by Nazri Noor
Florian’s fingers dug into my shoulder and my upper arm, and I would have scolded him for overreacting if I hadn’t noticed the same thing that he had. The hags were all looking at him, as one, as a single unit. It was as if they’d fallen into a frozen, grinning trance, one that was only broken by the sound of Belphegor’s voice.
“That’s a discussion for another time, ladies. For now, I trust that you’ll do your best to make our new guests feel welcome.”
“Indeed,” said one witch. “May our working relationship be most fruitful.”
“May we all quickly reap the rewards of what we sow,” said the second.
The third one cackled. “I love puns, but I’m not very good at them.”
I groaned as softly as I could. Florian tugged on my jacket, then whispered in my ear. “I hate them.”
I whispered back. “Me too, buddy. Me too.”
11
The hags weren’t so bad, if you ignored the explosions and sounds of breaking glass coming from the redhouse. Throughout the day, one of them – who knows which – would come out tittering, hunched over with something clasped in her hand. Twice it was a gleaming phial full of unknowable, presumably noxious liquid. The last time, it was a shiny red apple.
Hah. I might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I know a thing or two about apples and witches.
“No, thank you,” I said politely each time, and each time the witch would cackle and snort as she shuffled her way back to the redhouse. I waited for the door to creak shut before elbowing Florian in the ribs. “They’re a pretty friendly bunch.”
He grunted. “They’re creepy is what they are. You know they want us to eat or drink the stuff they bring out, see what it’ll do to us.”
The sound of glass tapping brought my attention back to the redhouse. All three of the hags were pressed up against the panes, waggling fingers and smiling at us. I smiled back uncertainly, waving with a limp wrist.
“Okay, so I was joking.” I wiped my hand off on the back of my jeans like I’d just touched something unpleasant. “They’re totally super creepy.”
“Like I said. And that look was different. That looked more like they wanted to eat you.”
Something witches are known for, at least in the fairy tales. Demons, too. Beelzebub, the demon Prince of Gluttony, had made that very clear the first time that we ever met. He said something about wanting to sample my soul, how it would always grow back.
The day, if you could call it that, was hot in Belphegor’s hell, but I still shuddered. All things considered, tilling the soil, pulling up weeds, and doing some watering in the Crimson Gardens wasn’t the worst job either I or Florian ever had. This despite Belphegor’s warnings as he pointed out the shed that contained all his tools.
“Watch out for the tendrils. They will try to suck your blood out.”
So yeah, the work was okay, apart from the fact that you had to swat away creeper tendrils intent on sucking your blood out like leeches maybe twice an hour. It also helped if you pretended that the Venus fly-trap looking things with all the sharp teeth weren’t following your every move and sniffing at the air as you walked past. It was almost pleasant.
Almost, though, like I said. The garden had that delicate floral scent I’d come to expect from any place that’s packed with plants and flowers, though there was still that off-putting certain something underneath it all. A freshly fertilized flower garden might smell sweet, even if you can still make out the faint stench of manure past the perfume of flora. In this case, it was the cloying, ever-present metallic aroma of blood.
We broke for lunch at about noon. My phone had no reception down there, but at least it still showed the time. Florian and I parked our butts on an empty patch of grass and sat back to back as we ate, looking out for the sucker tendrils. Priscilla had very sweetly packed us a picnic blanket along with the array of treats she’d whipped up for lunch.
We each had a decently delicious seaweed salad, some sushi rolls with bits of fresh salmon, sticky coconut rice with mango for dessert, and the best eggplant parmigiana I’d ever tasted as a main. Priscilla had thrown in some pomelo wedges, too, I guess to serve as a sort of palate cleanser. Very refreshing. I admit, I’d never personally explored the extent of the kitchens that Priscilla kept behind that one copse of trees in Paradise, but she was obviously equipped to make actual culinary magic back there.
Partway through our appetizers, Florian cleared his throat, kind of pushing against my back with his, like he had something to say. I pushed back and grunted, I guess my non-verbal way of telling him to speak up if he wanted.
“So, this is weird for me.” He turned over his shoulder to check if I was listening, which I was. “You know what I mean? My whole thing is nature and nature magic, and Belphegor dumps us here and everything is just so – it’s just so awful and unfamiliar. It’s all tainted, twisted, corrupted. Belphegor hasn’t actually done anything to hurt us or whatever, but this whole situation is just super uncomfortable.”
I nudged him back, sighing, hoping it helped as a little bit of a soothing gesture. “I know what you mean, buddy. This is all pretty damn creepy to me, too. But it’s the last thing we have to do for him. Once we’re done, he’s out of our hair forever.”
Florian was silent for a second, then he nodded. “That’s true,” he said, his voice rumbling against my back.
“Think of it this way. It’s just a job. Once we’re done, you’ll never have to return to the Crimson Gardens. Ever. We’ll never have to see Belphegor again.”
That last bit was more wishful thinking than anything, but hey, the thought of it helped me tolerate our job that little bit more.
But no less than an hour after lunch, my stomach was grumbling already. Color me strange, but unless I get a little bit of meat inside me – and I’m not talking raw fish here – I can tend to get a little grumpy. Plus there was the post-lunch carb slump that made me kind of sleepy, too. It just wasn’t a great combination overall.
Still, by then Florian and I remembered that we still had Box with us, and that meant a third hand – or a mouth? – that could help with the gardening. And Box did his honest best, too, holding his jaws open as we loaded him up with ripped-up weeds, fallen twigs and branches, and dead leaves. It was all one huge salad bar to him, and Box was happy to chew and swallow between servings.
That kind of helped keep things a little entertaining for me. Plus Box would occasionally snap and snarl at the stray tentacles that tried to sneak up on my ankles, or Florian’s, for that matter.
By the time it was quarter to five, the half of the Crimson Gardens that Belphegor had assigned to us looked about as clear as it could be. The good news was that we’d finished a ton of work in record time. The bad news? We would have to come back to deal with the other half on a second work trip.
My nostrils were choked with the smell of freshly turned earth, not a bad odor as far as I was concerned, but way too much for one day. I unfurled my muscles, using a rake across my shoulders to get a good stretch, gathering up our tools to return them to the shed.
Box tottered along and nipped at my heels as we placed our armfuls of tools in their respective spots, rakes and scythes and shovels all lined up nicely with their siblings. Out of nowhere, Box suddenly started for the back of the shed, staring down, then audibly growling at something laying against the wall there.
“Down, boy.” Florian walked over, squatting and patting Box reassuringly. “See, it’s nothing. It’s just a rusty old hoe.”
The words came before I could stop myself. “You’re a rusty old hoe.”
Florian stood up and held his hands out to either side. “Whoa. Holy crap, what crawled up your butt and died?”
I shook my head sheepishly, scratching at my hair. That was confusing for me, too. “Man, sorry. I’m sorry. I like Priscilla’s food, but would it kill her to put a little bacon in there every once in a while?”
“So ask her. Don’t take it out on me. Geez. Gr
umpy, much?”
“Sorry. Sorry.” I got down on my haunches, holding out my hands. “Come on, Box. Come to Papa. Uncle Florian’s right, that’s just a rusty old hoe.”
A rusty old hoe that he seemed to be taking a little too much interest in. After a few more moments of sniffing and snarling that really didn’t accomplish much of anything, Box tottered back around in a semicircle and came clattering up the shed towards me.
I did wonder, though. Was it really the food or the lack of it that got me all grumpy? I gave the hoe one last look. Something about it, or something about Belphegor’s shed was making me feel all sorts of things. Bad things, mostly. Naughty things.
Box shrank back into the shape of a tiny cube, and I placed him gingerly in my pocket. Florian and I headed back out, the relatively fresh air of the gardens a good deal better than the shed’s stuffiness.
“I think we’re basically done. I’m out of here just as soon as Belphegor signs us out.” He gestured at himself, his shirt stuck to his body with sweat. “I need to change out of these.”
“You’re right about that.” I sniffed at myself and grimaced. “Cripes but I could use a shower.”
I slipped my shirt up and off my head, cool air rushing across my sweat-slick skin. This was too much. The workday had to be over already. I would have thought that the whistle that cut along the lawn was some sort of official signal that five o’clock had struck and we were done. It had, in fact, come straight out of Belphegor’s pursed lips.
“Nephilim. Yes, you. Don’t waste all that sweat.” He gestured towards a patch of particularly limp-looking flowers in a corner. “Squeeze your shirt out over that flowerbed, would you? The irises respond really well to angel tears. I wonder if angel sweat would do the same trick.”
I squinted suspiciously at Belphegor, never saying a word, and his face never changed in expression, but the challenging smile was clear in his eyes. He was daring me to say something. Carefully, very carefully, I slipped my sweaty shirt into a plastic bag, then tucked it back among my belongings.
Belphegor shrugged. “Suit yourself. I can always juice the next angel that comes along.”
12
Darkness was falling over Valero, a cooler breeze blowing through streets filled with honking cars, their windows down as clipped cellphone conversations and spitfire hip-hop lyrics streamed from within. It was early evening in California. Things were winding down, and if I drank beers at all, this would have been the perfect time to crack one open. Heck, my guard was down, too, and I actually shook my head at Florian when he kept walking down the main street on the way back to the Nicola Arboretum.
“We can take a side road. Down one of these alleys. We’ll cut through and get home in no time.”
Famous last words. Florian nodded, then ambled along with me, too tired to protest. I could see it on his face, feel it in my bones. We just wanted to take quick showers and fall into our respective beds. I might not have liked Belphegor very much, but there’s nothing like the pleasurable ache your body feels after a good, long day of honest work – as honest as services rendered for a demon prince can be, of course.
A bunch of men appeared in the alley just as we turned into the very side street I suggested, like a reminder from the universe that one really shouldn’t take shortcuts through dark alleys when one isn’t looking for a mugging, or a beating. I squinted as I focused on the interlopers, and I clenched my teeth in preemptive irritation.
Angels. Five of them. The four larger ones in the back looked very much like the bodyguards that Sadriel, the angel of order, liked to drag around. The one front and center was new to me, though. He had the build, blond buzz cut, and squared jaw of a college quarterback, with all of the smugness to boot.
I turned on my feet, noticing that Florian did so, too, the two of us checking behind us, farther down the alley, to see if our escape route had been blocked off. The way out was sealed, naturally, barred by another rank of large, muscular angels.
As for how I knew they were angels, maybe it was the same with how dogs recognized each other by their scent. It could be the same for angels and half angels like me. One easy sign, I suppose, was the odd imperfect perfection of their faces, like they were sculpted by someone who had a good idea of what a human being should look like, but was just far, far too good at their job. Every wrinkle and freckle was too perfectly placed, too geometric, almost robotic.
They also had this almost uniform aura of smugness, how each of them so unsubtly wore an expression of self-satisfaction. The phrase “holier than thou” must have come from someone’s assessment of what an angel’s face looked like in neutral gear. Resting bastard face.
“Halt,” said the blond one, holding up his hand, palm out, like a traffic cop.
I groaned, probably at the top of my voice, my head lolling back so far that my neck could have snapped right then and there. “Can we not do this today? Please. Whoever you are.”
Blondie wasn’t expecting that. He gaped and gawped, unsure of what to say. His goons watched wordlessly, forearms like thick Christmas hams folded across their chests. I barreled on, emboldened by the silence.
“Listen, buddy. I’m stinky, and tired, and super vascular from a whole day of manual labor. Check this out, asshole, I’m ripped.”
Florian nudged me in the ribs. “Dude, why are you talking like this? Stop flexing your biceps, it’s embarrassing.”
“I dunno. Hormones. Adrenaline.” I flexed harder, then pointed a crooked, threatening finger in the main angel’s face. “Listen, sweet cheeks. I’m being serious here. I will pile-drive your feathery ass into next Tuesday. You leave us alone or so help me, I will put a crater in the asphalt in the shape of your stupid face.”
Blondie bristled at that, standing taller, his eyes darkening with offense. “We’re only here because we know you’re in cahoots with Belphegor. You came from one of the prime infernal realms. I literally saw you use a portal to hell.”
I stumbled towards him, drunk with arrogance, then stabbed my finger across the invisible line I drew from the tip of my nail to his forehead. “Buddy, your face is a portal to hell.”
He gasped, then groped at his jawline, clearly offended.
“Mace, settle the fuck down,” Florian muttered. “We don’t know who these people are or what they want, and you’re not making things easier by taunting them.”
And Florian had a fair point, too. It wasn’t exactly our style to shoot first and ask questions later. But technically, no one was doing any shooting here. I was just really, really tired of being followed around by supernaturals all the time, and knowing that I was so painfully close to attaining the ethereal invisibility I’d been wanting for so long just chapped my ass even more.
“Fine.” I cracked my knuckles, arched my back, and rotated my right arm in its socket, because this conversation was clearly going to end in one of two ways. “Yes, you caught us bare-assed and red-handed. We’re working for Belphegor. Big fucking deal. We’re doing him a favor, that’s all. And I’m really sick of you angels lording yourselves all over me. I’m not an angel, okay? I’m barely even half of one. Your dumb rules shouldn’t apply to me.”
“They literally do,” Blondie said.
“That’s not how you use literally!”
I yelped when Florian’s fingers bit into my upper arm. “Will. You. Stop. Antagonizing.”
“That hurt,” I grumbled, ripping myself away from Florian and clutching at my arm. I turned to Blondie, the pout still glued to my mouth. “Who the hell sent you, anyway? It’s always Sadriel who shows up to accost us. Bring back Sadriel. She was cooler.”
Florian slapped himself in the forehead.
Blondie brought himself up to his full height, his eyes piercing into me even more harshly as he stared me down. “Sadriel has been removed from your case.”
“For the record, she knew about us being buddy-buddy with Belphegor and was perfectly fine about it. Like I said: I like Sadriel. She was cooler.”
>
The angel gave me the smarmiest grim he’d mustered that day yet. “That is literally why she’s been removed from your case. I’ll be watching you from now on. My name is Raguel.”
I’m not sure what possessed me that evening, but I couldn’t stop my mouth if I tried. “I misbehave the tiniest bit in the eyes of the people upstairs, and they send me a babysitter named after some pasta sauce.”
Florian didn’t even say anything this time. He just backed away from me, then shifted even farther, retreating under the shadow of a tree. The sun was already setting by then, but it seemed to set even faster as Raguel took one, two steps forward. It felt like the world itself was darkening around us.
“Let me introduce myself properly,” Raguel said. He opened his hands to either side of him, and his wings unfurled – all four of them.
Ah, nuts.
“I am Raguel,” he said. “And I am the angel of justice.”
My mind started racing. Shit. Shit shit shit. We needed a bunch of mystical swords for a ritual a while back, the whole reason Loki wanted me to track down and return Laevateinn to him to begin with. I ended up stealing one from an archangel. Not on purpose, okay? Shit. Was this the archangel I stole the flaming sword from? Were archangels supposed to even have four wings? What was the upper limit on these things?
Damn it. I really should have had the foresight to ask Raziel for some way for the two of us communicate. Rich, coming from someone who wants to go in hiding from every other supernatural creature who walks the earth. But Raziel was an exception, okay? Possibly the only exception. Angel of mysteries, right? Dude had a lot to say, much of it useful – I bet.
Raguel scoffed, his smug levels rising and threatening to go all the way off the charts. “Not so cocky now, are we? That’s right. From now on, you’ll answer to me. When you do anything shady, I’ll be there, breathing down your neck and waiting for an explanation. When you misbehave, I’ll be there with a wooden ruler, ready to smack you on the wrist. Or if you’re naughty, right on the – ”