My magic was way more potent than usual. Aala had warned me about my powers being more combustive, but she had severely understated it.
I flung my hand towards the demons on my right and left at the exact same time, and I used entirely different magic for each, laughing as the power ripped out of me like the final, glass-shattering note of an opera singer’s solo.
The demons on the right screamed as living vines of inky black thorns erupted through the pavement and exploded out of the brick walls surrounding them. The vines struck like a thousand vipers, tearing into and through a handful of the demons, wrapping back around to tirelessly impale a second and third target—often multiple times—until the area resembled a black spider’s web with a fresh catch of demonic flies.
The demons on the left screamed as a wall of liquid white fire about twenty feet tall and as wide as the alley hit them in a tidal wave of dripping, splashing flame. It stuck to their flesh and sizzled like salt poured on a slug, replacing the rotten stench of sulfur with bacon and char. The surface of the pavement baked and crumbled to fine dust beneath their feet and the mortar of the brick walls did the same, sending the two walls of now white-hot bricks crashing over them.
I stood in the middle, one hand blazing with an orb of white light and the other an orb of pure darkness.
I released my magic, staring in awe at the results of my attack. The white fire and black thorns were not common magic, as far as I’d been told. I knew Nate had access to them as well, but I’d never actually learned or practiced them. They’d just come to me over time.
But the two seemed to negate each other; or maybe complement each other. They were connected in some way, like yin and yang.
The gang of demons behind me roared in outrage. I spun, tapping into my Sanguina-vision.
Time froze as I assessed the six demons standing motionless before me—the first of them only a foot away. The static image was pure chaos, but frozen in limbo.
Ribbons of crimson light showed me the upcoming lines of the dance. I studied it, memorized it, and then I perfected it so that it was beautiful and inspiring. Dances were supposed to be beautiful.
I added order to the chaos of their bloodlust.
I gripped my katana and smiled as time resumed to normal speed. I hadn’t wanted to slaughter them while they were defenseless. Where was the fun in that? The first demon lunged at me with his barbed pitchfork.
I intercepted it with my katana, stabbing up between the prongs to trap it rather than parrying the haft to the side—like shoving a stick through bicycle spokes. Then I continued my arm’s momentum in a circular, rotating motion that twisted the pitchfork from his grip. He was so focused on losing his pitchfork that he hadn’t noticed my fist sailing for his throat. My punch crushed cartilage, making him gag and squeal, clawing at his neck for air. I caught his pitchfork and used a burst of magic to slam the butt of the weapon down into the pavement like a flagpole. Then I swiveled and hip tossed him, back first, onto said flagpole.
He screamed and thrashed, kicking his hooves, and clawing at the three tines poking up from his stomach, only serving to drive himself further down the wicked barbs.
The other demons stared at his plight with outraged looks, and I capitalized on the opportunity to grab one of the horns of the second demon and drive my katana through his eye and out the back of his head. His instant scream cut off just as abruptly as it had begun. I released his horn and held onto the handle of my katana with both hands as the demon’s knees buckled and then gave out. His weight slowly pulled him off my blade with a sickening sound before he thudded to the ground, twitching.
“Anyone want s’mores?” I asked as I lit the screaming, impaled demon behind me on fire like a marshmallow. In response, his hoof kicked out and hit me right in the back of the elbow…
On the funny bone. You know, the unfunny one.
My arm spasmed and shot forward, sending my katana clattering and skidding across the pavement amidst the four surviving demons.
I was so relieved to learn that Aphrodite’s fancy ass armor could block bullets and blades, but not protect my goddamned funny bone. “Give me my sword, please,” I said, holding out my hand.
The four looked up and I saw something strange come over them, almost seeming to possess them. Their eyes danced with manic bloodlust as if they were suddenly beyond all rational thought. They roared at me in a sputtering, mindless rage, and then they rushed me, thinking I was weaponless.
Except they were wrong. Ryuu and Aala had agreed that the Spear of Destiny wasn’t a weapon, but I kept on thinking of that pointy bit. And I had to admit…
I was mighty curious about playing with it.
The Spear crackled to life in my palms and filled the darkened alley with blinding light that burned the eyes. Well, their eyes, not mine. As the Spear’s caretaker, I must have had some default form of protection that banned the bright rays from harming me.
You might say I had Ray-ban protection. Or, better yet, Son-glasses, since the Spear had first become a Holy Relic after stabbing God’s son on the cross.
Blaspheming was fun.
The demons cried out, squinting against the antithesis of their existence. I somehow managed to dim the light with a thought—the Spear responding as if an extension of my will—because I wanted to savor the ebb and flow of battle rather than picking off the blinded, blighted bastards one-by-one. I lunged forward, right into the thick of their squad, and stabbed the Spear through the closest Redgoat—the only one who looked like he could still actually see.
One of them managed to trip over his own hooves as he tried to skewer me. I twisted my shoulders reflexively and my angel wings exploded out of my back, deflecting the blow with a metallic clang and a sizzling hiss. A choking gasp and a wet splat told me that my wings had actually sliced him in half, sending his upper body crashing to the ground. His lower body continued trotting around, kicking and clomping like it was in a dance audition, drawing the attention of his foes. Well, two of his foes.
I was too busy staring at the third demon who currently had my Holy Spear through his throat. I watched, fascinated, as the scaled red skin around the tip of the Spear crackled and burned away like an old newspaper. Then, picking up speed, that white fire surged through his body, burning him alive from the center out until curling fingers of burnt flesh floated up into the air with a sickening, sulfuric stench.
Which was when one of the two remaining demons hoofed me in the…well, the term for what he did to me was also known as hoofing, funnily enough.
He kicked me in the lady bits with Hellfire horseshoes, and I felt like my pelvis bone should have shattered. The blow sent me sliding to the side, gritting my teeth in anger as I doubled over, leaning on the Spear for support.
Which was when his fellow kicked me in the jaw—likely having aimed for a double-whammy hoofing, but I’d been doubled over, so I blocked it with my face.
Stars exploded across my vision and I instinctively slammed the butt of the Spear into the ground like an anchor. My ears rang and I shook my head, already feeling my jaw swelling. I’d been too distracted by the smoldering demon—my first experience using the Spear—to keep an eye on the other two.
I noted the demons’ locations in my peripheral vision as I forced my pain down into my body.
The pain took a strange detour without asking my permission.
The Spear seemed to slurp it down like the last dregs of a smoothie, magically converting it to nuclear power. The Spear let out a soft, unassuming chime and then exploded, whipping my hair back and almost sending me cartwheeling as I fought to hold on.
I opened my eyes, staring at the Spear in wary disbelief. It had done that all on its own, wanting to show off for its debut, I guessed, apparently annoyed by the student driver behind the wheel—me.
I glanced left and right, deciding to worry about it later. It hadn’t broken—which had been my biggest fear. I frowned, blinking a few times as the Spear dimmed, seeming to
power down entirely. The alley was noticeably different than a few moments ago. The red brick walls and the greasy dark pavement were now perfectly white.
And the six demons were…
Gone.
All of them.
My eyes widened to notice that the only things marring the pristinely white surfaces were two sooty silhouettes seemingly burned into the wall upon vaporization. I spun in a slow circle, noticing that all remains of the other demons were also gone, leaving behind black silhouettes of the demons.
The white surface formed a perfect circle around me—even on the walls. Like a bubble of white paint had popped, painting everything in its radius white but leaving everything beyond untouched.
I reached out to touch the sooty smear on the wall and realized I couldn’t wipe it off. The demon’s silhouette was permanently burned into the white surface, and there was no denying it had been anything but a demon. It wasn’t a humanoid silhouette because it still held the pitchfork, had horns and a demon tail.
It looked like a painting.
One of my wings scraped across its surface with a loud, scratching sound, but they didn’t leave a mark. I grunted, letting my wings evaporate. Whatever the Spear had done to the wall, it had apparently fortified it—making it strong enough to withstand angel wings. I eyed the spear warily, before walking out into the center of the insanity, spinning in a slow circle. Eighteen demons. All dead. If I hadn’t lost my focus, I wouldn’t have even taken a hit. I glanced down at my new, armored clothes, surprised to find that the fiery hoof hadn’t burned a hole in my crotch. The fabric didn’t even have a dirty scuff. I rubbed at my jaw, confirming that it wasn’t broken—although it did hurt like hell. I retrieved my katana, surprised to find that it hadn’t been melted to slag or vaporized, and shoved it into my sheath.
The burned shadows of three bands of six dead demons surrounded me, forming a triangle with me at the center. I studied the glowing spear, wondering what the hell had just happened. I hadn’t even had to resort to my Horseman’s Mask.
Then, from the darkness, came a slow clap.
I spit out some blood and lifted my head with a bloody grin.
“I’m all warmed up!” I said, thumping the Spear into the ground at my side as I tried to spot the source of the clapping.
29
Legion shuffled into view with a notepad in hand, scribbling on the page with a pen that looked to be made from finger bones. Yuck. The clapping sound continued for a few moments, telling me Legion had a friend with him. I shifted my boots in each direction but only detected a tingle when pointing at Legion. I frowned warily, wondering who the non-demon clapper was.
Legion studied the pile of black ash where the thorns had been, looking annoyed and muttering under his breath. He made a notation on his notebook. Then he turned to look at the white areas I had made. I watched, smugly, as he absently lowered his notepad to his side, his mouth falling open in disbelief. He quickly shook off the incredulity and resorted to counting the silhouettes. Then he shrugged, disappointedly, scribbling on his notepad.
“All eighteen are accounted for, my Lord. Six, six, six,” he said, chuckling at his little joke as he pointed out the pile of dead demons and the two incineration zones I’d made. “The temporary barrier is down,” he said, likely referring to the ward created by the dead ninjas. Then he turned to assess me with an awed look on his face, noticing my clothes were pristine and that I only had what looked like a bloody lip. His eyes flicked to the Spear, but his face remained blank. After a moment, he dipped his hat at me and disappeared in a puff of smoke.
I took a moment to collect myself, making sure my face showed nothing—not surprise or pain or concern. Whoever Legion’s Lord was, he needed to think that the Spear and I were old pals—not that the outburst of power had been as much of a surprise to me as it had been to my foes.
I scowled in the direction Legion faced when he had been speaking and waited. A new figure calmly walked into view from out of the shadows, and I squinted, trying to make out anything other than his silhouette. My boots still didn’t tingle, even though Legion had called the stranger Lord.
“Eighteen of my demons and you’re not even breathing heavily,” the figure said, in a rich, sophisticated voice, his body still cloaked in shadows.
“The poor dears tripped down some stairs,” I said with faux innocence.
He chuckled good naturedly and I finally got a good look at him.
Like all of the worst kinds of men, he was inhumanly beautiful—emphasis on inhuman. And my boots still weren’t tingling, although the man had said the demons belonged to him. Which made me very nervous. His smile told me he knew it—glancing down at my boots and then winking at me was overkill.
He moved in a confident, lazy stroll as if he didn’t have a care in the world. His tan skin was unblemished, and he had long, dark hair that looked professionally styled. His face was perfectly sculpted, and he had just the right amount of stubble to make his impossibly pale—almost white—blue eyes shine like ring lights. He looked to be perpetually smirking, but in a kind manner rather than a cruel, cynical one. Even more surprising was that his whole demeanor was not spiced with arrogance, as so many of his type—those handsome, imposing, successful, and confident elites—were. He looked like the kind of man who found no interest or pleasure in rubbing anyone’s face in his good fortune. Just a happy, carefree man. I didn’t get a sinister vibe from him—not in any way whatsoever. And I was actively looking for one.
Because I knew he was obviously bad news. The fact that I wasn’t picking up on it only made him more dangerous. He was several inches over six feet, making him quite a bit taller than me. But he wasn’t a fifty-foot-tall devil of scales and fresh scalps or anything.
He was obviously a regular at the gym, judging by the strain his thighs and biceps inflicted on his skinny black slacks and his expensive white dress shirt—which was open to mid-chest to reveal a black chain necklace with two black feathers hanging from the base. They looked excellent resting there on his tan, well-defined pecs.
Objectively speaking, of course.
Michael had worn a similar necklace—but with white feathers.
Were they from his angel wings, or some status symbol for archangels and archdemons?
Strangely enough, he wore no shoes, like he’d been caught walking on the beach on a balmy summer day. But his Miami Vice wardrobe didn’t scream playboy or lady-hound; rather, it looked natural and genuine, like he’d been hot and had chosen to let loose a few buttons.
Who was this guy? He couldn’t be a demon, or my boots would have been giving me toe cramps. But he owned demons and Legion had called him Lord. Legion had also admitted to working for the Seven, so I had anticipated this stellar gentleman to be one of them. Perhaps Pride or Envy, I thought, assessing his overall demeanor. He probably wasn’t Gluttony or Sloth. That left only Lust—which would make sense—and Wrath—which did not. He was entirely too chill to be angry.
He assessed the dead bodies, nodding absently, but his grin stretched wider at the destruction to the alley itself, especially as a brick fell from a wall, almost right onto his toes. He glanced at me and the Spear in my fist, arching one eyebrow. “You made a bit of a mess,” he teased, gesturing at a few flickering fires.
“I repainted, too,” I said, gesturing at the pristine white areas. I realized that I had been smiling—subconsciously infected by his cheer—so I forced myself to suffocate it. I studied his eyes and realized that I actually felt inferior in his presence. And it had nothing to do with power because I sensed none from him. I felt inferior because of the raw intelligence burning in those pale, pale blue eyes.
Those startling eyes locked onto the blood on my lip. “You’re hurt,” he said, observationally.
“Who are you?” I asked with forced calm. “And what are you doing here?”
“Picking up a package,” he said, pointing a long finger over my shoulder. I’d almost forgotten that the rear entrance to
Darling and Dear was behind me. What kind of package was he picking up? “They are quite good, as you well know,” the strange, barefooted enigma continued. “But I’m sure you’ve surmised that many of your…accoutrements simply do not work around one such as me.” His gaze latched onto my boots and Spear, and I suppressed a shudder. He assessed my ninja garb with an approving smile. “Excellent choice, but Constance’s slaughtering suit would have fared you better. It carries a mother’s protection, especially against demons. It is a crime they were lost to the decay of time,” he said. “Your mother paid a heavy price for them.” There was no mockery in his tone. No insidious subtle jab or anything. He meant it. And he thought the outfit had been lost for good. That was a benefit.
I stared at him, unable to speak. He casually spoke of my mother in such a familiar manner. He’d known about her hunting clothes, but not that Lilith had passed them down to me.
He gestured at my current garb, cocking his head appraisingly. “That would work best against angels, on the other hand, so now you have an outfit for each group of feathered fiends.” He smiled, showing me his perfectly straight, white teeth.
“And how do you know of my mother and her slaughtering outfit?” I asked, feeling brittle and fragile—not from fear or sorrow, but from anger at the fact this person knew my mother better than me.
“I am Wrath,” he said with a casual shrug. “We all knew her. Good woman. Highly respected.”
I stared at him, feeling poleaxed. This…was one of the Seven Sins? So why weren’t my boots working? How had he known they weren’t working? And why was he so…non-demonic?
Wasn’t Wrath supposed to be…well, angrier? This man oozed chill.
I gripped my Spear tighter, suddenly fearing that he might be using some unseen power to deceive me or lure me into his control. I willed the Spear back into my soul, not daring to hold it out in the open where he might grab it. Especially when I couldn’t sense a lick of evil about him. Not even a lick of power.
No wonder he looked so perfect. Archangel Michael had looked much the same—when he was wearing his mask, of course. Michael had told me that demons openly wore their scars and grotesque transformations to flaunt their difference from their hallowed siblings. Except…Wrath looked pretty god-damned beautiful.
Anghellic: Feathers and Fire Book 8 Page 17
