Sinners & Sorcerers: Four Urban Fantasy Thrillers (73 page)

As she stepped around a mess tent, she finally saw a familiar face. Nathaniel, the wingless angel who fought with her for Jerusalem, stood ahead, polishing a sword. When he saw her, he nodded and grunted.

“You know,” she said to him, unable to stifle a grin, “I am your commanding officer now. You should really salute.”

He spat into the dust, but his good eye sparkled with just a hint of good humor. “Girl, I’m too old, aching, and tired to salute some half-demon pup. I lost my wings battling Hell when you were still sucking at your mom’s bosom.”

She showed him her fangs and tapped one with her finger. “See these things? I was born with them. I sucked no milk. I was raised on raw flesh and blood.” She slapped his shoulder. “What are you doing here? I thought you were back with The Wrecking Balls in Jerusalem.”

“Not much left of The Wrecking Balls, girl.” He stared into the sky, scratching the stubble on his chin. “I lost many good angels there. Didn’t make much sense to stay with my platoon gone. I asked for a transfer. Heard some crazy rumor you want to invade Hell. Sounded like fun.”

“Oh, it will be.”

He slammed his sword into its scabbard. “We leaving soon?”

Laila nodded. “Lake will be empty soon. We won’t have long before Moloch rekindles the fires. It’ll be a quick invasion, that’s for sure.”

Nathaniel nodded. “Wham bam thank you ma’am, just the way I like it.” He slapped Laila’s shoulder, so strong she nearly fell over. “You be careful down there, girl, and don’t worry. I’ll be watching your back.”

As the armies gathered and the lake drained, Laila found the tent they had prepared for her, tall and black. She found a cot inside, curled up, and tried to sleep.
I could use some sleep before going to Hell, at least an hour or two.
Yet sleep evaded her, and she kept seeing Moloch in her mind, his face wreathed in flame. She had met this fallen angel once, and the memories would not leave her.

She had been fifteen, a wildling of the forests and deserts. She had just reached her full height, her full malice, her wings wide, her fangs sharp. “I will find my father,” she swore in the wilderness. She would travel to Hell. She would find her demon family.

“I need a family,” she would sob in the nights, when nobody could see her weakness.

So Laila the half-demon, fifteen years old, slung a knife through her belt, stuffed a handgun into her boot, and set off. She carried no backpack, no pots or pans, no sleeping bag. Wild in the forests, she owned little. She wandered across the Holy Land for days until she reached a demon camp. Silent in the sunlight when demons slept, she crept in, killing any demons who stumbled across her way. She found their tunnels. She crawled down into Limbo, ten miles under the surface of the world, into a land of hellfire and sin.

At once, the heat made her cry out, and her very blood seemed to catch fire. All the holiness within her sizzled. “Angel blood enters Hell!” came hisses from below, and demons grabbed her feet. Laila kicked but could not free herself, and her hair caught flame. On Earth, no shades could face her and live, but here, crippled by the hellfire that boiled her angel blood, she could not struggle. The demons stuffed her into a sack, and she screamed.

They carried her through Limbo. In the darkness of the sack, she screamed and kicked, her skin red, her fingers blistering. The columns of hellfire roared around her. She wanted to die. She pawed for her handgun, to kill herself, but could not find it; perhaps the demons had taken it from her. When the demons finally untied the sack, she could hardly move, her eyelids fluttering. They spilled her onto a hard floor, hellfire roaring outside the windows.

She raised her burning eyes and saw, blurry, a figure before her. He stood in scaled armor, bat wings outstretched, eyes blazing, hair black and long. His fangs glinted.

“A half-angel enters our realm, my lord Moloch,” hissed a shade, jabbing Laila with his hoof.

Moloch gazed down upon her. “This is Laila you bring me, the daughter of night and sunlight,” he said, voice deep and soft. “Why have you come, girl? Do you spy for Michael?”

Laila tried to speak, but could not. She could not even raise herself from the floor, and she felt the tips of her singed hair crackling again, about to catch flame. Her lips bled.

“Take her outside,” Moloch said to the demons. “She’s nearly dead. Nail her to the gates of my fort, so that she might burn away there, for all to see what happens to angels who enter this realm.”

She could barely hear his voice beyond her boiling blood, and she prayed for death. “Please, God,” she whispered through bleeding lips. “Please, God, if I am truly half-angel, if I am truly of Heaven, grant me death.” Yet God would not hear her prayer; as she was banished from Hell, so was Laila the half-demon banished from Heaven and God’s grace.

“Wait,” came a voice as the demons began to drag her outside. “She does not come here as a spy. My brother would know better than to send a half-angel into Hell. The girl just came to find her father. There’s no need to kill her.”

Laila tried to raise her head, to see who spoke, but could not. She saw only red.

Moloch seemed to snort. “Beelzebub, your mercy is angelic; your brothers would be proud. Her father doesn’t care for her.”

“May be,” said the first voice, “but we might still find use for her, if she lives. A princess of Hell she is, and powerful on Earth. I’ll take her back. She might still live.”

Somebody lifted her then. It did not feel like a shade; the arms had no scales, and when she squinted, Laila thought she could see the face of another fallen angel, one she did not know. She passed out then, thought she had died. When she woke up, she found herself in an abandoned house in Jerusalem, lying on a mattress, a basin of water beside her. Her wounds were bandaged, her burned hair cut short. There were no signs of demons.

As she lay now in her tent, a dozen years later, she still could not forget the face of Moloch, pale and scornful, almost amused, of long fangs, framed in long black hair. She could still hear his voice in her mind. Lying curled up on her cot, Laila reached out and touched the hilt of Haloflame, the sword Michael had given her.

“Twelve years ago, you wanted to kill me, Moloch,” she whispered. “I’ve grown since then. I’m stronger now, and this time, I will kill you.”

She reached into her pocket and caressed her vial of holy water. Michael had blessed this water for her, infusing it with all his godlight and piousness. If the Sea of Galilee was just holy enough to tingle demons, this vial would burn them like bubbling oil on humans. Laila hated carrying this vial; the very thought of the stuff made her shiver. Yet Michael had insisted she take it. Just in case, he said.

She shut her eyes and tried to imagine that she lay in a peaceful place. She pretended that she was back in the forests, a hunter, sleeping on dried leaves, animal blood beneath her fingernails. When she lived in the forest as a predator, she had no duties, no worries. If she had ever tasted something close to happiness, it must have been then, to be wild amid the trees, her wolf at her side. Imagining the trees and sap, Laila finally slept.

Three hours later, she woke up. The armies had gathered and were ready. She stepped outside her tent to find the seraphs, generals of these divisions, waiting for her. They stood like statues of gold, so bright they hurt her eyes. She forced herself to stare at them.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “let’s go to Hell.”

+ + +

The wail of Beelzebub’s horn still hung in the air when all hell broke loose. In the night, the demon army descended upon Jerusalem, banners flapping, fangs bared. Great archdemons, towering and scaled, led rolling battalions of shades, crashing into the city, destroying all in their path.

Angels emerged from trenches, charging with blazing swords, sending blasts of godlight to tear down demon hordes. More angels shot godlight from guard towers, from ancient walls, from homes and makeshift barricades. The blasts lit the night.

Surrounded by the Thirteen, his personal guard of archdemons, Beelzebub spread his wings and hovered into the air, overseeing the battle from above. Twenty thousand angels at least fired upon his demons. A formidable force it was, but smaller than Beelzebub had expected.

Where is Talon Division?
Beelzebub could not see their blue and gold banners. Where were the other forces Michael had been moving across the Holy Land? Brimstone Brigade had left the eastern dunes, and Thorn had abandoned the ports, yet Beelzebub could not see those forces here, unless they hid in the city, or were still on the way.
Dear brother, are you planning an attack somewhere else?

“We must take this city quickly and secure it,” he told his archdemons. “Michael is up to something. So is Laila.”

He blew his horn again, three short blows. The demons below heard and rolled out the artillery, human weapons they had plundered and maintained. Soon shells were falling upon Jerusalem, tearing down ruins that had stood for millennia. Beelzebub watched as hundreds of rockets destroyed the ancient city.

Not to be undone, red flags soon waved in the angel camp, and as Beelzebub watched, hundreds of rockets flew from Jerusalem onto the invading demons. The blasts tore into the ranks of shades, strewing demon limbs about.

The shelling continued all night. Beelzebub flew between his units, sending forces forward and back, claiming more and more of the city. By dawn they were deep in Jerusalem, leaving hills of bodies in their wake. With the sunlight, the angels gained courage. Three seraphs they sent forward, beings of woven gold and light that burned demon eyes. The seraphs tossed aside shades like rag dolls, ravaging the demon ranks.

With a grunt, Beelzebub flew down to the battlefield, the Thirteen around him. They landed upon cobblestones and circled the three seraphs, squinting against the burning godlight.

“This city is God’s domain,” spoke one of the seraphs, his voice like an echo. It was impossible to discern the seraph’s face; he seemed made of liquid light, his voice floating from within his core. “Leave this place, the demon Beelzebub, and return to your banishment.”

Beelzebub shook his head. “You speak with old terms, seraph. Banishment? Those days are over. It has been thousands of years since your tyrant banished Lucifer and his followers. We rule Hell now, a great kingdom, hardly what you’d call banishment. We come to claim Earth too.” He raised his sword. “I am tempted to emulate your magnanimity and offer you a chance to flee too, but I think I will not. I prefer to kill you now.”

The Thirteen moved in, closing around the three seraphs. The light pulsated from the beings of God, tearing down walls and rows of shades, and the hum of their wings sent rippling waves of bass that ached in Beelzebub’s chest. His archdemons swung their blades, and the seraphs blocked the blows with swords of their own, raising showers of sparks. The Thirteen kept hacking, and soon they were twelve, then ten. Demon and angel blood covered the ground.

Beelzebub swung his blade at one seraph, knocking its sword aside, then lunged forward with claws. Closing his eyes against the light, he ripped out the seraph’s throat. Ichor sizzled against him, and Beelzebub screamed and cursed.
It hurts like hell.

He kept hacking at the other two seraphs, his archdemons with him, until the great angels lay dead, their light extinguished. Beelzebub stood above them, panting, his arms still burning where the seraph blood had touched them. His face felt burned too, his eyebrows and hair singed.

“Bastards,” he said and spat. “I hate seraphs.”

Their light extinguished, they looked like pale men, their skin white, their features ageless, their wings made of golden wire. Beelzebub kicked one just for fun.

“Let’s go find Michael,” he said to his remaining archdemons. Only eight had survived.

The shelling continued throughout the day, and the demons kept pushing deeper into the city. The angels fought stubbornly, hiding in the houses, firing from within them. Beelzebub had to send demons into every house, one by one, routing out the angels, claiming the city one block at a time. Bodies of demons and angels lay about the city like so many cobblestones. Shells burst against walls and towers, sending down crashing stones.

Soon they reached the heart of the city. The hill where his church had stood rose to Beelzebub’s left. There was nothing left of it but rubble. A battalion of angels waited there, charging to crash against the swarming shades.

Beelzebub flapped his wings and flew above the battle, dust clouding beneath him. A gleam of light ahead caught his eyes, piercing the dust, and he glimpsed swan wings. An archangel moved there, Beelzebub knew. There had only ever been seven archangels, the great rulers of Heaven.
Whichever one this is, I’ll kill him,
Beelzebub thought, stomach tingling.
I might just end this war today.

Through blasts of godlight and fire Beelzebub flew, wings spread out. Flames ignited around him, wreathing him, and he snarled. He remembered the battle of Armageddon, twenty-seven years ago, when he emerged to earth clad in flame and malice, a figure from nightmares.
Let these angels see me now as they did then. The devil has come to this town.

The glow of archangel was close now. Beelzebub flew behind an ancient, crumbling building. He found himself in an alley, shielded from the shells, flames, and blasts of light. The alley seemed strangely silent, the sounds of battle muffled. There before him, standing upon the cobblestones, glowed Raphael.

“Hello, brother,” said the healer, staff in hand, robes singed and stained with droplets of blood. His brown eyes were sad as ever, huge and round like a hound’s.

Beelzebub blew out his breath in frustration. “What are you doing here, Raphael? Go home. Go back to Heaven.”

Raphael shook his head. “God needs me here. I have come to this world to heal. It’s you, brother, who should leave.”

Beelzebub raised his sword, sudden rage finding him. Raphael, youngest of the three brothers, always found some platitude to speak, some condescending words to bestow upon any who’d listen. Beelzebub had never understood this one. Michael, at least, Beelzebub could look up to; there was an angel strong and proud, an older brother Beelzebub aspired to emulate. Raphael, the youngest of the three, had always seemed cryptic to Beelzebub, studious and quiet, spending all his days praying, meditating, or—more often than not—drinking.