day, before he went to seminary.”
“Yeah, I was thinking maybe he played football,” Jami said. “Wait a minute, did you say seminary?”
The black woman nodded.
“Oh, yes. My husband is the pastor at Elim Baptist Church, in Roseville. You didn’t know that?”
Jami shook her head.
“I had no idea.”
But now she had another idea in her head, and it wasn’t one she enjoyed at all. That nice warm feeling inside her was gone now, as goosebumps made their prickly way up both her arms. Those… those jerks had tried to kill Mr. Walters and her brother tonight! She was sure of it. Whatever doubts she’d had about the weirdness being a Warriors thing disappeared now, and although she knew she was among friends, she couldn’t help but feel frightened and dismayed. It was as if she found herself suddenly standing at the edge of a big black hole just waiting to suck her in and chew her up.
“It’s okay now, honey.”
As the pleasant drawl broke into her nightmarish thoughts, Jami was amazed to find that Mrs. Walters, despite what must have been the awful shock of hearing of her husband’s collapse, was the one comforting her. The pastor’s wife stroked her hand soothingly.
“It must have been terrible for you, finding both of them like that. But don’t you be afraid, I can tell you everything is going to be fine.” She smiled gently at Jami. “In this house, we trust in the Good Lord. And even though I sure do hope there’s nothing wrong with Charles’ heart, I know what’s right with it is the Lord Jesus inside him.”
Jami was awed, and a little humbled, by the woman’s strong faith. Here she was, just about ready to burst into tears because the stupid Fallen were scaring her again, while this pastor’s wife was barely fazed by the news of her husband maybe having a heart attack.
I wonder if these are people we could talk to about some of this stuff, she was thinking to herself when the sound of a familiar voice in the next room interrupted her.
“Listen, I think your brother’s awake!” Mrs. Walter’s squeezed her hand again and rose from the table. “The Lord looks after his sheep, honey, and I can tell you’re one of those he looks after. Now you go say hello to your brother and I’ll see if I can get that husband of mine to tell me what happened to him.”
Chapter 5
Bullet the Black Sky
When tempted, no one should say,“God is tempting me.” For God cannot be tempted by evil, nor does he tempt anyone; but each one is tempted when, by his own evil desire, he is dragged away and enticed. Then, after desire has conceived it, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death.
—James 1:13-15
It was dark, but even so, Melusine preferred to stand in the shadows cast by the outside lights of a nearby house. She waited in the darkness, her anger building with every passing moment. Christopher hadn’t interfered with the planned slaying of the preacher, but Jami had, and in the worst possible way. Not only that, but some little fool of a tree-demon had panicked at the sight of the Divine angels accompanying Christopher and tried to kill him by dropping a branch on his head!
What a complete disaster! The cursed preacher was going to live, and the Lewis children were not only back in action, but were performing miracles now too. Lord Balazel was not going to be pleased about this at all, and she was going to be in all kinds of additional trouble if the dryad had actually managed to kill her boy. Both the twins could die and rot in Heaven for all she cared, but losing Christopher’s soul would cost her personally and she preferred to put off the payment for as long as possible. And he was young, assuming he lived, there was plenty of time for him to see the light and turn his back on Heaven.
In her irritation, she must have been thinking too loudly, because Mariel chose just that moment to turn around and smile at her. It was a sweet, cheerful smile, full of triumphant contempt, and Melusine was filled with the sudden urge to rush out from the trees and throttle the infuriating blonde angel. Everything about her, her white wings, her long, red-golden hair, and her narrow little nose, just filled Melusine with hatred.
“Anytime, Melusine dear, anytime at all.”
Mariel was still smiling, but her green eyes were hard and her hand was resting lightly on the scabbard of her sword. Melusine already knew what its flames felt like, and she had no desire to feel them again now.
“Just wait, blondie. One of these days, I’m going to claw out those teary little eyes of yours and really give you something to cry about.”
Those eyes, which were not teary at the moment, narrowed, and Mariel took a step forward, but Paulus grabbed her arm.
“Not now, Mariel. This is not the time or the place.”
“Let me go, Paulus….”
Mariel protested, but she could not break free of the bi
g angel’s grasp.
“Oh, my hero,” Melusine jeered, clasping her hands and thrusting her chest out at the handsome Guardian. “You saved me… do let me reward you.”
Paulus pushed Mariel behind him, then folded his arms and stared at her.
“Your charms, such as they are, Melusine, hold no interest for me. I am a servant of the Most High God!”
Melusine grinned evilly.
“Why Paulus, I had no idea. No interest, you say? And here I’d thought your King rather frowned on such… abomination.”
Paulus’s face darkened, and he clenched his fists.
“You are impossible!”
Melusine laughed at the Guardian as he turned around and stalked angrily away after the others. It was a small victory after an evening of defeats, but it was a satisfying one all the same. Now, she had another small matter to attend to, and her momentary amusement turned into anger as she thought about what one foolish demon’s mistake might have cost her.
She marched into the middle of the yard just as the recovered preacher was carrying Christopher into a small house some two hundred cubits away. The guilty tree stood almost in the middle of the snow-covered lawn, its missing branch an open confession of its crime. She grabbed the tree with one hand, seizing its large trunk as if it were the throat of a living being.
“Get out of there right now, whatever your name is!” she screamed, digging her long, black nails into the rough, icy bark until a dark green liquid began oozing out from under her hand. “You heard me! Don’t make me come in after you!”
She squeezed harder, and a stream of the green stuff abruptly squirted out of a knothole above her head. It coalesced first into a mist, and then, reluctantly, into a solid form. It was a demon, if one could call it that, but fallen so far from its once angelic state that Melusine almost felt tempted to destroy it out of sheer disgust, if not pity.
“Please, please, great Mistress, I did not know,” the dryad fell to its knees, pleading for mercy. It was a small, pathetic being, with brown, lumpy skin that looked more like toad warts than tree bark. “I was just trying to help!”
“Help who, that blonde bitch?” Melusine shouted at him. “What were you trying to do, send him straight to Heaven? What about me, did you ever think about what would happen to me?”
“Yes!” the dryad screamed, then he cringed as she raised her fist. “N-No, no! I mean, I didn’t think at all. I was just scared with all those white angels and their swords. Their swords are fire!”
Melusine rolled her eyes.
“What the hell do you think they’re made of, aluminum? They’re angels, for god’s sake. So are you, or did you forget that while you sat here holding up squirrels' nests and getting peed on by dogs.”
“You don’t understand, Mistress. This tree is all I have!” The dryad was crying now, spilling green tears that smoked as they fell upon the icy snow. “A Great Lady like yourself cannot imagine what it’s like, I know, but this tree is all I have left to me. I know you are angry, and you are right to be angry, but please do not take it away from me.”
Melusine was disgusted by the little demon’s sniveling, but she found her anger draining from her nonetheless. The dryad may have thought she couldn’t understand his position, but she did, really. How long had it taken her to work her way back to where she was now, only a lowly Temptress? A rather important Temptress, to be sure, but she was no Great Lord. She frowned at the little spirit quaking in front of her. She could destroy him easily, but what would be the point? And she liked how he addressed her—Great Lady—there had once been a time when everyone had addressed her so.
“What’s your name?” she asked him.
“Bogspittle, Mistress,” he whispered, not daring to look up at her.
“Well, Boggie,” she couldn’t quite bring herself to utter his ridiculous name,“from now on you will serve me, do you understand? No one else!”
The dryad nodded fervently.
“Yes, yes, Great Lady, I understand, I understand! Your word alone shall be my law, Mistress!”
“Very well.”
Melusine peered more closely at her new subject and shook her head. His tree was not unattractive, it was actually a handsome, healthy oak with thick, muscular branches that stood in stark contrast to Boggie’s own spindly little limbs.
“And do something about yourself. You should be strong and tall, and handsome, like your tree. And do something about that skin, you look like some kind of swamp demon, not a tree spirit. All of my servants must be beautiful, like me.”
Boggie lifted his head and met her gaze for the first time. He was obviously just starting to think he might survive this encounter after all.
“I hear you, Mistress. I will try my best to please you.”
Melusine nodded and forced herself to tousle his lank, greenish hair. She hid her distaste, even though it felt like grimy bean sprouts.
“You do that, or I’ll shred your spirit, Boggie. You’ve already made your one mistake, and I won’t permit another.” She pointed at his tree. “Now go back and stay there until I call for you.”
She didn’t wait for his response, instead she spread her wings and leaped theatrically into the sky. Boggie was nothing, less than nothing, but a retinue of one was better than no retinue at all. The encounter made her feel just a little more confident as she flew to find Lord Balazel to deliver her bad news. None of it had been her fault, but that didn’t always matter and she knew that the archdemon was not going to be happy. It had been a bad night already, and, she feared, it was about to get worse.
The suburban neighborhoods seemed all the same from within the windows of the car. Little clumps of trees flashed by the window, indistinct, devoid of all character except for the occasional birch tree standing out in thin white contrast to the dark evergreens and thickly towering oaks. Once, there had been elms lining the avenues, their massive branches reaching out to form a canopy of leaves over the street, but the image was only a dim one in Brien’s memory. They’d been gone for years, cut down in a desperate attempt to save the few that had not yet contracted the dreaded Dutch Elm disease.
He frowned as he drove, remembering how hard Mom had cried when Dad had told her that the big elm in their front yard had to go; the tree crews had already marked it with the yellow paint of doom. It had seemed strange to him at the time, that Mom would shed tears for a tree. But now, he understood, at least a little. The white oak that they’d planted the next spring had reached a respectable size now, eleven years later. But the oaks, massive as they were, just couldn’t shade a street like the giant, sheltering elms. They could only populate a neighborhood, instead of defining it.
The neighborhoods at night seemed to be missing people as well as elms. There were plenty of lights on, of course, both inside and out, and there were third cars parked outside the two-car garages, but the only active sign of life was the eerie blue glow that flickered out of the ground floor windows of nearly every home. Some of the bigger homes boasted two glows, and a few even had three. To Brien, driving here at night felt almost like an out-of-body experience, as if alien life-forms from some spectral planet had somehow caused all the people living here to vanish. He imagined strange blue beings of light squatting triumphantly in the empty living rooms of their victims, performing ghastly, ghostly, rituals of unspeakable evil, and shivered.
An unexpectedly cool breeze brushed the back of his neck and made him jump, jerking him rudely back to the real world. One of the guys in the backseat had rolled a window down, and although it was spring, the night air still had a shiveringly cold edge to it.
“Hey, put it back up,” he yelled back at them.
He had to shout to make himself heard over the crushing roar of the speakers. He was already getting sick of the new Rage CD, but Derek had demanded it, and Zack the Ripper was shrieking something about guns and bullets when a real gun boomed about two feet behind his head. It sounded like a bomb going off in his ear, and in shock, Brien just a
bout ran the Taurus into a telephone pole.
“What the fuck was that?” he cursed, as he struggled to keep the car from swerving out of control.
Peals of hysterical laughter were the only response from the back seat, so Brien slammed on the brakes and pulled over to the side of the road in a towering rage. He hit the off button on the stereo, then twisted around and glared at Derek and Rob, who were slumped against each other, laughing uncontrollably. In Derek’s hand was a sleek-looking black handgun, and from the smell of gunpowder filling the car, it had obviously just been fired.
“Look at his face,” Rob gasped, pointing at him. “I think he’s gonna kill you!”
“Ooh, I’m scared,” Derek giggled, waving the pistol in Brien’s face.
“You stupid fuck!” Brien spat at his friend. “Give me that before you shoot somebody in the goddamn head! You want to end up like Pulp Fiction!”
He grabbed the barrel of the gun and jerked it out of Derek’s hand. It was a Glock, one of the nine millimeter models. The gun felt lighter than it looked, he remembered hearing that Glocks were made out of plastic or something like that. It had to be Mr. Wallace’s; Derek had said something once about his Dad liking Glocks. Shaking his head, he popped the magazine out, then eased back the action and carefully popped the last round out of the chamber. He slipped the ammunition in the plastic side pocket of the car door, and tossed the Glock back into Derek’s lap.
“What the hell are you doing, man? You could have killed somebody out there?”
Derek rolled his eyes.
“Oh, come on, relax, dude. There isn’t anyone within miles of here. Besides, I was trying to hit that Deer Crossing sign.”
“Trying, that’s right,” chuckled Rob. “I bet you missed that sucker by twenty feet.”
“Yeah, well if you hadn’t bumped my arm—”
“Hey, you missed, didn’t you? So pay up, where’s that dime bag—”
Brien saw red for a moment.
“Shut up, you idiots! What’s the matter with you, Derek? What if someone was out walking or jogging, and you hit him? I mean, what if a cop pulls us over now?”