by SM Reine
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.”
21
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, g
uns 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.
Pain exploded. Shrapnel drove through Laila’s armor, sizzling against her flesh. Her hand fell, limp, numb, useless. She slammed her other hand forward, driving her claws into Zarel’s eyes.
Zarel screamed, face bloody, blinded. Laila slammed into her, driving her into a wall. Ancient bricks tumbled, crashing against Zarel, and Laila kept clawing, biting, tearing off Zarel’s scales, digging into the soft demon flesh beneath. Zarel screamed, writhing, clawing uselessly, and Laila kept slashing until the Demon Queen lay still.
The bloodlust pulsing through her, Laila dug into Zarel’s chest and found her demon heart. She ripped it out, stood up, and held the heart aloft, blood covering her, flames wreathing her.
“I am Laila!” she shouted at the top of her lungs, voice hoarse. The armies of demons and angels swirled around her, blurry. “I am Laila, of the night. I am Laila, of the shadows. I have walked through godlight and through darkness. I am the slayer of Moloch, defeater of Angor, killer of Zarel.” Her voice echoed across the desert. “I am Laila, of sins and of piety, of flame and of light. I am fallen. I rise again.”
Her voice died, and she stood panting, flaming.
Silence.
Silence filled the world.
Laila stood upon the mountain, Zarel’s heart in her good hand, her other hand shredded, her armor broken. A wind blew. The desert rolled beneath the mountain. Laila passed her eyes over the frozen crowd, over Michael, Bat El, Volkfair who lay bleeding beneath a wall, blinking weakly.
Be strong, Volkfair. Soon I’ll come to you. There is something I must do first—for you, for me, for all us outcasts and lone wolves.
She let her gaze rest upon Beelzebub.
Beelzebub. King of Hell. Usurper of Lucifer. Fallen angel. Her former lover.
She took a step toward him. At once, demons rushed forward to stand between them, but Laila flashed them murderous looks, fangs bared. “Stand back,” she hissed. Beelzebub nodded, and the demons retreated.
Laila took another step toward Beelzebub. “Beelzebub,” she said, and suddenly her voice cracked. A bloody tear ran down her cheek. “Beelzebub,” she said again, voice like a sob.
He stepped toward her. Demons and angels rushed to come between them, and Laila screamed, “Stand back!” She waved her good arm in a circle, and a canopy of fire burst around her and Beelzebub, shielding them inside a flaming dome. She and Beelzebub stood alone, two feet apart, ringed in flame.
“Come, Laila,” Beelzebub said softly. “You’re hurt. We’ll get you help.” He looked pale, his eyes haunted, sunken. Laila had never seen him look like this—confused, grieving.
“Wait,” she said, dropping Zarel’s heart into the dust. “I love you, Beelzebub. Please, whatever happens now, I want you to know that. You’re the only man whose known me, the only man I’ve loved. I’m so sorry, Beelzebub. I’m sorry for running from you ten years ago, for all that’s happened since, for today. I love you.”
He embraced her, and she lay her head on his breastplate, the fire burning around them, shielding them from the world. Beelzebub’s hand smoothed her hair. “Why do you do this to yourself, Laila?” he whispered. “Why do you keep fighting, hurting? You broke my heart, Laila, when you ran from me. You broke my heart. I wanted you for my wife, my queen, my love. I never wanted any of this, none of what happened. How can I make things right, Laila? How can I heal a half-demon, a world on fire, these stupid games we play with one another—your sister, my brother, you, me. We could have been husband and wife, Laila... not what we are now.”
She trembled against him. She was bleeding, she was weak. Tears ran down her cheeks, and every breath hurt. She shook her head. “Sweet Beelzebub, do you still not know? Do you really not see?” She put her hand in his raven curls and gently kissed his lips, smearing him with blood. “I would have been a prisoner in your palace, confined to iced rooms where no hellfire could burn me, my angel blood forever sizzling from the devilry surrounding me. Don’t you see, Beelzebub? Are you truly blind to me? Lucifer was my father. I’m so sorry, Beelzebub.” She ran her hands through his hair and kissed him again. “I love you so much.”
He opened his lips to answer, but only a gasp left them. His eyes widened. Blood flowed from his neck, where Laila had thrust her claws.
He fell to his knees before her, Laila’s claws still buried in his throat. He stared up at her, unable to breathe, unable to move, his blood washing Laila’s hand. She leaned down and kissed his head. The fires blazed around them.
“I’m taking Hell from you, Beelzebub,” she said, tears on her cheeks, “like you took it from my father, like you took my love from me. I’m going to make my home there, without hellfire or godlight to burn me. Goodbye, sweet fallen angel. I’ll—”
Pain burst in her.
She gasped.
Beelzebub’s claws had pierced her chest, driving through her breastplate into her flesh, without her seeing him move. As he knelt before her, gazing up with glassy eyes, his claws stayed in her chest, her blood flowing down his arm. Laila couldn’t breathe, and she only stood still, eyes wide in shock.
Over a field of grass we ran, endless....
Beelzebub fell to his side, his claws leaving her chest, her own claws leaving his throat, gushing with blood. Beelzebub hit the ground and lay upon ancient cobblestones, blood pooling, the shell of fire burning around them.
We ran, Volkfair and I, a great hunt...
She fell to her knees, then to her side, her head upon the bloody cobblestones, blood pouring from her chest. Beelzebub lay by her, gazing toward her, eyes glassy, perhaps dead already. Trembling, Laila reached her hand toward him, touched his hair.
I love you, Volkfair. I love you, Bat El. I am Laila, a girl, alone.
“Beelzebub,” she whispered. She moved toward him, lay her head upon his chest, her arm around him. She curled up against him, trembling, as she would all those years ago, when they were lovers. She gave him a bloody kiss. “Thank you, Beelzebub,” she whispered, crying. “I’m going on a hunt now, to run through fields where sunlight won’t hurt me, where evil won’t fill me. Thank you. I love you. Thank you.”
Above her, Laila could already see a clear sky, and the sun did not burn her. Beelzebub touched her hair, and she thought he smiled, and then his hand fell back. Her head on his chest, her hand in his hand, Laila the half-demon closed her eyes.
+ + +
“Put out the fire!” Bat El shouted, tears on her cheeks. “Put it out!”
She began tossing sand onto the flames that shielded Beelzebub and Laila. Her angel troops helped, but could do little to stifle those flames. Horror burned inside Bat El, for she knew now that Laila had not come here for Zarel. It was not the Demon Queen she had emerged to face. Why couldn’t you run, Laila? Why couldn’t you just flee to the forest? She kept tossing sand into the fire.
With a crackle and burst of smoke, the fires suddenly guttered, flickered, and died. Bat El blinked, the smoke and heat blinding her. When she could see again, she froze, unable to move. The crowds too froze, gasped, and stood staring. Beelzebub, King of Hell, and Laila, daughter of Lucifer, lay in a pool of blood. Beelzebub lay on his back, eyes staring toward the sky, unblinking, lifeless. Laila lay against him, as if they were lovers in sleep, embraced. Blood flowed from Laila’s che
st.
A sob fled Bat El’s lips. For a moment it seemed that Laila too was dead, but then Bat El saw the half-breed’s lips moving, whispering. Her halo of fire guttered like a dying candle. She’s still alive.
The angels and demons stared from a distance, not daring to approach. Bat El alone rushed to Laila’s side. She knelt by her half-sister, weeping. Blood covered Laila’s breast, soaking her clothes. More blood stained her pale, ashy face, and her black hair clung to her brow with sweat.
“Laila,” Bat El said, “I’m here.”
Laila tried to whisper, but her words were silent. Bat El placed her arm under Laila and cradled her, holding cloth against her wounds. The cloth turned red.
“My baby sister,” she said, “you’re going to be okay. I’m going to heal you.”
Laila lay in Bat El’s arms, her skin so pale, her eyes unfocused, her hair damp with sweat and blood. The half-demon blinked weakly and struggled to raise her hand, to place it in Bat El’s palm. She opened her lips and tried to talk, but no sound came out. She coughed, then managed to whisper. “Is Volkfair okay?”
Bat El turned her head and looked. The great black wolf was dead, pierced with shrapnel and demon claws, burned with fire. She nodded. “Volkfair is fine,” she said to Laila. “We healed him.”
“But you cannot heal me,” Laila said, skin white, lips colorless, eyes glassy. “I am banished from Heaven. Demon blood flows through my veins and out of my wounds. Forever has God’s grace passed over me, and forever would the healing godlight be forbidden to me.”
Bat El wept. She could say nothing. Bat El had always been able to heal her brethren, to wash away the wounds of this war with godlight and piousness, but Laila spoke truth. Here lay one whom God’s love would not heal. She kept her hands pressed against Laila’s wounds, the blood trickling between her fingers, mingling with her tears.
Laila turned her head weakly, staring toward Michael with blurred eyes. “Michael,” she whispered. “Come to me, please.”
