Bladed Wings

Home > Other > Bladed Wings > Page 12
Bladed Wings Page 12

by Davis, Jarod


  “That knife?”

  “A part of me,” Terrance said, “But you can’t have her. I don’t know how you did it, but you cannot, will not, take her from me. Her soul is mine.”

  “But you’re different.” It was the same knife, the one Darkor created. This one was the exact same. Fused to his hand, the same as Darkor’s. In the same moment Timothy remembered Isis was a shape shifter.

  “Are you serious?” Terrance came closer, his blade pointed at the ground. He watched Timothy like a predator who longed to hack and slash, to tear into Timothy and rip him apart. “You don’t know? You can’t see it?”

  “You’re a demon. You’re Darkor,” Timothy said as he relaxed his sight. Then he could see it, and with Terrance striding for him ready for a fight, it was easier to see. Red sparks of demonic rage sizzled from his skin, a storm of power just beneath the body’s surface. Before, when Timothy saw him with Jenny, he thought those energies belonged to her. He couldn’t see it very well and never tried to explain the red. Now he saw it, swirls of simmering energy around his body, rings of strength and power.

  “Clearly.”

  “You’re a demon, and you want her soul.” Timothy summoned his shadows, really nervous for the first time because he had time to think about this. If he lost, Jenny would die.

  They’d fought once already, and Terrance came so close to winning. Trying to remember what happened last time, Timothy searched through different strategies, different plans to give him a chance to survive the next few minutes.

  No, Timothy realized, this was more than survival. He had to make sure Terrance didn’t win. Timothy didn’t matter, but Jenny did. If dying is what it took to keep her safe, Timothy knew he’d do it.

  “Again, that should be obvious.”

  “Who’s your leader?”

  “I have no band. I’m too young.”

  “How old are you?” Timothy asked. Time probably wouldn’t help, but he could hope it might give him a chance to learn something, maybe realize something that would give him a better chance of winning.

  “Eight months.”

  “Eight months?” Timothy asked. Now he understood why Terrance didn’t have a past. He was too young to have a real history and too cautious to lie.

  “I formed from the hatred of a young woman.”

  “What happened?”

  “She got hurt. It happens. She lost herself in pain until I was created. By the time I became conscious, she had let her sorrow and depression consume her. She hadn’t eaten, hadn’t moved, in days. So I waited a little longer and made my own body. But if I can capture the angel’s soul, I’ll have everything I need to join Maria Despada’s clan. And I was close. Very close to getting the angel’s trust, but then you appeared, the little college boy who somehow carries a demon soul. Tell me, how did you get one?”

  “It was an accident.”

  “Well, your death won’t be.” Darkor made it sound like a decision.

  Darting forward, Terrance cut down with the blade. His first swing had all of the force needed to cut right through Timothy’s arm. But a fast step back and Timothy had a few inches between him and the demon’s blade. Timothy threw out his palms, the tendrils flying across the gap, but Terrance dodged one. Timothy yanked it back, his second tendril slicing Terrance at the side. Same as last time, he didn’t bleed. Touching the wound, Terrance said, “It’s good being pure. See, I heal better than you.”

  But Timothy ignored him and pulled his tentacles back. It was late, twenty hours since he had a chance to sleep. Work and skipping classes and rolling third wheel meant he didn’t have much left. Everything he had was the strength of his demon soul and the adrenaline of his human brain. Think about Jenny, Timothy told himself. She’s all that matters

  Terrance stabbed out as Timothy spun to one side, avoiding the blade’s edge by another inch. But Terrance was fast, quick enough to slash up. Timothy shot one tendril down. The coil of shadow wrapped around the demon’s wrist, though it wasn’t strong enough to stop the blade. The tip came up, awkward, but enough to dig a shallow gash across Timothy’s stomach. Pain flared and he hissed against it. Still, pain is energy, strength that fed the shadows. Timothy pulled again, this time strong enough to twist Terrance’s wrist a few inches.

  The dagger was attached to his palm, so Terrance couldn’t drop it. But at that angle, it was worthless. Timothy didn’t expect Terrance to reabsorb the blade, to just pull it back into the palm of his hand. As he watched, Terrance recreated it in his other palm, the one that wasn’t locked in Timothy’s grasp.

  Cutting up, a smooth motion blurred by speed, Terrance aimed for Timothy’s throat. Only an X of his shadowed tentacles had enough strength to block.

  But it came with a cost, because that dagger’s tip burned, ripping through the tendril. Timothy felt it, felt his demonic soul convulse and shudder as the blade sliced through. Stumbling back, Timothy tried to heal the wounds, but this wasn’t something he really understood. Most of this was instinct. The tendrils acting without much thought on his part. He wasn’t a black belt or a soldier. He’d never even taken a self-defense class. He was a college student who didn’t even have a major yet.

  “You’re fast,” Terrance said. He didn’t need to breathe hard. The gash at his side didn’t seem to matter much to him. Instead he spoke like someone enjoying the kind of mild challenge a gamer would expect from Pong.

  “Sometimes,” Timothy answered, sending his tendrils back for another fight.

  They stabbed down, even stretched the six feet between Timothy and Terrance. Those tips were sharp like a demon’s teeth, the natural defense for something that shouldn’t even exist. Despite their speed, Terrance blocked one, his forearm Timothyed. The second he dodged dropping to one knee, only to jump back to avoid its return.

  Timothy rushed forward, his hands a few inches from his sides, his palms out as he let the tendrils attack his enemy. He didn’t think as they lanced down, only to get blocked against every attack. Eyes tight, Timothy searched for some trace of fear on Terrance’s face. There wasn’t any, just concentration as he jumped, dodged, and ducked, blocking every attack.

  The demon rolled down, leaping back to his feet, one fist aimed for Timothy’s stomach, the blade pointed for an upward thrust to his chin. Without dexterity or cunning, Timothy fell back, the feel of a breeze against his throat. That’s when he acted and threw a punch. It wasn’t much as it connected with Terrance’s stomach, just enough for there to be the splash of air. Timothy’s tendrils tried to capitalize on the moment, shooting down and ready to drill into Terrance’s spine. The demon didn’t have shields, but he didn’t need them as he leapt forward, his palms planted against Timothy, knocking them both into the pavement.

  The demon’s hands clutched Timothy by his throat. Terrance had speed, but not the strength or knowledge to easily snap Timothy’s neck. Or he just wanted to strangle Timothy the old fashioned way. The pressure burned in less than a second, all of his weight stopping air, and in a couple more moments, Timothy felt his vision start to blur, a fog of darkness crawling at the distance.

  Fear made him cheat. Timothy got one hand up, his fingers prodding for Terrance’s eyes. He ducked back, trying to get away from Timothy’s hand, unwilling to give up his hold on his enemy’s throat. But he lost some strength as he stepped back, and that’s when Timothy’s tendrils struck down. So close to winning, Terrance forgot about the tendrils, those wisps of shadow that had the solidity to tear down and impale the demon.

  One ripped through heart, the other cracked through his spine.

  Terrance lost his grip. Timothy chugged the air like the greatest oxygen ever.

  A second later, convinced he had won, Timothy shoved Terrance off and got up. The demon should have been dead. No one was supposed to survive those kinds of wounds. Timothy felt Terrance’s spine sever, but he still watched him, the demon’s blue eyes continued to move.

  “You are kidding me,” Timothy panted, still fighting to r
efill his lungs. This couldn’t be happening. Terrance couldn’t still be alive, but he rolled over and forced himself to one knee. Then on wobbling legs, he got his weight to his feet.

  “I’m still—still alive.”

  “Not for long,” Timothy said.

  “But I’m stronger than you.”

  “Doesn’t matter if I win.”

  “You won’t, and I’ll get her back under my control.”

  “Back under?” Timothy asked.

  Panting, Timothy matched Terrance, and they circled like wolves. Somehow Timothy didn’t feel like a predator as he faced this demon. Terrance didn’t have any fear because he had the knowledge that he required Jenny’s soul as an entrance fee to Maria Despada’s clan.

  Terrance smiled, “I have some nice abilities. I’m fast. I heal. I create these wonderful knives. And I know how shape emotions.”

  “That red, the red I saw on her.”

  “My influence.”

  “That’s why she thought she loved you.”

  “What is love but an electrical impulse?” Terrance asked with an obnoxious smirk, and Timothy felt the shadows along his hands speed up, minnows of darkness swimming fast enough to look like lines. Terrance didn’t drug her. He didn’t need to. The tendrils grew stronger with every second, and Timothy should have waited, but he didn’t bother.

  He threw out his hands, fast as he could, the tentacles blasting out. They were fast, though again Terrance threw up one hand and blocked a tendril with his palm. That demonic flesh was soft enough for the tendril to rip the skin and tear a new hole in Terrance’s hand, but it wasn’t the kill strike Timothy might’ve wanted. Sliding to one side, his body angled away from the tendril, Terrance avoided the second strike.

  Despite the rage, despite the knowledge that this fight was for his life just as much as Jenny’s, Timothy felt himself slow. His motions got sluggish and clumsy. The intuition of shadow could only go so far, could only push so hard.

  “Tired?”

  “Screw off.”

  “Right after you’re dead. Tell me, who’d you kill for that shadow.”

  “Cipher. He was in a fight. I tried to help him.”

  “And you killed him, ate his soul. Funny.”

  Terrance charged him again, one palm held out. It grew another knife, and Timothy saw the flash of pain, the crack in Terrance’s façade. Fatigue bit at him too. His wounds were draining him. Timothy tried to fortify his tentacles, somehow sure this would be Terrance’s last attack. Death or win, the demon wouldn’t give up again. Timothy threw out one tendril.

  Terrance blocked it again and swiped at Timothy with his blade. Acting without thinking, Timothy stretched his tendrils. They looped back, aimed for Terrance’s shoulder blades. They dug into the demon, and Terrance didn’t stop, even with two tentacles lodged in his back. Instead he had the blade held level, still moving for Timothy’s throat. Terrance wouldn’t stop until he killed Timothy, no matter the cost.

  Grabbing the demon’s wrists, Timothy felt the weight of pressure and hunger and muscle as he pushed the blade closer, every second eating the space between skin and blade.

  Timothy pulled his tendrils back. They stabbed again. His spikes ripped fresh gouges into the demon’s back, but it wasn’t enough. Even with that hit, even with having these wounds pricked to his back, Terrance didn’t stop. He didn’t falter or shudder, and Timothy saw the blade get closer, felt his arms weaken. He’d never been much of an arm wrestler.

  “I’m dead,” Terrance whispered. “But you’re coming too.”

  Timothy had his lips tight, breath held as heat rushed over his face, and his muscles went taut to keep that blade from getting to him. “But I’m still going to kill you.” Timothy tried again, fresh wounds for the demon. He went for the legs this time, pummeling and breaking the demon’s body. He was probably right. He’d be dead after this, but he’d make sure Timothy died too.

  Something else, Timothy needed something else.

  He buried his spiked tendrils into the demon one more time. That didn’t stop him.

  It wouldn’t work. Doing the same thing wouldn’t work. That damage didn’t matter. With tiny breaths, Timothy’s eyes were on the white light at the blade’s tip. He blinked and did something else; he didn’t need to win, just had to live, just had to wait until the demon’s body died. That’s why Timothy recalled his tendrils for one more strike. This time they shot down, and they hooked around Terrance’s arms. Timothy yanked, the tendrils ripping Terrance off of Timothy, flinging him across the pavement.

  Scrambling to his feet, Timothy felt every bruise, every cut. He won. Jenny would be safe.

  That’s what Timothy thought until Terrance began to move again, got to his feet as he watched without the strength to stop him. Bent over, he stumbled two steps.

  Timothy let go of one of his tentacles. It dissipated somewhere back into his soul, however those mechanics worked. That remaining tendril shot out and struck Terrance between his eyes. He fell back, though the tendril clung to Terrance’s body. One last burst of strength, every drip of energy funneled into one splash, and he threw his blade. Timothy pulled the tendril, enough to yank Terrance to one side and throw off his aim.

  But it was good enough to slide past Timothy, ripping through his pant leg and slicing a shallow cut across his thigh. Timothy’s tendril remained even as Terrance’s dropped forward.

  The demon’s heart stopped, its brain went dark, and Timothy felt the surge. An explosion of energy shot through his tendrils like power cords. Straight up those lines of shadow, he felt the pulse of strength shoot into him. The shadows darkened, denser and stronger, the demon soul fed.

  The world spun as Timothy lost all sense of balance and reality. He forgot which way went up. His left felt like down. The air tasted like chocolate, and he let himself fall to the ground, solid and sure even as it felt like a ceiling. This was harder, so much harder than Cipher. Eyes closed, the world spun and shook for a few minutes. Then he had the courage to open his eyes and check his wounds. His shirt was torn. The gash on his leg was still there, but it didn’t bleed and it almost felt old, like he’d had it for a couple days. Terrance healed wounds in minutes; maybe Timothy would do the same now.

  Crawling to his feet, Timothy chanced nausea and glanced around. The parking lots were empty. As usual, apartment lights glowed but no one bothered with the outside. So Timothy crawled over to the light post and leaned against it. It was cold and hard and probably hurt his back, but not fighting felt like every kind of paradise.

  Isis hopped down from the darkness. At first Timothy didn’t know the sparrow, flying around at night, was Isis until it glowed and grew into a young woman dressed for summer. Timothy was still down, his back pressed against the lamppost. It was cold and wet, yet he didn’t have the energy to move.

  “You fed on it?” she asked.

  “How long were you watching?”

  “Not long,” Isis said. “You both burned up so much energy, I felt it, and wanted to see what I was missing.”

  “Would you have helped?”

  “Probably not. If it looked like you’d die, I’d go tell Cordinox about the new player.”

  “He’s dead?” Timothy asked with a glance at the body.

  “It’s dead,” Isis said. “I wouldn’t really call this thing a person.”

  “What was he?” Like after the last fight, Timothy’s jaw pulsed with new waves of pain for every word.

  “A demon.”

  “And you call him an it?”

  “Why not?” Isis asked. “If it’s not a person, it must not have a real soul, right?”

  “Do you?”

  “Nope. And that’ll probably make me really strong, and then I’ll do whatever I want, right? And that should be good. But I’m sad about it.”

  “What are you going to do with him?”

  “Check him out. See if we can use him.”

  “Do I want to know what that means?”

  “Pro
bably not,” she giggled.

  Timothy pressed his ribs. They ached, but there weren’t the sharp stabs of pain so he guessed none of the bones had broken. When he checked his arms and legs, those wounds had already healed. The pains faded, almost gone. Forcing himself onto his feet, Timothy decided he needed food. A couple of hamburgers would do it—that or an elephant.

  More than an hour later, Timothy got back to his apartment. Walking almost hurt. He couldn’t remember ever eating so much.

  When he got back to his place, the first thing Timothy heard was, “Did you ask her out yet?” Jeremiah didn’t bother to glance up from his textbook. Timothy ignored him. He went back to his room and looked in his mirror. The bruises were almost all gone. He watched, fascinated to see his skin clear, the purple dissipate back into healthy skin. “Well?” Jeremiah asked, looking up this time. As usual he was slouched across the chair, his feet dangling over one armrest.

  “No.”

  “Ouch. Bad move man. Bad move.”

  “It’s not a game.”

  “Of course not,” Jeremiah said. “Games don’t have consequences, but life does, and life requires strategies. So what’s your next move?”

  “I don’t know,” Timothy said as he sat across from his roommate. “I haven’t thought about it since I first told you.”

  “Shame. You should think faster if you know you want to win her.”

  “She’s not a prize.”

  “Of course not,” Jeremiah agreed again. “Just someone you really want.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “Go tell her you’ve been in love with her for months and beg for the chance to love her the way she deserves?” he suggested.

  “That’s almost romantic.”

  “You know you only get one shot, right?” Timothy figured he looked confused because Jeremiah added, “You’re her friend right? But you haven’t been. I mean dude, it took you six months to talk to the girl. But now she’s broken up, so you have to redefine yourself. You don’t want to be her friend. You want something more, something tender and intimate, all of those clichés that keeps Disney in business.”

 

‹ Prev