Sinners & Sorcerers: Four Urban Fantasy Thrillers (82 page)

Bat El seemed ready to reply, when a demon scream came from outside, ruffling the walls of the tent. “Where is she? Bring her out.”

Zarel.

Bat El paled, and Laila tightened her lips and took a deep breath through her nostrils. She took the hilt of her sword. “It’s time,” she whispered.

+ + +

Bat El flew from the tent, the desert sprawling below, a land of endless dunes and canyons and mountains, lifeless but for the armies of angels and demons. The fortress of Masada rose upon the mount, beaten and crumbled. Bat El landed by the courtyard of the fortress ruins. Not much remained of Masada these days, two thousand years after the Romans destroyed it. Crumbled walls, chipped staircases, vestiges of columns and doorways, a dusty courtyard. Not much more. The bricks and cellars seemed like living things to Bat El, almost as ancient as fallen angels. Sand blew in the wind, and ash swirled in the sky. From here upon the mountain, Bat El could see the dunes and stones undulating for miles, as far as she could see. A dead, beaten fort in a dead, beaten land.

With the thud of wings, Michael landed beside her. Twenty seraphs soon joined them, followed by countless angel soldiers in iron breastplates. They stood on the outskirts of the ruins, looking in upon the barren, dusty courtyard. The duel would be fought there.

Demons too were fluttering down, landing across the other side of the fort. When she saw Beelzebub, Bat El’s heart missed a beat. He stood among scaly shades, arms crossed over his breastplate, his cape fluttering in the wind. The flying sand seemed to touch neither his garb nor hair; they remained black as night. She sought his eyes, but he did not look in her direction.
It’s better this way,
Bat El knew, turning her own gaze away. The sight of him hurt too much.

A crackle like fire rose, and Bat El saw sparks ahead, as from a bonfire. Tail swishing behind her, Zarel walked into the courtyard, moving with a haughty sway. Tongues of fire ran along her scaly body and haloed her brow. In her hand, she held a sword whose blade seemed made of fire. She snarled at the crowd of angels watching, smoke rising from her nostrils.

Bat El winced and looked away. The Demon Queen was powerful, she knew, and terrible to behold. Michael had needed twenty seraphs and an army of angels to encage her. Now it would be just Laila facing the archdemon. Bat El could still feel Laila’s embrace and smell her hair, and a tear ran down her cheek.

“How is she?” Michael asked softly.

“She’s scared,” Bat El said. “And she’s angelic today, on the day she needs to be most demonic. But she’s determined. And she’s tough. Will that be enough, Michael?” She looked up at the archangel, her tear still on her cheek. “You’ve trained her. Can she do this?”

Michael folded his wings against his back. He stared at the courtyard, eyes emotionless. Zarel saw him, gave him a wink, and snarled. The Demon Queen swung her sword; it raised sparks and left trails of flame in its wake. The tendrils of fire danced like demons, hissing.

“There is a certain chance,” Michael finally said, sighing.

Zarel growled from the dusty courtyard. Drool ran down her fangs. “Well, Michael. Where is your little half-breed? Is she cowering in her tent? Let the pup come here, and we’ll see how long she lasts.”

Run away,
Bat El found herself thinking, clenching her fists.
Run from here, Laila. Run and live in the forests, in the deserts, just leave this place.

Her mental pleading bore no fruit. A hush fell over the crowd as Laila, daughter of Lucifer, Princess of Hell, stepped toward the courtyard.

Laila walked between the demons of Limbo, who moved aside to let her pass. At her sides walked two towering archdemons, their scales and horns brilliant white, their eyes like saucers, glistening. Behind her walked a train of demon troops, clad in breastplates bearing a black wolf’s head. Volkfair, the black wolf himself, walked there too, fangs bared, growling. Laila wore a cloak of black velvet, clasped with a ruby fibula, and her halo of flame crackled. Her breastplate was black iron, filigreed, shaped to mimic the curve of her body. The angels and demons stared, silent, as she stepped into the courtyard.

Laila paused, looking around at the crowd, at the dunes that rolled beneath the mountain. Her face was expressionless, almost stoic, and her black hair flowed in the wind. Two shades stepped forward and took her cloak, then backed away, bowing. Laila stood in her breastplate, her leather pants and boots, her sword in her hand. With her entourage retreated, her cloak gone, Laila seemed so small to Bat El—a slight girl, young, with small hands.
A girl, that is all. Just a girl. Please, Laila. Please run.

Zarel grinned and snarled, drool dripping, foam gathering at the corner of her maw. Her flames burned, and her sword hummed. The Demon Queen scratched the ground with her claws, long claws, sharper than anything in this world, claws that couldn’t wait to dig into Laila’s flesh.

The wind blew, raising swirls of sand. Bat El shivered and closed her eyes.

+ + +

Beelzebub stood among the ruins of Masada, looking upon the sandy courtyard where stood Laila, the woman he’d almost married, and Zarel, the woman he married instead. Lucifer’s daughter and the Demon Queen stood facing each other, blades drawn. Soon one would die.

Here upon the mountain, the Holy Land seemed dead. Beelzebub could see only dunes rolling into the distance, endless sand and rocks here south of Jerusalem.
Is this what we’re here for?
he wondered.
Is this what we’re fighting for? Rocks and grains of sand?
He looked across the courtyard where stood Michael, his older brother, and Bat El, the woman he most loved. All these people from his life—the most important people in his life now—stood here today. Beelzebub didn’t know how to feel. He tried to block all feelings, to shield them in his armor, to kill them like Laila and Zarel would try to kill each other.

He didn’t want Laila to die, if only for the love he had felt toward her, perhaps still felt.
But you will die today, Laila. Zarel is going to kill you, as she must. You fought against me. You tried to usurp me. You have to die. Yet when you do die, Laila, I will bury you well. I promise you that.

Keeping his face stern as his insides roiled, Beelzebub stepped forward, boots silent over the pebbles and sand. He stood between Laila and Zarel, the demon drooling on one side, the half-breed standing still at the other, hair blowing in the wind.

“All right,” he said, “you know the rules. No help from demons, angels, humans, or wolves. No hellfire.” He looked at Laila. “No holy water. Just blades, claws, and fangs. If you change your mind in the battle, call out your yield, and you walk away.”

“There will be no yielding,” Zarel said, eyes narrowed and flaming, staring at Laila, smoke rising from her nostrils. “Nor mercy given to any who yield.”

Laila’s face remained expressionless, unreadable. Sand kissed her cheeks and her blade gleamed a dull red. “There will be no yielding,” she agreed, voice soft. “Nor mercy.”

Beelzebub nodded and paused, words failing him.
Stop this now!
a voice whispered inside him, desperate, horrified.
This is madness. This has gone too far. Too far. Stop it. Put an end to this. Cancel this now.

He clenched his jaw, feeling almost close to tears, to panic.
No. I’ll show no weakness here.
He backed away, nodding.

“You may begin.”

In her dreams, Laila would run through fields of grass, the sky huge above her, a bow in her hand, hunting game. The sunlight shone bright and did not burn her. She was an angel of full blood, running through the fields of Heaven, a creature with no war inside her heart, no pain in her blood, no fear. Volkfair would run by her side, and they would live for nothing but the race, the hunt, the sunlight that did not burn, the power of freedom from horror. Thus did Laila imagine death; a world of light and grass, endless fields, dulled feeling, rolling light and silence.

Is that world out there? Does it await me today? Do not abandon me, Lord of Hosts, God of Abraham, of Isaac and Jacob. If I am still your child, Lord, be with me today in my life, or in my death. Let me run and hunt in your fields, and drink wine from your horn.

Standing in the crumbled fort on the peak of the mountain, the desert rolling below, Laila flapped her wings, rose two feet into the air, and swiped her blade. Zarel shot toward her, her own sword blazing, its blade made of fire.

It began.

The blades clashed, raising sparks. Zarel howled, her hair crackling, drool flying from her maw, spraying against Laila. Laila grunted, the sparks sizzling against her. The blades drew apart, then clashed again, screaming.

Remember what Michael taught you. Concentrate. You are Laila. You are Laila, of the night. Remember what Michael taught you.

She thrust her blade. Zarel parried and sparks showered, blinding Laila. Zarel’s blade shot out, a viper of fire, and Laila parried, parried again, kept blocking rapid blows.
Damn.
Laila had not known Zarel was a swordswoman, but the demon could wield a blade. Zarel moved even faster than Moloch, evincing years of training, maybe centuries. As Laila parried, panic tickled her. She had needed holy water to defeat Moloch; she had none now. How would she win this?

Her boots hit the ground, raising dust. Zarel swooped toward her, and Laila spun aside, raising her sword. The blades clanged. Sparks flew. Laila snarled, thrust her blade. Zarel parried. The blades sang. Around them, upon the crumbling ruins of the citadel, the armies of Hell and Heaven watched them duel.

Laila fell back a step, then three steps more. Demons scuttled aside to make room, and Zarel snarled, hair wild. Laila’s boot hit a piece of wall, and she fell onto her back.

The crowd gasped. Zarel swooped down. Laila raised her blade, thrusting aside Zarel’s sword. Zarel’s blade of flame hit the ground by Laila’s shoulder, the heat singing her cheek.

Zarel leaned in, fangs bared, and Laila raised her arm to defend her face. Zarel’s fangs dug into her vambrace, pushing through the metal, biting into Laila’s flesh. A shout fled Laila’s lips. Instead of pulling her arm back, she pushed it forward, hard, slamming her broken vambrace into Zarel’s face.

Zarel backed off for just a second, and Laila leapt to her feet, swinging her sword. Zarel parried. They moved across the fort, of steel and flame, cutting and slashing, slamming into ancient walls, flying into the desert sky, swooping down toward the mountain, flapping wings, snapping fangs. They fought as demons and angels watched, as the desert sand flew, as the world rose in flame. They fought, Laila, Zarel, blade to blade.

For all my life of pain,
Laila thought as her sword flew.
For twenty-seven years of running, of haunting, for finally finding my home, for me—for
me
. For once, for Laila, the half-demon, the outcast girl. When I am Queen of Hell, it won’t matter that I’m twisted. It won’t matter that loneliness has forever torn at me, for I will be great.

When she slipped, she cried out. Zarel’s drool had pooled upon cobbles, and though Laila’s boot slid for only an inch, it was enough. Zarel’s blade of fire shot out, knocking aside Laila’s parry. The flaming blade lashed into Laila’s left arm, her flesh sizzled, and Laila screamed. She flapped her wings, pulling back, but was too slow. Zarel’s sword struck again, biting into her shoulder, burning through her breastplate. Pain shocked her, and for a moment Laila saw only blinding white horror. A cry escaped her lips, and it sounded so young to Laila, the cry of a frightened girl, not a legend, not a warrior who could kill archdemons. A girl, that was all. Young and scared and hurting.

Then—a growl.

A flash of black fur.

Wolf fangs glistened, and Volkfair leapt onto Zarel, biting.

Zarel snarled and laughed. She waved her arm, tossing Volkfair through the air. The black wolf flew, his fur kindled, and crashed into a wall.

The blind horror turned within Laila to rage, hot and blood-red.

“Damn you!” she screamed and flew thirty feet into the air, halo burning, flames licking her feet. She tossed aside her sword and pulled a gun from each boot.

“Don’t use human weapons,” Michael shouted somewhere in the distance, but Laila could barely hear him, barely hear the shouting crowd, barely see anything but Zarel. Laila swooped, screaming, guns blazing. The bullets slammed into Zarel’s face, ricocheting across the fort, and Laila flipped back, driving her boots into Zarel’s maw. She felt scales crush beneath her feet.

“To hell with swords,” she grunted and punched Zarel in the face, ignoring the pain in her knuckles. She kept landing punches, as rapid as her bullets, blood flying from her fists and Zarel’s face. “This is how
I
fight, bitch.”

Zarel growled, blood in her mouth, scales cracking across her face. Laila pulled back for just a moment, drawing a grenade. Zarel lashed toward her, maw gaping, fangs bloody. Laila shoved her grenade forward, slamming it into Zarel’s mouth. Blood flew, and Laila turned her face away, closing her eyes. The grenade burst in her hand.