by SM Reine
The archangel stood between the ancient ruins, arms crossed, gazing upon the scene. He hesitated a moment, then stepped forward and knelt by Laila, the fire of her guttering halo reflecting in his armor. He clasped Laila’s hand. Her clawed, pale hand seemed so small in his large, calloused one.
“Laila,” he said softly.
She licked her lips. “Take Earth,” she said to him. “I give it to you. Make it a good place for Volkfair to live. Give him a forest, where he can run and hunt and be as a king. Michael—”
But Laila said no more. Her breath died, her eyes stilled, and it seemed to Bat El that, for the first time, peace flowed over her sister.
Bat El let her chin fall to her chest, and she wept, her hair covering her face, Laila in her arms.
22
Upon the Mount of Olives they stood, rows of angels, thousands of them, the sunlight glinting against their iron armor and spearheads. Around them flowed the ruins of Jerusalem, biblical ruins kindled with sunlight, weedy, fluttering with birds. The city was quiet today, and even the birds seemed subdued, as if they too knew to grieve. For thousands of years had the living buried the dead upon this hill, from ancient days when olive trees grew here, to this war of Heaven and Hell. We bury this war here today too, Bat El thought, among the countless bodies.
They carried Laila’s body upon a wooden litter, wrapped in white shrouds. A soldier’s funeral. Dressed in unadorned white, her hair hidden in a cowl, Bat El carried one end of the litter, staring forward blankly, feet silent upon the pebbly path that led to the grave. Michael carried the other end of the litter, dressed in his ancient armor, a white rose pinned to his breast, Heaven’s flower of mourning. They bore the litter between the rows of angels, the sunlight on them.
They reached the grave, dug by an olive sprig. Once olive trees had covered these hills, burned away in war. They will grow again, Bat El thought. She and Michael lifted Laila to place her underground, by the body of her wolf. She felt so light in Bat El’s arms. As they tossed soil into the grave, Bat El stared down with dry eyes, watching the earth cover Laila’s shroud. She had no tears left.
“Let a soul torn in half, outcast among the living, rest now in the silence of peace,” she whispered. “May angel wings and godlight, forbidden in your life, carry you to your endless sleep. Goodbye, Laila, princess of the night.”
A tear then did run down her cheek, and Bat El lowered her head and closed her eyes. You won’t feel torn anymore, Laila. You’ll never feel pain or fear again.
Bat El walked alone that afternoon through the silent, still streets of Jerusalem. No more demons filled this city, and no more ash covered the sky. Flowers grew between cracked cobblestones, birds sang, and weeds grew from the walls. She had the city to herself, and Bat El wandered the ancient streets, the biblical walls, these old hills. She remembered her first days in this city, seeking Laila through streets where demons roamed, troops of angels at her sides. Most of those angels were dead now. Nathaniel was gone, so was Raphael. The demons had taken Beelzebub underground, to bury him in Hell.
So many gone.
Bat El lowered her head. “Goodbye, Beelzebub,” she whispered. “Goodbye, Laila.” The two loves of her life, taken from her in one day. Bat El sat down on a fallen wall, looking up at the sunlight, the birds who flew from ruins to ruins, pecking for seeds.
That night, she stood with Michael on the wall of the Crusader fort, staring to the sea. The demons were gone from the fort, but to Bat El, it would forever be the place where Beelzebub imprisoned her, then loved her. The waves rolled against the beach, whispering in the darkness. The wind from the sea blew salt against Bat El’s lips, brought a chill to her bones, and ruffled her hair. She wrapped her wings around her for warmth. Michael stood by her, for once not wearing his armor, his lance gone. The flames had washed away from the world. The forces of Hell had retreated into their pits to mourn their master. Heaven had won its war, but to Bat El, the world seemed more horrible than ever, more frightening and cold. For a long time, she stood silently by Michael, watching the waves.
“So what now?” she finally asked. “We usher in an era of peace and beauty and holiness to Earth? An era with no demons or evil?”
Michael sighed. He stared into the sea, and was silent for so long, that Bat El thought he would not respond. He looked so much like his brother to her. When he finally spoke, his voice was so low, she had to lean toward him to hear. “Do you really believe that, Bat El?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Of course I do. That’s what we always fought for, for twenty-seven years here on Earth, for thousands of years since Lucifer’s rebellion, for thousands of years since the first sins of mankind. Now is our time to bring in truth and light and build the kingdom of God on Earth.” Her eyes were moist. “What else have so many died for?”
Michael smiled, then sighed again, his smile gone as fast as it had come. He placed a hand on her shoulder and looked down at her. “Bat El, Laila was never Lucifer’s daughter. I lied to you.”
She stared at him. Her heart thumped, and a tremble took her knees. “What do you mean?”
He looked back toward the sea. The waves were almost invisible in the night; Bat El could see only crests of foam where starlight caught them. Michael placed his hands against the fort’s crenellations, lowering his head. “I’m sorry, Bat El. I know my story hurt you and many people. Laila was your full sister, born of both your mother and father. She was purely of Heaven, and no demon blood ever flowed through her.”
Bat El’s head spun, and the fort seemed to sway beneath her. She too placed her hands against the battlements, for fear that she’d fall. She laughed mirthlessly. “You’re crazy, Michael. Have you seen Laila? Bat wings grew from her back, like a demon’s. Fire burned in her eyes and haloed her brow. Evil filled my sister, alongside her goodness. How could demon blood not have been in her?”
“Was there demon blood in Beelzebub? In Lucifer?” Michael shook his head. “Angels too, they were; angels who turned evil, fallen and banished. Laila was born with bat wings. She was born with fangs and claws, born different than other angels. The godlight burned her. So we made up a story, to protect our vision of what Heaven should be, to maintain our purity in the eyes of Earth and Hell. We lied. We said that it was Lucifer who fathered her when he raped your mother. It was easiest for everyone to believe. So we hid the truth.”
Bat El was crying now, trembling, weeping like she could not when they buried her sister. She wrapped her arms around Michael and cried against his chest. “And what is the truth?” she said, tears on her cheeks and lips.
Michael took a long breath. “That there is evil inside all of us, inside of me, inside of you, inside all angels.” He stroked her hair. “A kingdom of godlight and piousness? There is no good and evil, Bat El; only men, demons, and angels trying to make sense of a big mess.”
The waves whispered over the sand and lapped the boulders below. The clouds moved in the wind, and Bat El saw the stars, their light gentle, glistening against the water. Suddenly the starlight seemed so bright to her, she ached. She did not think she could bear it.
She stared at the waves, haunted, numb. Michael took her hand. “Let’s go back inside, Bat El,” he said. “We’ll have some brandy. Let’s go back home.”
+ + +
It began to rain. Michael lit a fire in the fireplace, then poured himself and Bat El glasses of brandy. They sat at his oak desk, listening to the fire and rain. Bat El held her glass with both hands, looking at the golden spirits, not drinking.
This is where I first told Michael that my sister returned to Jerusalem, she remembered. Here is where this all started, and here it ends, in this room of lies and secrets.
“Michael,” she said quietly, looking into her glass. She licked her lips.
“Yes, Bat El?” He sat looking into the flames.
Bat El ran her fingers around her glass, then placed them on her belly. “What would a real half-breed be like? A child born of an ange
l mother, whose father truly was the demon lord of Hell?”
He looked up at her, raising his eyebrows. He shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think I want to know. Why do you ask?”
She looked at him. “Michael... I’m pregnant.”
AFTERWORD
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Daniel
About the Author
NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON
Standalones:
Firefly Island (2007)
The Gods of Dream (2010)
Flaming Dove (2010)
Misfit Heroes:
Eye of the Wizard (2011)
Wand of the Witch (2012)
Song of Dragons:
Blood of Requiem (2011)
Tears of Requiem (2011)
Light of Requiem (2011)
Dragonlore:
A Dawn of Dragonfire (2012)
A Day of Dragon Blood (2012)
A Night of Dragon Wings (2013)
The Dragon War:
A Legacy of Light (2013)
A Birthright of Blood (2013)
A Memory of Fire (2013)
The Moth Saga:
Moth (2013)
Empires of Moth (2013)
Secrets of Moth (2014)
___________________
KEEP IN TOUCH
www.DanielArenson.com
[email protected]
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Twitter.com/DanielArenson
CURSED!
SCOTT NICHOLSON & J.R. RAIN
Copyright © 2010 by J.R. Rain and Scott Nicholson
Amazon Kindle Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.
DEDICATIONS
J.R. Rain dedicates this novel to his nieces: Tiffany, Lindsey, Vanessa, Jessica and Katy.
Scott Nicholson dedicates this novel to the white witches in his life: Miranda and Lexie.
1
Orange County, California, is the kind of place where you never expect a sudden, inexplicable chill.
Even in my part of it, Fullerton, too far from the beach and away from the glitz and big money, everybody is cool but very rarely chilled. The sidewalk was crowded, with the skater punks and lacrosse moms and students wearing backpacks, and way too many guys like me in suits and ties. We were all on a mission for food.
Lunch was serious business around here. I had only thirty minutes to grab my grub, consume it, and get back to my claims. I work as an insurance investigator for American Insurance, and since it had rained hard over the past few days, my desk had as much traffic as the highways. Not that I minded the additional work. I liked being busy. Being busy has a way of keeping your mind off other things. Things like divorce. Things like lost lovers.
Things like an overwhelming need for a strong drink. Many strong drinks.
And lately, the need had been stronger and more overwhelming than ever.
So when the sudden, inexplicable chill came, I chalked it up to the booze. I didn’t have time for symptoms. I barely had time to order lunch, let alone actually eat it.
The chill came again. So strongly that I actually shivered and paused in mid-step. The day was bright. Hell, this was southern California at the cusp of summer...the days were always bright. There was no reason for a sudden chill, and it wasn’t the work of a hangover, since last night I’d been too depressed to really get rolling with the booze.
Still, tell that to the small hairs on the back of my neck, which were standing on end. Not to mention my spine, which felt as if it had been dipped in a bucket of margaritas.
What the hell was going on?
Maybe I needed a stiff drink worse than I thought. Or, more accurately, maybe I needed to stop drinking.
The words appeared in my thoughts as if scrolling across a movie screen. I saw them, and I knew them to be true: Someone’s watching you.
My subconscious had picked up on it. My thoughts had only been on lunch and claims and drinking and my failed marriage and Amanda. I hardly had room in there for paranoia.
So who the hell would want to watch me? I didn’t know. Of course, I could be wrong, too. Maybe no one was watching me. Maybe I was losing my mind. These past few months had been stressful, to say the least. Try divorcing my wife and you’d know what I mean. Hell, try being married to her.
Still pausing, even as my precious lunch ticked away, I scanned the busy street corner. Even the homeless people were on the move. No one seemed to be noticing me; no one seemed to care.
Then why had I felt like I had suddenly been thrown on stage with hundreds of eyes on me, like a Lindsay Lohan rehab photo shoot during sweeps week?
No, not hundreds of eyes. Just one big, blinding spotlight, and I was inexplicably sure, just one person was watching me.
What the hell was going on?
I surveyed the street, wondering if I should cross. Cars in gridlock. People chatting importantly behind smoky restaurant windows. Busy people looking busy. Busy people looking important. Unimportant people looking better than me. Shades. Tans. Nice clothing.
I started forward again, frowning, wondering what the hell was going on. I hadn’t touched any booze today, although that would change the instant I got home. It was truly just a matter of how fast I could change out of my work clothes, throw on some sweats, and uncap the booze. If I didn’t break down at lunch and have a few, which was sounding like a better idea by the second.
I shivered again. The sun was high and hot. The air was still. Exhaust from cars was thick and cloying. No reason to feel a chill.
Maybe I was getting sick. Or maybe a goose walked over my grave. Hell, a whole flock. Maybe a dozen flocks, taking a crap on my final resting place and flying North for the summer. I wondered idly if I had any vitamin C at home, and decided to stock up on some after work.
No. No stocking up. That would mean delaying my drinking. I needed to drink. I had to drink. If I didn’t have vitamins, then tough shit. Besides, booze has alcohol, and alcohol was known for killing germs.
Well, I couldn’t stand there any longer. I was dressed in a long-sleeved shirt, although the sleeves were rolled up to my elbows, and now the chill was giving way to sweat. I darted around the slower pedestrians, begging their pardons as I went. I had wasted precious minutes standing there on the street corner, playing silly mind games and denying I had a problem. And lunch was serious business.
With only thirty minutes, I had to coordinate my time wisely. Today I had chosen Chinese food, because it was fast in and fast out, in more ways than one. And I knew that once I made a decision I had to stick with it, because there was no turning back. Not with thirty minutes. Certainly no time to stand around cracking up or breaking down.
Focus, Al. You can do it.
I checked my watch: twenty-four minutes to go. I cut around a slow-moving rag man pushing a shopping cart and mumbling incoherently to himself. Fullerton is a typical southern California suburb, boasting old brick buildi
ngs mingled with newer ones made of glass and steel. Downtown had everything—antique shops, banks, restaurants, and even a local community college. I strode down the busy street, atypical for most Orange County streets because of the foot traffic. Downtown changed all that. There were enough businesses and restaurants within walking distance of each other to remove the need for driving. Or at least the need to drive to lunch.
I worked steadily, determinedly to the Great Wall of China Chinese food restaurant on the corner of Chapman and Harbor. As I passed a tai-kwan-do studio, the little restaurant came into view.
Almost there. Just across the street—
Damn, missed the light. I checked my watch. Twenty-three minutes and counting. At the corner, with Mercedes and Hondas and a city bus whizzing by, I waited among a small group of mostly college students. It made sense. The college was down the road to the right. Almost all of them immediately whipped out their cell phones the moment the light had turned red, some thumbing out numbers and texts and others playing games.
I stood with them, easily a head taller than most. I didn’t feel a need to whip out my cell phone. I didn’t need the chronic wistful glance confirming Amanda had not texted, just as she had not texted in all the months before. I felt only a need to dash through traffic and put my lunch order in—
The hair at the back of my neck prickled again, and I shivered. I absently rubbed my arms, and as I did, I spotted her across the street.
An old lady. Her back bowed like a harp. Angry gray hair hung like dead weeds from under a wool cap. She looked like a witch, complete with a hooked nose and a missing front tooth. A bent coat-hanger of ugliness in a Goth-trash fashion show.
And she was staring. Openly staring at me.
