Sinners & Sorcerers: Four Urban Fantasy Thrillers (53 page)

“I know, Laila, sweetness, our lost, outcast daughter. I know. Heaven fears you. They fear your power. You are young, yes, and inexperienced. You were born just as Armageddon began; there are few in Hell or Heaven so young.” His claws ran along her shoulders, her arms, raising goose bumps across her skin, raising memories of his caresses. “And already you have the power of a great archdemon or archangel. Already you’ve killed more demons and angels than I can count, even two fallen angels.” He leaned down, pulled her face toward his, and stared into her eyes. Fires burned in his demon eyes. “Laila, please. Come to us, to our family. Fight with us against Heaven. We can give you a home, Laila; not in Hell, but on Earth once we conquer it. You think I would stay in this world longer than I needed to? I miss the hellfire and pits of underground. Help us take Earth, and it will be yours to rule in my name.”

Laila took two steps back, leaving Beelzebub’s arms to fall to his sides. The horror, the old anguish, swirled through her, and she could feel her demon blood sizzle against her angel blood, setting her veins on fire, spinning her head. The pain nearly blinded her. All she could see were the demon eyes laughing in the shadows, swirling around her.

“No,” she said, taking another step back, Volkfair growling by her side. “You would fill Earth with your hellfire, until it is like Hell itself, and you would destroy the only place where I can live. I will not join you, Beelzebub.” Tears streamed down her cheeks, tears of blood and flame. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Goodbye.”

I will gain no more knowledge here. I will run into the city, run to my bottles, and drink myself unconscious tonight, and I hope that I never wake up.

Beelzebub looked at her, sadness in his eyes. He stepped back to the altar. “I’m sorry, Laila. I’m so sorry. In that case, Laila... in that case you must die.”

With a snap of his claws, he released Zarel’s chains.

Snarling, the Demon Queen leapt forth, wreathed in flame, fangs drawn.

+ + +

Bat El knelt in her chamber, high in the fort’s western tower, overlooking the sea. Outside the window, the night sky was clear, one of those few nights when ash did not hide the stars.
Thank you, our lord, for granting us a clear night, for reminding us of the beauty of the sky.

Bat El’s knees were pressed against the stone floor, and she rested her elbows on her wooden cot, hands pressed together in prayer. From outside came the sound of waves against sand and boulders. Michael had offered her a woolen rug, a plush mattress, silky curtains, but Bat El had refused. She had come here for duty, to fight for God, not for pleasure. Plenty of pleasures waited back in Heaven.

Please, God, if you hear me, bring some pleasure, bring some joy, into the life of my sister. Bring some peace to Laila.

Bat El lowered her head and closed her eyes. She wondered if God would be mad that she prayed for a half-demon. She knew that God’s grace was forever forbidden for Laila. She knew that Heaven would forever be locked for a half-demon. Yet still, Bat El prayed for her half-sister, prayed for this poor child born from her mother’s rape.
Please, God, look after Laila. Do not let her soul fall into darkness.

Suddenly Bat El winced and goose bumps rose across her. She rubbed her temples. Laila was in trouble, she knew. Whenever fear or pain filled the half-breed, Bat El could sense it, a shiver down her spine and an ache in her head.

There was evil in Laila, Bat El knew; there was malice and might on a scale which Bat El would never fully understand.
But there is goodness to her too, God. I can see it. I felt it when I spoke to her. I’ve forever seen the piety in her. Please watch over her.

If God heard her prayers, he was silent, and Bat El opened her eyes and stood up. She gazed toward the harp which hung on the wall. She had refused all comforts aside from her harp. She could not have parted Heaven without it. Worry for Laila gnawing on her, Bat El took her harp, sat on her bed, and played. As outside waves crashed and demons and angels died, Bat El played her music, a tear running down her cheek.

+ + +

Zarel shot forward like a fireball, claws outstretched.

Laila leapt aside.

The Demon Queen hit the floor where Laila had stood, claws digging into the stone. Snarling and crackling with flame, Zarel spun and leapt again, drool spraying from her maw.

Gritting her teeth, heart racing, Laila fired her Uzi. Shots rang out, lighting the church, slamming into Zarel. The Demon Queen seemed barely to notice. She slammed into Laila, shoving her onto the floor, claws reaching toward Laila’s throat.

Volkfair slammed into Zarel, knocking the demon off, and Laila leapt to her feet. Claw marks ran down her shoulder, bleeding.

“Back, Volkfair!” she shouted and tossed a grenade at Zarel.

She and Volkfair leaped and rolled, tumbling into the shadows. Laila leapt over her wolf, shielding him with her body. The grenade burst behind them, and through the falling dust, Laila heard Zarel scream. Shrapnel hit Laila’s cloak, burned through the cloth, and sizzled against her skin. She gritted her teeth against the pain, but knew she’d be all right.
I am Lucifer’s daughter. It would take more than shrapnel to break through this skin.

A growl behind confirmed that Zarel still lived. The demon’s footfalls scratched against the floor, and Laila spun around, firing. The bullets ricocheted off Zarel’s scales. One bullet whizzed and hit Volkfair, and the wolf yelped.

“Volkfair!” Laila cried. Before she could rush to the wolf, Zarel crashed against her.

Laila screamed and grabbed the Demon Queen’s wrists, pushing those claws away. The claws scratched the air, trying to reach Laila’s eyes, and Zarel’s drool dripped from her fangs, sizzling against Laila’s face. Laila grimaced and struggled, kicking, the flames from Zarel’s hair searing her clothes. Her foot finally caught Zarel’s scaled belly, pitching the Demon Queen ten yards into the air. Zarel hit the floor, chipping bits of stone.

Laila leapt to her feet and lobbed another grenade. The grenade hit Zarel in the chest and exploded, and more shrapnel flew, filling the church, burning against demons who watched in the shadows. Three demon bodies fell from the ceiling to thud against the ground.

“Volkfair!” Laila cried. Where was the wolf? Had the grenade hurt him?
There.
She saw him. The wolf had fled behind a stone column and lay, blinking, licking his bullet wound. He struggled to his paws, wincing and yelping, and came limping toward her. Anguish filled Laila.
Volkfair... my dear pet.

On the broken floor, Zarel stood up slowly, knuckled her back, and shook off shrapnel. She looked at Laila, grinned, and licked a droplet of blood off her lip. Amusement in her flaming eyes, the Demon Queen charged again.

Damn. I emptied two magazines into that beast, and hit her square in the chest with two grenades, and all she has is a bleeding lip.
The chilling realization filled Laila—she could not win this battle. Not with a thousand demons watching from the shadows, ready to leap forward if necessary. Not with Volkfair wounded. Not with Beelzebub in the shadowy chancel, waiting to see who won, waiting to kill her if need be.

Zarel leapt toward her, flaming. Laila knelt and slid forward, passing under the Demon Queen. Zarel hit a stone column, shattering it. Chunks of stone fell from the ceiling. Laila ran toward Volkfair, lifted the shaggy beast, and slung him over her shoulder. She spread her wings and took flight.

Zarel leapt up, and Laila reloaded and fired her Uzi, pushing Zarel back to the floor. She tossed a grenade at the ceiling, and chunks of stone fell upon Zarel, knocking her down, burying her under bricks and ash. Under the heap of stone, Zarel’s flames burned, and the Demon Queen shouted and began to free herself, tossing the bricks aside.

Laila shot in all directions, knocking aside demons who swooped toward her. Wings flapping, she crashed through a stained glass window, flying into the night. She dropped her last grenade through the window, heard demons screech, and flapped her wings.

“Volkfair,” she whispered, holding the wolf slung over her shoulder. The great beast was breathing heavily, blood seeping. “Hang in there, boy. You’re going to be all right.”

Demons came flying out of the church, and Laila descended. She landed in an alley, hidden in the darkness, and ran, Volkfair in her arms. She ran through the labyrinth of Jerusalem’s ruins, until she left the demon neighborhood, for a moment hidden in no-man’s land, shaded by toppled buildings. The demon shrieks still came from the distance, and she saw their wings against the sky, but Laila knew they could not find her now.

“We’re safe here, Volkfair,” she whispered, laying down the wolf. He looked up at her and licked her palm. Bloody tears on her cheeks, Laila ran her hands over Volkfair, examining his wounds. The bullet had hit his stomach, and shrapnel filled his back. He was dying.

Laila raised her head to the night sky, cursing Heaven, cursing her banishment. “I am half angel!” she whispered through gritted teeth. “I am of Heaven’s brood. Why can’t I use healing light? Why can’t I heal my dearest friend?”

She hung her head. Yes, her mother was an angel, but she, Laila, was forever cursed. Forever would demon blood flow through her, forever would Heaven be banned to her, forever would God’s grace pass over Laila the half-demon.

She lifted Volkfair again, blood filling his fur. “Come, Volkfair. We’re going to find Bat El. She can heal you.”

Holding her wolf, Laila spread her wings and flew into the night, heading west, heading to the fort on the beach, heading into the realm of Heaven.

Michael stood upon a fallen marble column, the wind from the sea ruffling the feathers in his wings, blowing back his curls. Eyes narrowed, lance in hand, he stared down the hill toward the ruins of Caesarea. The city was silent now, its ancient walls and cobbled streets glinting in the sunlight. The only movement was the waves beyond the city walls, the only sounds the breeze and sea.

But they are out there, waiting,
Michael knew. He loosened and tightened his grip on his lance, comforted by the familiar, smooth touch of its shaft. He had been holding this lance for so long, the grip was so polished, he could almost see his reflection in it.

“Won’t see much down there now,” came a voice behind, and Michael turned to see Raphael—his youngest brother—trudging up the hill. The archangel wore no armor and carried no weapon. Clad in white robes was Raphael, simple homespun, and he held a knotty wooden staff. The wind ruffled his long dark hair and swan wings.

Michael nodded. “It’s a clear day. Sunlight hurts them.”

Raphael stepped onto the fallen column where Michael stood, and for a moment the brothers gazed down upon the ruins, silent.

“How are you, Michael?” Raphael asked quietly.

Michael did not answer and kept scanning the ruins below. Doves picked at seeds between the cobblestones, and sparrows bathed in rainwater that had gathered in aqueducts, but Michael saw no other life.

“This city was built during the days of Christ,” he finally said, speaking to himself more than to Raphael. “It’s a baby next to Jerusalem, but still old enough so that each stone moans with antiquity. I can hear the cobbles whisper, Raphael.”

Raphael, the great healer, placed a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Answer me, Michael. How are you?”

Michael turned to face Raphael, youngest of the three brothers.
Those brown eyes of his always look so sad,
Michael thought. “I’m fine. You worry too much.”

“You are tired.”

“I’m a soldier. Soldiers get tired. We keep fighting, even so.” Michael shook his head. Raphael was a healer, a divine being of piety and peace. He, Michael, was lord of God’s hosts, the ultimate warrior.
We will never understand each other,
he knew.

Even as children, thousands of years ago, the brothers never got along. Michael, the oldest, the responsible one. Beelzebub, the middle child, reckless, the prankster, the trouble child. Raphael, the youngest, studious and reflective. Sometimes Michael couldn’t believe the three shared blood. In their youth, Beelzebub was always sneaking down to Earth and getting into trouble, Raphael would lose himself in meditation and prayer, and he—Michael—was always the one to take care of things, to look after his younger siblings. Looking down over the ruins, Michael lowered his head.
Yet I was never able to look after Beelzebub. I was never able to help that one.

“We have wine back in the camp,” Raphael said, holding his staff, gazing down upon the ancient walls and houses, these structures that had stood for two thousand years. “There is honey bread too, and figs. Join us, Michael. Your troops will be glad to see you. There will be no more fighting until dark.”

Michael sighed. “I’m thinking. I can think here during the day. It’s quiet.”