by J. D. Brown
“What are you doing, Lyn?”
She opened her eyes to Sam’s reflection. He was terrifying and lovely, and she couldn’t stop the memory of his mouth on hers. He’d tasted like copper and man. Turning to face him, she placed her sliced hand on the delicate bare skin under his jaw and pushed onto her toes. She leaned in …
He knocked her hand aside and backed away, his gaze stern. “No.”
“Why not?” she asked. Funny thing was she really wanted him. Even if she wanted to destroy him too.
Sam held her gaze as a muscle feathered along his jaw. He was beautiful. Even his true form was fascinating. Most demons were black and oily or covered in scales. Sam was an ever-burning rock. All smooth plains and solid muscle. But he was soft too. His body gave just like any other warm-blooded animal.
“Because it’s over,” he said.
Lyn’s gaze went to the small red smudge on his neck. He didn’t even notice it. She snorted. What happened to her acidic bone-melting blood? Was it just a fluke? Or a trick of the eye crafted by the Duke of Bullshit?
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“It means I’m leaving. Forever.”
Lyn narrowed her gaze. A niggling feeling welled in her gut. “What are you talking about? We’re stuck together, remember?”
He studied her in that odd way that made no sense for a blind man. He drew his lips together and then slowly lifted one hand, holding it near her cheek. When she didn’t protest, he lifted his other hand too, and then cupped her face, pressing his palms against her jaw and cheekbones. He closed his eyes and trailed his fingertips up over her forehead, smoothing the pads of his thumbs across her eyebrows. He traced the bridge of her nose, working slowly, deliberately, ending with the shape of her lips. Her heart swelled.
“You really are blind,” she whispered.
Sam’s mouth thinned, and he lowered his hands. “I am sorry if that kiss this morning confused you. It was a mistake.”
Her gaze widened. “What?”
He put another step between them and chuckled. “You cannot have feelings for me.”
Her cheeks warmed and she looked away. “Who says I do?”
“Good. Because that would be disgusting. You are a childish, foolhardy little girl, the bane of my existence, and a disgrace to your legacy. Two excruciating weeks living with you, learning your derivative ways; I wanted to kill you so many times just to put myself out of my misery. Dantalion convinced me that this …,” Sam waved his hand, gesturing to the room in general, “… that leaving you here to suffer knowing you killed your entire family; that it’s all your fault …,” he looked at her and smirked, “… well, your agony is so much sweeter.”
Lyn’s face burned. Her breath left her with no desire to return and she clutched at her chest.
Sam extended his hand and grabbed her jaw between his thumb and forefinger. He forced her to look at him, and she gasped. His human eyes were gone. Only the demon, in all his evil glory, stared back. He scanned her face and scowled. “I hope you choke on your guilt.”
He shoved her against the sink. Lyn banged her knee against the wooden drawers under the chrome and fell against the cold tile. When she looked up, Sam was gone.
Lyn hugged her knees to her chest and curled against the bathroom door. She knew Sam was two-timing her. She knew better. And yet, she still fell for it.
She wanted to throw up. Tears burned down her cheeks and she cursed herself for being for being exactly what Sam had said; a disgrace. I’m so stupid!
She could deal with demons torturing her. She could deal with being a loser. But failing Gran so completely, being so helpless to save her family—that was too much. She couldn’t let Lolly’s legacy slip away into oblivion. She couldn’t let the demons win. She couldn’t let them destroy other families the way they had destroyed hers. All of Gran’s hard work; it couldn’t be in vain. It had to mean something.
“No more,” Lyn whispered. “I’m done being a victim.”
He said he was leaving forever? No way, José. They were bound. She would find a way to drag him back. And when she did, she would end him.
20
Even the Devil Cries
When He Remembers He Had Wings.
S am stepped through a portal and dropped through ten feet of cold damp air, past rusted iron beams and exposed pipes. He landed on one of the Cherub’s four heads; specifically the one that looked like a bird’s if the large white feathers were any indication. He immediately crouched forward to grip the quills as the colossal creature reared back on its haunches and bellowed a warning Sam chose to ignore.
Three sets of eyes from the remaining three heads turned to peer at him. The snout of a lion nipped at him with teeth the size of Sam’s body. He dodged the creature’s fangs, nearly drowning in its hot breath, but the tip of a jagged incisor caught the belt of his pants and dragged him into the air.
He quickly undid the buckle and pulled the leather free of his belt loops. Sam fell through the air again before landing on a wet, slimy surface. A tongue, he realized as one of the creature’s heads snapped its jaw shut, enclosing him in moist darkness. As the throat tilted back to swallow him, Sam ripped open the ether and jumped through.
Should’ve brought a weapon. But he hadn’t been thinking when he came here, letting his blind rage get the better of him.
Sam landed hard. A dull ache slammed into his side, forcing the air from his lungs. Gasping, he quickly recovered and stood. His shoes crunched gravel as he pivoted to face the abandoned factory. It stood in the distance. Damn. He’d accidently portalled farther away than he’d meant to. The metal factory doors burst open and the Cherub’s eight eyes blinked at him. Sam tilted his head to the side and scoffed. Or perhaps not far away enough.
The Cherub charged. Its hoofed limbs thundered against the earth, shaking the ground.
Sam glanced around for a weapon or a vantage point. A water tower stood opposite the factory. The rusted rods of a metal ladder leading to the tank hung askew. He portalled to the base of the tower, grabbed hold of the railing, and pulled. It didn’t budge. The ladder was in better shape than he’d realized. Growling at his misjudgment, Sam focused his heat into his hands and wrapped both fists around the rod. The metal melted between his fingers and he yanked a sizable staff from the ladder.
He faced the beast galloping toward him and squared his shoulders. The only way to kill a Cherub was to pierce each of its four brains. Not an easy feat when each brain stood thirty feet in the air, surrounded by the strength of ten elephants, the jaws of four different predators, and the limbs of six equally proportioned wings.
Sam wiped the sweat from his brow, waved a hand, and then jumped through another portal to the creature’s left-most head. He landed straddling a lion’s snout, facing the creature’s feral yellow eyes. Clenching his thighs and knees, he dug his heels into the sides of its upper jowls for grip. The Cherub slid across the gravel as it halted. Sam grabbed a fist full of fur before the exertion could buck him off, and then thrust the rod through the creature’s left eye as hard as he could.
The beast shrieked, and Sam grimaced against the deafening sound as he pressed his weight into the base of the rod and drove the staff home. He knew he had been successful when the head dropped, but it fell fast and hit the ground hard. Sam lost his grip and his face hit the asphalt with a sickening crunch. His vision swam as he rolled onto his back to catch his breath. The left side of his face throbbed and his breathing came in short painful bursts.
A hoof the size of a truck hit the ground beside him, kicking up a cloud of gray dust as the pavement cracked beneath its weight. Sam blinked against the debris. As the dust settled, the rest of the Cherub came into view, towering over him. The left-most head dragged along the ground, a dead weight. The three remaining heads peered down at him with the fires of Heaven glinting in all six eyes.
Sam released a slow breath. He couldn’t die, but this was going to hurt.
Sam clung to the b
ullhorn of the Cherub’s final head. The colossal creature spread its wings and leaped into the air, attempting flight. Three life-less heads weighed it down and its hooves barely left the ground.
Gusting winds rushed past Sam, pulling at his clothes and stinging his vision. He tightened his grip on a splintered two-by-four, then gnashed his teeth together and carefully slid upside down. Keeping his legs wrapped tight around the horn, he reached for the bull’s flapping ear. After a few attempts, he managed a fistful of coarse fur. Tugging hard to make sure his grip was true, Sam pulled the giant floppy lobe toward him to expose the creature’s inner ear. He shoved the two-by-four into the canal and let loose of the horn with his legs, dropping into a downswing. As soon as his heels touched the creature’s jaw, he used the inertia to drive the beam home.
The monster bellowed. Sam clung to the ear as the bull bucked its head back. Its wings sagged lifelessly and they fell. Sam braced for impact. The Cherub’s weight thundered against the pavement and he lost his grip. The ground rose up and smacked him. Hard.
Face-down on the unforgiving pavement, Sam’s vision swarmed and his head throbbed. Thick clouds of dust and debris swirled around him and gravel coated his split lips. His throat clenched in reaction and a deep cough forced its way from his lungs. A phlegm-like gurgle rattled his ribs and a shooting pain lanced his chest. With a haggard grunt, he rolled onto his back and stared at the sky. Just breathe.
Bright pink and orange spangles bled across the darkness and lit the settling dust. He watched the sun dawn and scoffed. All night, he realized. I fought that thing all night. More importantly, he had won. The Cherub was dead. I did it. I killed an angel.
He turned his head to peer at the majestic beast. Sunlight bathed the dead Cherub in a golden glow. The outline of its corpse shimmered as it began to fade into oblivion, like water wearing down rock. In an hour or so, the angel would disintegrate completely. Gone, as if it had never existed at all.
His stomach clenched. Sam grimaced and looked away. His gaze went to the shadows. Inky black phantoms moved within, the morning light flashing in their eyes. Lesser demons.
He wasn’t sure when they had joined the scene, but he wasn’t surprised by the audience. They inched forward hesitantly, as though in awe of his triumph. Lucifer’s spies would be among them. Of that, he had no doubt. Which means I need to move.
Sam drew a breath and pushed to his feet. His job was only half done, and it would not do to waste time. He limped past the length of the decaying Cherub, forcing himself to work through the physical pain and exhaustion, until he came face to face with the abandoned factory. He released a deep sigh and then steeled himself for what came next. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could fall back into Lucifer’s good graces. Not that he gave a rat’s ass about the Commander or his vendetta, but Lyn’s life hung in the balance.
Do your job. Be the soldier. Keep her safe.
Sam shook his head to clear his mind of her. He hadn’t been thinking of Lyn when he portalled here, and he couldn’t afford to think of her now. He knew it was her anger, her blind determination that worked through him, pushing him as he exerted that anger on the Cherub. He knew it had been exactly what he needed—but he couldn’t risk examining it further, couldn’t allow himself to recall her soft touch or her sweet scent, or—least of all—how horribly he’d hurt her. It would only torture him, and for what? He could never see her again anyway, so he pushed her out of his thoughts and marched past the rubble.
He kept an eye on the others from his periphery. At least a dozen Lesser demons followed in the shadows, slithering and scuttling after him as though they could sense something big was about to happen.
He arrived at the rusty main entrance of the factory. The large double doors still stood open from when the Cherub had burst through them earlier, but even if it had been locked, the hinges were so worn by the elements it would have been easy to rip open. Sam approached the threshold.
“Samael, stop!”
Sam paused in his tracks and chuckled at the sound of Azrael’s voice. He couldn’t believe it. “I knew He would send someone, but you? Yahweh’s precious Gate isn’t even worth the time of an Archangel? Or perhaps He realizes he cannot win what’s coming and has decided to cut His losses.” He turned and faced his successor with a wicked grin.
The Reaper stood atop a wooden crate a short distance away. His amber gaze was on the shadows, presumably to judge the threat of the demons surrounding him. “I came on my own. You don’t have to do this, Samael. Come with me. Come home.”
“And what, turn myself in?”
Azrael looked at him and the angel’s lips thinned.
Sam rolled his eyes and turned away. “I’d rather burn in Hell.”
He ripped one of the door panels from its frame. The metal moaned as the hinges gave, and then he threw the heavy piece at his opponent. The panel landed less than half the distance between them, but continued to skid across the cement with a shower of sparks before it stopped at the base of the crate where Azrael stood.
Sam had made the gesture as a warning for his cohort to leave, but the other demons seemed emboldened by the stunt. A few of them emerged from the shadows and circled the angel, lashing out with whip-like appendages. Azrael dodged their attempts with a simple flap of his ashen wings, but the angel was greatly outnumbered, and Sam winced. Get out of here, you idiot.
No—no emotions. He couldn’t do what needed to be done if he worried about his former friend. The Reaper was fully capable of defending himself, and besides, they were enemies now; two soldiers on opposing sides of a war. Sam clenched his fists, turned his back to the angel, and walked into the factory.
His gaze took a moment to adjust to the dimness. The shapes and colors of this realm never got any sharper, but he saw enough to notice the marvel before him. Outside, the factory was a crumbling shod of urban decay. Inside, a mystical grove of green moss and damp earth transformed the cavern-like space. A small pool of water cut across the center surrounded by tall ferns. The roof of the building had collapsed some time ago, giving nature a chance to rehabilitate the forgotten machinery. The sweet scent of vegetation and golden beams of sunlight were like little slices of hope thriving amidst the cold industrial cancer of humanity.
Sam looked past the urban meadow to a tall alcove across the way. Deep shadows hid a triangular arch in the wall; a detail he should not have been able to see from this distance. He went to it, avoiding the mossy middle section of the vast space. Once he passed the meadow, the sunlight angled in his favor and a blue glint shone from within the dim arch. Sam squinted as he continued closer until … Yes, the barrier.
Within the decorative arch stood the door to the legendary Gate. The portal was named as such after the picket-fence-like appearance of the door. Small, and made of glassy blue wood, Sam drew a breath as the ghost of his reflection stared up at him from the glossy surface.
He scanned the door for a handle or a keyhole. Of course, neither existed. Eve had promised the barrier would never open—but she was mortal, and mortals had limitations. Sam supposed the door would indeed remain locked in the third-dimensional sense of this realm. Luckily, he was not of this realm, and the laws of third-dimensional physics did not apply to him. He extended a hand toward the glass-like wood …
“Stop! Do not open the barrier.”
Sam growled at the Reaper’s command. What is he still doing here? “You mistake me for someone who has a choice.”
“She will forgive you,” said Azrael. “If you stop right now, she will forgive you.”
“If I stop, she’ll be a corpse!” Sam flattened his palm against the blue planks. The wood felt smooth and solid, like marble. He closed his eyes and pictured the sigil of the Kingdom of Heaven. When the veil rose beneath his touch, he pointed a finger and drew.
The thwip of a blade flew past him and grazed his knuckle before it hit the glass wood. Sam grimaced at the sting. If the angel had aimed a centimeter to the left, t
he knife would’ve taken his digit clean off. Sam faced his ex-pupil with a snarl.
Azrael stood midway between Sam and the meadow. He held a scythe in one hand. Funny, Sam could swear his initials were still engraved in the wooden snath.
“I am sorry, Samael, but you leave me no other option.” The angel raised his weapon and braced for battle.
Lesser demons lurked on the sidelines, avoiding the sunlit moss in favor of the dank rusted machines and cement crevices. Good. Let them tell the Commander about this.
Sam charged.
Azrael swung the scythe in a wide arch, but Sam side-stepped the blade and twisted behind his opponent. The angel pivoted just as swiftly, keeping Sam in front of him, his scythe between them.
Sam’s core burned with rage as he advanced on the angel again. Azrael swung the scythe and Sam caught the blade in his fist. The razor-sharp edge tore into his palm. Bright red blood and liquid fire seeped between his fingers, but Sam did not waver at the pain.
The Reaper’s gaze widened as Sam pointed the curved tip of the blade over his heart and then plunged the weapon into his flesh, impaling himself. It cut through muscle and tendon, and Sam gnashed his jaw to keep from buckling under the searing pain. He wanted to take in the full length of the metal, to the wooden snath, even if it burst through his back, but the agony overcame him. His core boiled in response.
The angel released his grip and stepped back, his mouth gaped in horror.
Sam frowned at his successor’s naivety. He closed the gap between them, wrapped his fist around the angel’s neck, and pulled him close. “Do you understand now? You can’t kill me. He can’t kill me! The Commander has won.”
“We don’t need to kill you.” With lightning-swift precision, the angel removed a hidden item from his garments and smashed it on Sam’s forearm. The club’s blunt force struck deep. Like a bullet, the impact blew past his human façade, cracking the stony shell beneath. Sam’s bone snapped.