I Married the Third Horseman (Paranormal Romance and Divorce)

by Angel, Michael

  It was nice. Peaceful, for a change.

  At least until I woke up.

  My eyes fluttered open.

  I’d heard a noise. A deep, crunching sound from off to one side.

  The room light was still on. I hadn’t reached up to turn it off before I’d conked out. I didn’t dare turn my head, but I swiveled my eyes as far as I could to the right. The window lay open, and the moon had risen far into the night sky. Maybe I’d been asleep for two, three hours.

  Another sound. A growl, maybe? That was followed by a familiar-sounding crackle.

  It came from an opened toaster pastry wrapper.

  Someone or something had gotten into my breakfast. Visions of the bat-wolf sheydu played in my head with a chill. Another growl. A raspy chewing noise. Not a human sound, not at all.

  I slid my eyes over to the left.

  Not knowing what I would see.

  Not even knowing what to pray that I’d see.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I slowly turned my neck to the left. Pretended that I was doing a slow-pan with my Cinegraf camera. All I could do was hope that the creaky springs in the motel’s cheap mattress wouldn’t give my movement away.

  A tall, muscular man dressed like a medieval knight sat at the room’s kitchenette table, chowing down on one of my blueberry toaster pastries. It was almost comical.

  Almost.

  It would have been a lot more amusing if the knight’s armor didn’t look as if it had been dipped in a pool of drying blood. The multitude of spikes jutting out from the knees, elbows, and helm didn’t exactly scream ‘kid-friendly’ either.

  The knight had raised the faceplate on his helm in order to eat. I stared. As with Mitchel, the skin on the man’s face had been pulled back. Red-irised eyeballs bulged out of the bone-white skull.

  A yard-long sword, encased in a red leather holster – or whatever you called the holder for the damned things – hung down by his side. The sword’s outline had been etched into his breastplate. I watched the knight’s fingers, encased in talon-tipped metal gloves, pick up a second Pop-Tart and slice open the wrapper with a razor-sharp finger.

  “About time you woke up, Cassie,” the man-creature said, in a voice laced with extra bass. He raised the pastry to his mouth. Then took a bite, chewed, swallowed it down the hatch with relish. “Hrm. These cake things your people make…they’re quite good. I’m beginning to understand why two of my brothers are so enamored with humanity.”

  Two? I tamped down my surprise. More important things to worry about now.

  I sat up with a creak of the box springs. No use even pretending I that was resting. At least I recognized who I was dealing with. Mitchel’s oldest brother.

  The personification of War.

  “I wish I could say I was happy to see you as well, Raphael,” I said honestly. “You and your family…are awfully persistent.”

  He popped the rest of the pastry in his mouth, and then shrugged. The gesture made his face look even more horrific, if that was at all possible.

  “You humans have no idea what persistence means, to an immortal.” Raphael stood, as he absently brushed a few crumbs from his armor. “Let’s go. Mitchel and my brothers are on the way.”

  I stood as well, though I backed away from him as he advanced a step. Rafael was a lot taller than I’d remembered. The spiked tips of his helm brushed the popcorn-white bits off the spray-on acoustic ceiling.

  I didn’t know what to do. I mean, this was the friggin’ incarnation of War, okay? And I wasn’t close enough to make a grab for my handbag. Maybe if I bought some time, I could make a run for it. Maybe.

  “But…if they’re on their way, why not just wait here?” I said offhandedly.

  “I suppose we could. But I want my brothers to see that it took a being like me to bring you to them.” He gave me a chilly look. “And I heard about what happened with Uri. You’re out of luck. Sorry. If you hadn’t been slumbering, you’d have heard some of your hornier fellow travelers knocking boots. This motel’s hardly holy ground.”

  “Yeah, when you start booking at places that Triple-A would give less than a single star, it can be a stretch.”

  I risked a glance out the open window. My breath caught for a moment.

  The parking lot was full of demons with the same wolf-head as the sheydu. Only these were the size and shape of a full-grown silverback gorilla. A gorilla that had been dipped in scarlet spray paint and given a nail-studded club to play with. A couple stood at attention, while others lounged about. I frowned as I spotted one lying across the hood of my Porsche.

  “Those are my mazikkim, the ‘demons of harm’,” he said, with a touch of pride.

  “I don’t suppose they like bacon,” I said sourly.

  “Doubtful. Now, we go.”

  I swallowed, hard. Luckily, I spotted my handbag in the corner, and decided (for a change) to take the fast ramp onto the freeway. This being was still a man, I figured, and by his admission was only partially aware of human traits.

  It was worth a shot.

  “No, we’re not leaving yet,” I shot back. “Your brother Uri put me through hell this morning, Raphael. My clothes smell like a wet match, I’ve got bacon grease and smoke in my hair, and I look like I’ve been through a war zone.”

  “What do I care about that, woman?”

  “You may not care,” I said, pressing the point, “but what is Mitchel going to think, if I show up looking like I’ve been in battle?”

  A look of doubt crossed War’s face. “Uh, I’m not sure.”

  “Then I’ll tell you! He’ll just smile at you with that shit-eating grin of his. The one that he always gives to people he privately holds in contempt. Because you actually had to fight to get me come to along with you!”

  Raphael clenched one armored fist and brought it down. That single blow smashed the table into kindling.

  “I bet he would, too!” he growled. “Fine. I like your spirit, woman. Go clean yourself up. One minute, and then I take you.”

  “I could use more time than that…”

  “Enough!” he roared. “One minute, no more! Or we go this instant!”

  “Fine, fine,” I grumbled, in mock irritation. Best not to push my luck.

  I grabbed the handbag and shoved my way past Raphael’s bulk. His armor gave off the smell of a burnt cast-iron pot, but I ignored it. I went into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind me.

  A quick glance around. The standard motel bathroom items: shower stall with slightly moldy curtains. Eggshell colored plastic toilet, sink, and counter. I dumped out the handbag, clicked open the attaché case, and pulled out the compact. I threw away the note and reached to pluck off the rubber bands that held the clamshell sides shut.

  A thought occurred to me. If I stood on the toilet, I could peek out the narrow slot of a window above it. I could probably open the window and wriggle through it, if I hadn’t put on too much extra weight from the days when the calories didn’t count. After all, it was a cinematic staple to have the hero – or the bad guy – escape out the bathroom window, wasn’t it?

  Okay, maybe it was a cliché, but I doubted that Raphael watched a lot of films outside of Patton, Black Hawk Down, or Platoon. The flimsy seat wobbled under my feet, but I carefully stood on the rim’s edges and looked out into the night.

  More war demons hung out in the back lot, tapping their spiked clubs and looking as pleasant as a squad of coffee-and-donut deprived cops. One even gave me a desultory wave before I jumped back down.

  I guess Rafael had seen more movies than I gave him credit for.

  A heavy blow struck the bathroom door. A strip of wood above the knob shivered loose under the impact.

  “Your time’s almost up, Cassie!” Raphael demanded. “Get out here!”

  I think I made a sound like eep! as I had a flashback to an old Stanley Kubrick flick. Another moment, and Mitchel’s brother would be chopping the door down with his sword, sticking his beast-face th
rough the gap, and announcing ‘Heeeere’s Johnny!’ in his best faux-Jack Nicholson.

  I tried to put some spine, some legitimate annoyance into my voice.

  “Not until I’m done, darn it! You keep distracting me, and I won’t be able to put on my mascara!”

  Another blow. This one dimpled the door’s center, sent cracks scurrying to the edges. Raphael’s voice had definitely slipped over to the pissed side of angry.

  “To Hades with your ‘mascara!’ We leave, now!”

  I took a deep breath, like I was about to dive into water of unknown depths. Cold water, at that. I turned away from the door. Crouched on the floor. With shaking fingers, I ripped away the compact’s rubber bands.

  From behind me, an animal roar and a final blow. A shower of wood chips. Hot breath on the back of my neck.

  The shadow of something huge looming over me.

  I felt a touch–

  –and then I held up my arms…

  I flipped the compact open, exposing the mirror.

  A horrible shriek. This time, I was pretty sure that it didn’t come from me.

  Pretty sure.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The shriek made me flinch.

  And the damned compact tumbled out of my hands. A clatter as it hit the bathroom floor. No sound of breaking glass, though.

  I stayed crouched where I was. Eyes held tightly shut. I listened to my breath whistling out of my nostrils and my heart whamming in my ears for a bit.

  Worst soundtrack ever, let me tell you.

  I pictured the bright yellow Post-It that had been on the compact. Kept repeating it to myself as I got to my feet, moving at a pace that I think a glacier might have envied.

  “One use only,” I recited. “One use only. Can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

  I opened my eyes. The bathroom looked just the same. The compact lay at my feet, mirror open, undamaged, and completely ordinary looking.

  Then I turned around. Let out a gasp.

  Let’s just say that Rodin would’ve been impressed with the quality of statues that we moderns were putting out.

  Raphael stood in the bathroom doorway, his gray flesh and red armor turned to a fine grade of blue-veined marble. He had one arm held high over his head, as if drawing back in shock or surprise. And the dismayed expression on his face simply underlined those emotions.

  I had just stopped War in his tracks. Pretty sweet, if you ask me.

  Yeah, pardon the pun, therapy buddy, but I just rocked his world.

  I shouldn’t have jinxed myself right then and there, but I did.

  Just as I smiled a self-congratulatory grin, a POP! echoed in the confined of the bathroom.

  A hairline crack appeared over Raphael’s left eyebrow. A horrifying wriggle of flesh. A crackle, not unlike the unwrapping of the toaster pastry. A flake of white marble the size of my pinkie nail tumbled to the floor.

  Another POP!, and a second flake fell from the man’s upraised arm.

  A feeling close to despair washed over me. If hitting a guy with Medusa’s last friggin’ glare didn’t stop him in his tracks, then it wasn’t exactly wise to hang around and gloat.

  And from the looks of it, I didn’t have much time.

  I grabbed the last item that I’d gotten from Circe, the silver tube, and squeezed past Raphael’s bulk. A quick glance out the window confirmed that Raphael’s demonic henchmen were still dutifully on guard. No easy way out there.

  A louder, more sustained crunch came from the bathroom door. Like something flexing its muscles, trying to shed a thick layer of stone. My mouth went bone dry as I listened. I had even less time than I originally thought.

  I shoved the parchment holder into a jacket pocket. Yes, it was metal, but it was only five inches long. Maybe I could use it to deck one of the demons out there. You know, if I could get him to bend down in front of me.

  In a near-panic, I grabbed my suitcase, tossed it on the bed, and threw it open. Clothes and toiletries spilled out in a heap. I grabbed a small pair of scissors I had in my nail kit, considered, and threw it aside. Just because it would get me thrown off an airplane didn’t mean it was going to be useful in this case.

  I pulled out a small rectangular lump from a side compartment. My old digital camera, suitable for still photos but not much else. Mom had gotten it for me about year before she died, and to humor her, I’d kept it.

  I switched the camera on and checked the power level. A single green bar out of four lit up on the screen. A thought struck me. Still enough to work the flash.

  But was it worth a try?

  A heavy grunt from the statuesque form behind me. Little tics now, of pebbles and chunks of marble hitting the bathroom tile.

  Looked like it was, whether I liked it or not.

  Camera in hand, I went to the room’s front door. Grabbed the knob. The metal felt cold, slick under my palm. It might have been the night air, but I knew better. Knew that it was my sweat.

  Freeze Frame.

  Okay, I think everyone’s seen the part that’s coming up in their favorite popcorn flick. The part where our hero (or heroine, thank you very much) has the odds stacked so far against them, that they have to do something. Anything. And, preferably, it has to be big. And audience-pleasing.

  I don’t think you’ll approve what I did next. At all. You might think it was rash. Stupid. Suicidal.

  But I can tell you this: when your back is up against the wall, when your ship is sinking and the shark is coming for you, or the bomb’s going to blow, or your brother-in-law is going to go Biblical in his rage when he gets free…you’re open to dumb ideas.

  So I flung the door open and charged out into the parking lot. Legs pumping, heart following suit. And screaming my head off. The dumb idea I had was: if I could get Rafael’s demon bodyguard to look at me, I could hit them with the flashbulb, blind them for a few seconds while I got into my car and peeled rubber out the parking lot.

  Look, I said it was a dumb idea.

  So the action scene started as I blazed out of the room. Starring Cassie the Blonde, in the last Charge of the Light-Haired Brigade. The plan worked up to this point: all the mazikkim in the front lot turned to look at the madwoman bearing down on them.

  I pressed the flash button.

  And each of the vaunted ‘demons of harm’ dissolved into greasy black smoke.

  I looked back down at the cheap digital camera with renewed respect. A cry of alarm, like a crow’s call, and another half-dozen of the demons appeared along the motel’s roof. Two more appeared from out of the bushes by the manager’s office and headed for me, loping across the parking lot.

  That’s about when I lost it.

  “Come on, then!” I shouted, as I ran for my car. I used the camera like I was spraying bullets from a machine gun. A flash forward, then to each side, one behind me as I reached the driver’s side and flung the door open.

  Thanks to some miracle, the ignition key slipped into place just right, and I gunned the car’s motor. From inside my motel room came the sound of an explosion. Not of gunpowder or dynamite going off. More like ice as it calved off from a glacier.

  By now, all the noise had finally woken some of the motel guests from their early-morning slumber. Faces appeared in newly lit windows. Screams of horror as still more war demons came swarming over and around the sides of the motel.

  Camera still clutched in one palm, I clumsily wrenched the steering wheel around to the right. The low-slung Porsche went over the sidewalk curb with horrific jolt that slammed my head against the cabin roof.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Porsche’s roof declined to cushion the blow to my skull.

  My teeth rattled.

  I saw stars, moons, and planets for a moment.

  Then I shook my head, straightened the car out and accelerated down the town’s main street, looking desperately for the closest freeway on-ramp.

  Out of nowhere, one of Raphael’s demons leaped from its perch and o
nto my car’s hood. Nightmarish claws on his feet dug into the hood with a metallic squeal. He raised his spiked club like a baseball bat, aimed for my head, and swung with all his might.

  I didn’t even have long enough to scream, this time. The windshield spiderwebbed into a web of shattered glass. I could just make out the demon’s preparation for a second swing. This one would cave in the windshield and take my face out in the process.

  War’s boys played for keeps. Of course, by now, so did I.

  I stamped on my brakes. Porsches aren’t the most comfortable things to drive cross-country in, but they do two things well: accelerate and stop on a dime.

  Even with his claws, the demon went flying. He lost the grip on his club and landed in the road ahead of me. I crushed the accelerator underfoot. The mazikkim barely had time to get up before I mowed him down with a meaty squelch.

  Okay, before we all celebrate Cassie the Demon Killer, there’s something you ought to know.

  Fact is, even though my automotive Princess weighed close to one-and-a-half tons, it’s very light for a car. The Boxster variant I drove even touts how the Germans made her the sveltest Porsche ever built.

  So as soon as I turned Raphael’s goon into demonic street pizza, the car jounced to one side. She went into a spin. I hung on to the steering wheel for dear life as the world around me went into a blur.

  A shattering CRASH as the passenger side door crumpled in. The motor coughed and died. The camera had gone flying, and I couldn’t find it. I got out of the car, shaking and trembling, one ankle sending jolts of pain up my leg.

  The Porsche had smacked into one of the town’s kitschy period lamp posts. Said post was now dark, as the car had practically wrenched the thing off its base. But the moon was out, and the remaining lamps gave out plenty of ambient light.

  Not that I cared to see what was coming. I looked back towards the motel, perhaps a half-mile distant. I leaned against the broken frame of my car, heart sinking. Smell of burnt plastic, rubber, hot asphalt.

  A dozen yards down the road lay the body of the demon I’d transmogrified into road kill. Tomorrow’s road crews would have a fun time trying to explain this body to the cleanup crew lead. But further out…