by Nazri Noor
“Run for it!”
I followed in Florian’s wake as he pulled a tight one-eighty and headed away from Raguel, which meant that we were sprinting straight towards the five bodyguard angels at the other end of the alley. We were fighting our way out, then. A better choice than sitting there and listening to Raguel gloat, I thought. I held my right hand out, summoning a weapon, then accepting eagerly as the balls and chains of my beloved morning star appeared in my grasp, clinking and clanging threateningly.
“Wait,” Raguel called out. “I just wanted to talk.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I shouted back, my morning star clanking as Florian and I ran faster and faster. The five angels at the end of the alley stared us down as we approached, just this huge slab of meat and menace. “Florian,” I said, huffing. “You better have a plan for dealing with this one.”
Florian didn’t even answer. He just thrust his arm out, then shoved his hand to the right, like he was pushing aside a stack of invisible newspapers.
I wasn’t expecting the sudden rush of lush green vines to explode out of the trees and bushes lining the street, their cords and tendrils forming into a massive hand that mimicked the precise gestures that Florian made. The enormous green fist slammed the angels out of the way. They yelped and shouted, smacked aside like a row of bald-headed bowling pins.
“Dude,” I shouted as we blew past the fallen angels. “That was badass. You totally knocked those jerks over.”
The look Florian threw me could have wilted entire rainforests. My heart thumped with newfound fear in the split second we made eye contact. I might have escaped the hand of Raguel, angel of justice – but it looked like I’d just stumbled headlong and straight into the jaws of Saint Florian.
13
I got the tongue lashing of a lifetime from Florian that evening. Whatever the circumstance, wherever we happened to be, I was lectured about how irresponsibly I acted, how arrogant I’d been, even by my own laughable standards.
“You’re right,” I said glumly, nodding through the first five, then ten minutes of Florian giving me the business. Thirty minutes later, when we were already safe back in Paradise and he still hadn’t given up on the thrashing, I knew he wasn’t fucking around.
I deserved every second of it. Florian was always so patient with me, and generally speaking, all I ever did was take a dump over how much leeway he gave me, whether in terms of my behavior or my, shall we say, occasional recklessness in combat situations.
And he didn’t let up. The only time he stopped lecturing me was over dinner, because even when he was mad at me, Florian was still the good kind of friend who wouldn’t want me to get into even more trouble with Artemis over my own inability to control my own mouth. But after dinner? Oh, all bets were off.
We bathed five feet away from each other in the river, but the whole time he was giving me a right good verbal whipping. When I went off to change, he stood outside my hut’s window, giving me just enough privacy to get naked and dressed up again, but never easing off the pressure. And the gist of what he told me was that I didn’t have any reason to be such a jerk that day. He was right, too.
Neither of us knew what Raguel was capable of, and thanks to me, we still didn’t know. Florian and I had a silent, unspoken understanding that knowledge was power, something we’d instinctively picked up from Raziel, but I’d thrown all of that out the window. If I’d just let Raguel say his piece, then maybe we’d have some idea of what him being “assigned” to me even meant. And was he telling the truth about Sadriel? I hoped she was okay.
And I couldn’t tell you what had overcome me, either. I vaguely recalled my skin glowing like a lamp that afternoon, my blood merrily bubbling with the pleasure of taunting and teasing someone, anyone, with no real regard for the consequences. It felt correct somehow, like something I was allowed to celebrate and savor, not just as a nephilim, but as a teenager. I recognized the feeling and the rush of power for what it was: rebellion.
It was lucky that we were so worn out from working for Belphegor – well, and from the run home as well – because it meant that I could fall asleep as quickly as possible, mainly from the exhaustion. It meant that I wouldn’t have to think about the truth behind the flaming sword, and whether Raguel was the one to look out for.
Shit. I really should have let him talk more. At least then I could see myself moving around Valero without having to look over my shoulder every two seconds.
And yet it was all I could think of the next day. Florian had cooled off, only throwing me the last three or four disapproving “I was rooting for you” glances before finally reverting to his cheerier self. I mulled it over all morning, chewing over the thoughts of archangels and wings even as I chewed my oatmeal. We spent most of the day on construction chores for Artemis, but by late afternoon, we headed out for a prior engagement. By the time we made our way through to the Black Market to meet up with Beatrice Rex and pick up my bracer, I just couldn’t contain myself anymore.
“That Raguel guy. Did he strike you as the type to be an archangel?”
Florian and Beatrice both turned towards me, blinking, but unresponsive.
I cleared my throat. “I guess the question was more for Florian.”
“Well,” Florian said, “for starters, he didn’t have that kind of regal aura I would’ve expected from an archangel, you know?”
“What?” Beatrice Rex poked a finger against my shoulder. “What’s all this talk of archangels and ragu-elles? I don’t like being left out.”
I filled her in quickly, leaving out very few details. She stuck a finger against her chin, thoughtful.
“Blond beefcake with a buzz cut, you say? Sounds like he could be my type.”
Florian chuckled, leaning one elbow against the shop counter. “What is your type, anyway?”
Beatrice giggled, then flipped her hair. Now? This was the time they picked to start being flirtatious with each other again?
“Guys, please, can we focus?”
Beatrice collected herself quickly, her expression going serious once more. “Well, to be perfectly honest, I do tend to associate archangels with a very specific set of names. You know, like Gabriel. Michael. Raphael. Those sound way more like archangels.”
Florian chuckled again. “Or ninja turtles, am I right?”
The two of them high fived, and I stuck my head in my hands. Florian barely knew about the modern world. How’d he ever hear about ninja turtles?
But then a familiar voice spoke up from nearby, drifting out of one the aisles in Beatrice’s shop, and my mood went very quickly from frustrated to mildly infuriated.
“My, my,” said the unmistakable voice of Quilliam J. Abernathy. “Sounds like someone has a bit of a pest problem.”
I whirled on my feet, turning to face him, remembering so suddenly that there definitely were creatures on this known earth who could be smugger and smarmier than even the angels themselves. Whatever Quilliam was supposed to be surely counted, for example.
“The only pest around here is you, Quilliam.”
He scoffed, tucking aside a lock of his hair. “Not to Beatrice Rex, I’m not. I’m a loyal customer.”
This again. I gritted my teeth. It seemed that he was a loyal customer everywhere in the Black Market, which somehow gave him a free pass against being labeled a potential kidnapper and a bona fide arsonist.
I gave Quilliam the once-over, frowning when I found his arms loaded with leather goods. He’d picked out a satchel and a couple of leather-bound notebooks, all courtesy of Beatrice Rex’s collaborative collection with the Fuck-Tons, naturally. He also had what looked like a particularly loopy brown leather belt.
“Is that a harness?” I scoffed, making sure not to expose that I only knew what a harness was because the Fuck-Tons had been so generous with their knowledge on BDSM gear. “Kinky. I didn’t know you swung that way.”
Quilliam’s face creased as he scowled. I’d hit a tender spot. I enjoyed getting a reacti
on out of him, especially when it meant that I’d punched through that pretentious, cool as a cucumber veneer he liked to believe he could keep up at all times.
“Is that supposed to be some kind of insult? Who cares if I’m into that? And it’s not a harness, dimwit. It’s a book belt, not that you’d know the difference, since you’re about as well read as a box of rocks.”
The tips of my ears reddened. He was right. I was being a jerk about the harness thing. Then again, Quilliam had that effect on me, where words just fell out of my mouth in a rapid-fire attempt to push his buttons harder and faster than he could push mine.
“A book belt?” I plucked the thing out of the load of shopping in his arms. “That’s the dorkiest, dumbest thing I’ve heard of.”
It wasn’t. I was lying. I’d fucking love a book belt, but again: anything to set Quilliam off.
“Give that back,” Quill snarled, snatching the belt out of my fingers, then setting all his stuff on Beatrice’s counter. He seemed to remember that we weren’t alone, his eyes flitting between her and Florian, and he cleared his throat, straightening his back and lifting his nose even as the red cleared away from his skin. “Like I said, dumb as a pile of bricks. Not that I’d expect anything from someone who didn’t even finish high school.”
Ouch. Now who was being the jerk? “That’s a low blow and you know it,” I said, scowling. “How do you even know that about me? And what’s with you going around and loading up on all this dork shit, anyway? Grimoires, book belts? Either you’re planning another terrorist coup or you’re preparing for your next semester at some shitty, overpriced gated wizard academy.”
Quilliam stepped forward so quickly that I almost recoiled and backed away. Almost.
He shoved a finger in my face. I nearly flinched that time. I watched the end of it defiantly, my gaze alternating between his fingertip and his mouth. One word was all it would take for him to fry me.
“You take that back,” he hissed, poking at my chest for emphasis. “Madam Grayhaven’s School for Gifted Boys turned me into the magus I am today. I will not stand for that kind of slander. Besides, I’m a graduate.” He teetered proudly on his heels.
“Pssh. A graduate in being a grade A asshole. Am I right?” I reached out to Florian for a high five, but he had his hands resolutely tucked into his elbows, arms folded and eyes averted like he really didn’t want to get involved.
“If it isn’t yet obvious, I’m restocking because of all the books in my collection you’ve so summarily destroyed, nephilim.” Quilliam said the word like it was the most disgusting sound he’d ever had to make with his mouth.
It was instinct that took over my body then. I pointed a finger at his chest, mirroring his posture, but my mind was already reaching out to the Vestments. “Just doing my part as a good citizen to stop you from blowing up another city block, you fucking arsonist.”
He rolled his eyes. “Like that’s supposed to get a reaction out of me.”
My spine tingled as I said my next words. And I did so with glee, my mouth curling into a smile as I spoke. “Mama’s boy.”
That did it. Quill’s hand closed the littlest distance left between us, his fingers splaying as his palm pressed flat against my chest. In that exact moment, a dagger appeared in my grasp, looking almost spring-loaded as it manifested from out of the Vestments and emerged straight from my wrist, its point just a fraction of an inch away from piercing Quilliam’s throat.
He grinned, speaking through his teeth. “Do it. I dare you. See what happens.”
I lifted my chin even higher. “Same, bitch. Try me. One more word out of your lips and I paint the countertop with your blood.”
We held there for some moments, my body thrumming with both the fear of fire and a strange sense of longing, of wanting to press forward just another centimeter closer so I could draw his blood. Checkmate.
The last thing I expected to break the silence was the sound of Beatrice Rex’s voice.
“Jesus Christ, you two, get a room.”
14
Florian’s breath came in one long, exhausted exhalation. “Seriously. I’d say for you to just prick each other or blow the other guy up, but I don’t think Beatrice wants your internal organs all over her shop.”
Beatrice wrinkled her nose, then chuckled softly. “Prick and blow? Are those really the only options? Sounds fruitful.”
Quill and I turned towards her at the exact same moment, glaring daggers. She held her hands up, laughing.
“You boys are so sensitive. Lighten up. Put them back in your pants. Mason, this isn’t very angelic of you. And Quilliam, that kind of behavior is quite unbecoming, don’t you think?”
“Listen,” I said, raising a finger but still finding myself lowering my dagger. “You of all people would know that being a perfect little angel isn’t exactly top priority for me.”
“Hey,” Beatrice said. “I’m just trying to defuse the tension in here. I don’t want to spend the day scrubbing either of your guts off the floor and ceiling. Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of hardwood? Don’t ask me how I know that.”
Quill growled softly, the tips of his fingers digging into my chest.
“Dude,” I said. “Could you not? You’re enjoying this a little too much.”
Beatrice folded her arms. “Quilliam? Mason was nice enough to put his toys away. Won’t you do the same?”
I was expecting that kind of slightly condescending and somewhat parental tone to aggravate Quill even more, but his fingers stopped pressing into me so hard. He bit on his bottom lip, looking away sheepishly as his hand left my chest.
Air rushed to cool the heat his hand had imprinted into my body. Either his blood just naturally burned really hot, or he really was preparing a fire spell and planning to blow a hole in my torso. I couldn’t reach for a suit of armor from the Vestments, and considering what Skirnir had done to my chest in our fight, it probably wasn’t my best option for protection, anyway. I blinked at my chest, then collected myself, smoothing out the creases in my shirt, breathing steadily as I made a mental note to thank Beatrice for distracting us later.
“Much better,” Beatrice said, both her expression and her voice measured and even. Florian heaved a sigh of relief. I guess I hadn’t realized how close Quill and I had come to actually killing each other.
And still something in my blood wanted to land one last, taunting blow. I thumbed over my shoulder and nudged my head in Quill’s direction. “All I’m saying is that a known arsonist like Peter Pyromaniac over here shouldn’t be allowed to walk around so freely.”
“Oh, please.” Quill drew out the second word in exasperation, rolling his eyes. “Evidence, nephilim. Evidence. Last I checked, you needed some proof to convict anyone of a crime. All I’m hearing right now is a lot of baseless rambling.” His mouth curled into one of those sneers he loved to make so much. “Material that could be considered slanderous.”
I stiffened, my eyes looking between Florian and Beatrice Rex. “Can he do that?” I said, my voice whisper-soft. “Can he sue?”
“My pockets certainly run deeper than yours, nephilim.”
“Boys,” Beatrice barked. Drawers and sewing boxes rattled and clinked with the sound of shears and pins and needles hungry for blood. Behind her, along the shelves and counters, lengths of thread and bolts of cloth shivered and rippled as they threatened to come to life and obey their mistress. “Enough. I am not going to stand here and mediate this pissing contest all day. I have far better things to do. I don’t expect you to kiss and make up, but if you want to fight, don’t do it in here.”
Quill and I exchanged a last set of cutting glares. I scowled at him, then placed my hands across the top of Beatrice’s counter. He did the same, his fingers worrying at the leather book belt still waiting to be wrapped up and purchased.
Beatrice’s shop went still, no longer responding to her anger. “That’s better.”
“Peasant,” Quilliam muttered under his breath.
“Fucking mama’s boy,” I mumbled back.
Beatrice curled her fingers around thin air, squeezing her hands into fists. “What I wouldn’t give to throttle the both of you.” Her hands flew to her old-timey register, the machine clanking as she punched in numbers. “Quill, I’m ringing you up right now. The sooner I get you out of here, the better.”
Quill smiled like he hadn’t just been insulted, then bowed his head politely. “Appreciated as always, Beatrice.”
Beatrice grumbled to herself as she swept Quill’s purchases into a couple of paper bags.
Florian cleared his throat. “Couldn’t you just slip everything into one of those bags that holds lots of things? One of those pocket dimensions.”
I scoffed. “You mean like the one that Quill exploded on us?”
Quilliam ignored me, smiling genuinely at Florian as he explained. “Actually, putting one inside the other could be potentially catastrophic. Causes dimensional collapse, and stuff in a wide radius begins to implode. I think I read that somewhere. Is it true, Beatrice?”
It was weird seeing the shift in his personality. Suddenly he was being so nice and polite. It didn’t change the fact that I still wanted to crush his windpipe. The Jekyll and Hyde act made me dislike him even more.
Beatrice finished the last of the wrapping up, sliding Quilliam’s wares across the counter. “It’s true, actually. It’s written in our warranty policy. We’re not liable for dimensional tears and breaches of any size. It’s a customer’s responsibility to handle our products with care. It’s also their responsibility to handle whatever steps through any rifts they might open in space-time.”
My eyebrows furrowed as I searched her store for the thing I’d ordered myself. “Does that – that doesn’t apply to the bracer I ordered, does it? I mean it’s not just going to spontaneously explode and take my hand off at the wrist, is it?”