I found myself no longer caring about little details like that.
The Silver blades I could call upon at a thought seemed like magic, and had cut down Templars like surgical scalpels. So, I had a backup. Enough to slice at Olin and then call up a Gateway to escape if I saw a sudden army bearing down on me.
I kind of wanted to go toe-to-toe with this ass clown. This hypocrite. Human versus human. Warrior versus warrior. And if he went werewolf on me, I was ready.
A man stepped into the alley, alone. He studied me, too far away to be a threat. Or too arrogant to care. I motioned him closer like those old Kung Fu movies, dropping into a highly unusual martial arts stance. “Here, boy,” I called out, and then I whistled like calling a dog.
He didn’t react, just stood there for a moment. Then he strode closer in a casual, calm gait until I could finally make out his familiar face. Our introduction hadn’t been long, but it had been memorable.
He stopped about ten paces away, and I studied him. He was tall, fit, and had short, spiky white hair. He wore a sword strapped over either shoulder, about as big as one would dare use single-handed, and his dingy Templar scarf hung down his chest like mine. The power of the scarf worked whether you let it hang free or lifted it above your nose, but it did add a menacing factor when tied around the mouth, like bandits in an old Western.
At least that’s how I saw it. His Templars must have felt the same, because they’d worn it up over their faces when I had systematically assassinated them in Italy.
He either didn’t consider me with much respect, or he wanted me to see his face. Or maybe they only concealed their faces to hide their identities, and we were well past that.
He grimaced at my scarf, jaw clenching for a moment. “Don’t worry. It still works fine,” I told him.
“I don’t have magic, so there is no benefit to you wearing it. You only soil the symbol.”
I arched an eyebrow at him. “Says the wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
He took a very deep, slow breath, rather than confirming or denying my subtle accusation. “You look… different,” he said, studying my face thoughtfully.
“Pink makes me look older,” I said, flicking a finger against the scarf at my throat.
I could sense the judgment in his eyes. Not only that I looked different, but that it probably had something to do with me making a deal with a demon or something. A consequence for being a Freak, like the sign of a leper. Because everything fit into a neat black and white world for Olin, or that was what he had told me when we last confronted each other.
Before he had been turned into a werewolf, introducing him to a world of grays.
I didn’t hate him because of what he believed. I hated him for what he had done. He had killed and hunted Freaks all over the world, for quite a long time. If he had been a quietly hateful man of God, I wouldn’t have liked him, but I wouldn’t have wasted my time fighting him.
But he had spilled blood. For no other reason than that he presumed all Freaks were monsters and should be eradicated. And he had done it in my city.
“It’s okay if you brought some friends with you. Someone will need to drag your body to the pet cemetery. And I will personally take care of your soul,” I winked.
“You still pretend to be an Angel?” he spat disgustedly.
“I don’t pretend anyth—”
“Enough!” he growled. “I didn’t come here to banter with you. I came here to kill you and retrieve what was offered.”
I studied his face, my smile growing. “You did bring backup. How predictable.”
His eyes narrowed. “They will not interfere. They came to check that no humans were present. I don’t want collateral damage when you light this block up with your hellfire.” I rolled my eyes. “They seek only for us to have a fair fight. Coincidentally, they learned a few of your own ilk are lurking in the shadows,” he added smugly, turning my argument back on me.
“Same story. Just to guarantee a fair fight,” I admitted with a shrug, not letting any shame show on my face. “You’re already outclassed. I didn’t need backup for this. Just someone with a cup of celebratory hot chocolate. So, let’s get this over with before it gets cold.”
“Yes.” He drew only one of the blades from over his shoulder in a practiced motion, never breaking eye contact, and I realized it really was a two-handed sword. He just carried a backup. He held it before him, waiting for me to reveal my weapon of choice.
I drew the long, curved daggers at my waist, almost like machetes, but designed for combat. They went by different names in different parts of the world, but they were a favorite of mine when going against a skilled swordsman – of which I had no doubt Olin was. The blades were long enough to bleed my opponent from a safe distance, strong enough to block his attacks, and short enough to remain light in my hands.
I met his eyes. He acknowledged my blades with mild respect.
Then I tossed them on the ground like pieces of trash, smiling as his lips thinned suspiciously.
I turned my back on him and slowly walked over to a nearby dumpster. A mop in a broken bucket was propped against the wall. I hefted the staff in my hand as if weighing it. Then I nodded, walking back up to him.
He scowled. “Your theatrics do not impress me, and they will not save you,” he said.
I pouted. “But I really hoped to hurt your feelings…” The mop thumped into the ground at my feet. Sensing no further comment from him, I sighed, bending over – quite suggestively, I might add – to detach the head of the mop, leaving me with an old staff.
It, of course, hadn’t ever really been a mop, but a very special staff. A piece of wood – no matter how well wielded – wouldn’t survive one blow from a sword like his. The wood in my hands was an ancient staff Roland had lying around the training area at Abundant Angel. Not magical, but designed to sustain quite a few hits without splintering.
“A staff seemed appropriate,” I said. “Like Moses or something,” I said, scratching my jaw.
He grunted angrily, took a measured breath, and attacked.
My muscles screamed.
With excitement.
Chapter 41
I lifted my staff upright, leaning to the side to let his lunge slide past me, and cracked him on the jaw with a set of silver knuckle dusters I had concealed up to this point. He bellowed in outrage, lifting his scarf into place as he sidestepped out of range.
He squared off, his face now concealed below the eyes, leaving me nothing to read other than his shoulders, because everyone knew following the eyes was a great way to get impaled. I had hoped to see his skin burn on contact with the silver, but he had concealed his face immediately.
To hide the effect, or simply to eliminate the ability for me to read his facial tells. I’d just have to filet him with more silver to find out.
Because I wanted to watch him burn, but I’d settle for hearing him scream through his scarf.
I reversed my grip, leaving the tip on the ground as I waited for him to approach, letting my body go slack, depending on my muscle memory to react in time to his next flurry of attacks. He didn’t make the same mistake twice. He knew that since I wasn’t using a blade, he had more room to feel me out, since my blows had less chance of being fatal, and as I watched his feet, I could tell that he was experienced – not one to make a rookie mistake like throwing his all into the first strike, letting his anger cloud his judgment.
Which meant his first had been a feeler. Knowing he would either get hit with a secondary weapon or smacked on the head by my staff.
I found myself smiling, and I lifted up my own scarf over my nose, just to mirror his choice to hide his facial tells – even though Roland had beaten most of those out of me long ago.
I waited, grinding the toes of my boots for purchase since the ground was slippery, covered in puddles, uneven, and littered with pieces of trash. He darted forward, slashing for my throat in a wide swing, anticipating my expected block.
Inst
ead, I dropped and rolled towards the blow, using my reverse grip on the staff to pick up additional momentum as I came up in a crouch beside him, but under his attack – a bold, risky move he hadn’t anticipated. The tip of the staff hammered into his ribs, with a satisfying cracking noise, but I didn’t stop moving, spinning my body to the side and using my free hand to swing into the same tender spot on his ribs in a spinning backfist.
I made contact, knocking some of his breath away before his boot connected with my own ribs below my attacking hand. I grunted, but managed to curl with it slightly, skidding back a few steps with the blow so it didn’t shatter my own ribs or break off a few of the floating ones.
My coat could take a beating, though, which helped.
He was already running at me as I glanced over my shoulder, so I darted forward, running away from him. He was too close for anything else.
I sprinted straight at the dumpster, slamming my staff into the mop bucket, and pole-vaulting on top of the thankfully-closed dumpster. Only focusing on my flight, his sword was already swinging down into the dumpster when the mop bucket hit him in the nuts like a fast pitch baseball – since I had used the fulcrum to fling it at him as I jumped. He gasped, dropping his sword instinctively as his hands latched onto his Holies.
That was the thing about men like him. They were too used to fighting other men, and they had an unspoken, cosmic rule about never striking in the family jewels.
I hadn’t stopped moving but had spun around as I landed on the dumpster, lifting my boot so that my heel pounded into the brick wall, slowing my momentum. I used that boot as a spring, launching myself right back at him, and thrusting my knee out as I held the staff with both hands before me, aimed over his head.
My intent was to hit him in the face with my knee, wrapping the staff behind his neck so that I could use it as leverage to keep kneeing him in the face, preventing him from drawing his second sword.
It worked.
Kind of.
My knee busted open his jaw since his hands were still clutching his goods, but the moment my staff wrapped around the back of his neck, he went limp – and I wondered if I had knocked him unconscious with my blow.
Then, as we fell back, me riding him like a motorcycle, I felt his boot settle into my stomach, preparing to launch me over him when his back hit the ground.
I immediately dropped my staff, letting it clatter to the ground ahead of us, and gripped two fistfuls of his short hair right as his back hit the ground and his leg extended to throw me.
Which meant that as he succeeded, I ripped out two large tufts of his hair, producing instant screams as I turned my flight into a roll, dropping his hair.
So far, I was impressed. This was a beautiful dance, and my partner – although not winning – was good. Just not as experienced in dealing with talented opponents. Probably too used to being the top dog that he hadn’t had to really try in a long while. Still, he was good. And this excited me.
In surprising places, I realized with a distant blush.
I scooped up the staff, not waiting to check on him as I spun, swinging low. His sword was already swinging at the back of my head, but I had remained low in anticipation. His swing whistled over my head right as my staff slammed into his shins, snapping in half as it fractured bone, by the sound of it.
Oh, and he crashed onto his shoulder as his fractured legs were also swept out from beneath him.
He grunted and growled, scrabbling to get to his feet right as I aimed the jagged tip of my broken spear at him, ready to poke and prod until he shifted into a werewolf.
A gunshot rang out, and I jumped back, my black fan instantly appearing beside me in the direction of the sound. I turned up to see a hooded Templar not ten paces away, striding towards Olin, but aiming his pistol at me. His scarf was up, too, showing me only shadowed eyes.
“Enough!” the Templar referee shouted.
I froze in disbelief, but not only because he had interrupted my obvious victory.
Wolves suddenly howling from each direction made him hesitate, aiming his pistol a little closer my way as he realized his interference had not been appreciated by the werewolves he and his backup squad had apparently missed.
Because Paradise and Lost were good. And they had shown up after the fight began, as I had told them to do. Their howls also told me something else I needed to know, but I was too busy staring at the hooded Templar’s eyes to remember what it was.
That voice…
Chapter 42
Olin had climbed to his feet, eyes glinting as his hands hung at his sides, sporting a fancy set of upgrades – long, black claws. I couldn’t even bother feeling triumphant, too busy staring at the newest Templar. His pal motioned at the claws subtly, but Olin was beyond caring as he glared back in barely restrained fury at the newcomer, toward the howls, and finally back to me.
Since he was about to kill me, he really didn’t care that I had just seen proof he was in fact a werewolf. Olin took a step my way before his pal shouted loudly again.
Olin rounded on him this time, claws out to kill. His Templar minion didn’t point the gun at his boss, but lowered it, staring at the claws.
Olin glanced down, panting. The claws slowly retracted, revealing normal hands before he glanced over at me, face a rictus of outrage, lingering pain, and pure murder.
“You’re through,” I said in a soft, distant voice, setting the butt of the broken spear into the pavement at my feet. I felt very cold all of a sudden, and it had nothing to do with the fight. I felt like a fluff of dandelion floating in the wind.
“Not until I get back what’s mine,” Olin snapped. “You think your wolves scare me? You saw what you turned me into. I no longer harbor the same… concerns about the wolves.”
“Meaning you’ve become what you used to hunt,” I said in a dead tone.
“I will use this curse for God, you despicable creature!” he roared. “Your wolves can’t get to you fast enough to save you from me, now!”
I blinked lazily at him, not moving. “Did you just call me a creature?” I asked, frowning.
“Give me the ring, NOW!”
He was panting again. I shot the assistant Templar a look, sizing him up, but I was pretty sure I knew about as much as I needed to know about him.
I shrugged. “I don’t have it—”
His roar abruptly cut me off. Also, the fact that he was suddenly holding me up in the air by the front of my coat, ignoring the jagged spear I had reflexively buried in his gut.
Then he punched me.
I flew back, skidding through puddles as my face flashed with fire. I spat out blood, shaking off my dizziness as I tried to climb to my feet. He kicked me in the ass, sending me sprawling.
“Where is it?” he roared, kicking me again. This time in the ribs. I heard some of them crunch as I slid another few feet.
My heart froze as I heard a very clear chime echo in the alley, the sound of metal striking pavement. Ping. I looked up to see three silver rings rolling away from me, but they winked in and out of my vision as I struggled to clear my head.
I flung out a hand, snatching at one of them, but missed as it rolled out of reach.
“The ring!” Olin shouted, sounding as if he was jumping for it.
“No…” I hissed through broken ribs and a bloody mouth, scrabbling to reach it ahead of him.
Which meant I had a perfect view of the blur that suddenly streaked through the air before my face, scooped up the ring, and zipped back up into the sky, out of sight.
“NOOOOO!” Olin roared, screaming up at the sky – the sound half human, half monster.
Then he spun back to me, not holding back this time as he kicked me. I threw my hands out in front of me and felt some of my fingers crack as they took the blow, but I still went sliding.
This wasn’t good. I needed to get out of here, but I didn’t dare Shadow Walk. Something was up with that. Something dangerous, but I couldn’t remember what.
; And I didn’t have time to make a Gateway, because I would still have to find a way to get through the Gateway, and right now I couldn’t even manage to get back on my feet.
Maybe I had needed Claire.
But hadn’t I done something else? Some phone call… the memory eluded me as I tried to ignore my pain, to think of one last trick to get out of here.
“What is the meaning of this?” Olin demanded from somewhere behind me.
Talking. Maybe that would delay him enough to give me a chance out of this.
“I wanted everyone to see what you’ve become,” I said in a croak.
Silence answered me as floodlights suddenly erupted from an adjacent building, illuminating the clearing in a blinding glow that made me squint.
“What in blaze… you were supposed to check everywhere!” Olin snarled, face livid as he rounded on his fellow Templar.
“We did, sir. They… must have arrived during the fight,” the other Templar said. His voice made me cringe, my suspicion confirmed.
I managed to prop myself up into a sitting position, seeing several red laser sights locked onto both Templars. “You didn’t anticipate humans wrecking the party,” I rasped, adjusting my posture against the agony in an attempt to relieve pressure on my ribs. I needed a few moments before I dared trying to stand.
Bits and pieces came back to me, slowly. I had called Haven. Recruited his security detail to help me out. Hearing the possibility that the Templar in town was actually a werewolf had been too much for him to refuse aid. In exchange for his help and signing my lease for the church, he had wanted undeniable proof that Olin was really a werewolf. His men were here to witness first, and only act as a last resort. Any fuckup could have prevented Olin from showing his hand.
That he was really a werewolf.
And I had made sure to tell Haven that his men had to wait to go to their positions until they were sure they had tracked the other Templar movements, allowing them to sweep the area before sneaking into their positions.
Feathers and Fire Series Box Set 2 Page 20