It’s Carson’s turn to strip off his shirt, which is unnecessary but impressive. He’s a beast of a man, his stomach rippling with cords of muscle, pecs and biceps and triceps bulging and flexing as he swings his arms. He jumps up and down a few times, curls his hands into fists. He turns to face Hassan, and then lifts a hand in a ‘hold on’ gesture. He pulls a pistol from the small of his back and hands it to Father, then bends down and pulls another from his ankle, then pulls his cell phone from his pocket and hands that to Father as well.
“Remember, asshole,” Carson says to Hassan. “No magic, no fire, no powers of any kind. Hands and feet only.”
Hassan spits on the ground at Carson’s feet. “Prepare to die, human.”
Chapter 19: Facing the Demon
Carson
My body turned sideways, my fists held loose near my face, I bounce on the balls of my feet, circling Hassan, waiting for the right opening. Memories of hour after hour spent sparring with Juice in the tiny ring at the gym flood though my head, and I cycle through possible moves and blows. Hassan assumes a rough parody of a fighter’s stance, making it obvious he doesn’t have a lot of experience in hand-to-hand combat.
Adrenaline rushes through me, blocking out the world around me, fading the crowd into silence. It’s harder to block out Leila standing behind me, so beautiful in the dress, so tempting, so alluring, so strong. All that exists is Hassan, elbows sticking out, his body facing me full-on, presenting me a wide-open target.
Hassan’s gaze flickers away for a split second, and that’s the opening I need. My right fist thunders into Hassan’s exposed torso, and his breath blows out in a wheezing huff. My left knee follows into Hassan’s kidney, and then my right fist again.
Hassan gasps and his eyes blaze, the pain replaced with rage. He bellows like a bull and charges me with both hands flying at my face. I block easily, forearms barred vertically, dance back a few steps, then lash out with my left foot, heel crashing into Hassan’s chest and knocking him backward. I immediately dart in swinging before Hassan can catch his balance or his breath, and my fists smash into his ribs—left, left, right, left, right—and Hassan has no chance of blocking any of them. Curling down over his torso, Hassan takes the last two blows to the ear and the back of the head, and then I bring my knee bashing upward, breaking Hassan’s nose and spraying blood onto the grass.
I hear the crowd muttering, and I realize with unease how one-sided the fight is: Hassan hasn’t landed one hit yet, and I’m not even winded. Hassan stumbles backward, nose sluicing blood, eyes sparking fire. Magically, the blood evaporates and the break straightens, and I realize my mistake: I could batter Hassan all day and never win since, as an ifrit, he can keep healing himself that way. I’m not sure if healing is automatic or an infraction of the rules, and I don’t know if he can keep healing himself indefinitely. Too many things I don’t know.
Hassan smirks, knowing he has just surprised me, and then he charges again, this time with a flurry of clumsy but powerful blows, a few breaking through my defenses, one landing on my cheekbone, splitting the skin open. The sight of my blood seems to send Hassan into a frenzy, and he rains blow after blow on my torso, most of which I’m able to block with my forearms, but a few hit the mark, inflicting pain I know I’ll feel later.
I curl up and absorb the worst of the blows on my arms and shoulders, waiting. I peek through my shell of defense, waiting for Hassan to leave an opening; I don’t have to wait very long. A momentary pause between punches, a brief glimpse of a torso and a face, and I explode forward, leading with a left jab, following with a right hook and a driving knee. Each one lands, and with each one Hassan wilts further in pain.
This time I don’t let up, but hammer in with punch after punch, not bothering with style or technique or finesse, just powering in with a hail of brutal blows, each one spearing down with all the force I possess. Blood flies and the crowd backs up, a few turning away, sickened by the display. A woman sobs and faints, another vomits into the grass.
Hassan curls up again and I see the pulp of his face dripping gore, but his eyes burn still with bright fires of hatred, so I continue to pummel him. I don’t dare let up, now. Some instinct tells me Hassan is about to explode, about to reach a threshold, and I know I have to deliver as much punishment as I can before that happens. I drive in with my knee, knock Hassan backward and lash out with a foot, slice an uppercut to bare his battered face and grab a handful of gelled hair, jerking his face downward as I smash up with a knee, crushing his face so brutally that had he been a human he would have been killed instantly.
Honor can only push a man so far, especially a man like Hassan.
Hassan crumples, his face a mask of blood, spitting teeth and fragments of bone. A woman shrieks and rushes forward to his side, followed by Leila. The woman is short and resembles Hassan; I guess this is his mother. Leila pulls at the woman, spins her around and shoves her away. Hassan’s mother screams in rage, her hands igniting in red flame, heat billowing to force me away. Leila holds her ground, finally dropping the bouquet she’s held in a death-grip all this time, and I hear the freight train roar of a tornado, watch in awe as a spinning storm cloud howls into existence around her. Leila’s eyes glow white and her hair streams out behind her, reminding me of that night in Hart Plaza, only this time there’s no seduction in her face, only hate and fury.
The two women face off now with Hassan between them. I watch, helpless, as they clash. The tornado vanishes, only to reappear as a horizontal spear of wind, crashing into the older woman and knocking her flying. The sky above darkens, gray-black thunderheads materializing out of nowhere to cover the blue of the sky and the bright orb of the sun. The glow of magic fills the air around Leila, and I realize the storm appeared at Leila’s behest. Lightning flashes blue-white, filling the air with the thick tang of electricity, thunder crashing all around, shivering my bones.
A wall of fire sears the air between the women, and my heart leaps into my throat. The flames are diverted by a gust of wind, blasting past Leila to either side, leaving her unharmed. Leila retaliates with a raised fist descending like a hammer, and the other woman is smashed to the ground by a wall of air that breaks bone.
The older woman coughs, gags, and goes still.
I rush to Leila’s side and gather her in my arms. She’s wind now, barely substantial, shifting and fading in my arms, eyes white, edges bleeding into nothingness, becoming storm, becoming wind.
She looks up at me with inhuman eyes, kisses me, and puts her lips to my ear. “This isn’t over,” she whispers. “It’s not that easy.”
“I know,” I murmur in response.
“We’ve started a war.”
“I know that, too.” I smile and kiss her again. “You’re worth it.”
“That was a huge mistake.” Hassan’s voice echoes from behind me, tolling with awful power, reverberating endlessly.
Turning, I see Hassan in full elemental form, a pyre of red flame a dozen feet tall with clawed fingers and eyes like dying suns. The rules of the duel have clearly been tossed aside. I bend and retrieve the Walther PPK bound to my ankle, the one hideout pistol I didn’t give up, because I’m no fool. I crack off three shots—BANGBANGBANG!—each one impacting dead-center between Hassan’s demon eyes. The hell-thing doesn’t flinch, only bleeds bright yellow flame from fiery red flesh and keeps approaching me, each step shaking the ground and scorching the grass black. I empty the clip, and the apparition soaks the ground in blood-flame, which spreads like lava. The empty clip drops to the ground and I back up, slamming my one spare into the handle, dragging the slide to chamber a round. I fire again and again and again, backing away, the crowd widening the circle around Hassan, Leila, the mother, and me, all of them watching and waiting in complete silence. There will be no interference.
I know I can’t win this way, but I feel the fear freezing my blood. I refuse to succumb to its paralyzing hold. I see Nadira slinking, unnoticed, a hundred feet away. She’s a bare
ly-visible figure of sky-colored liquid slipping between blades of grass to rise up behind Hassan, translucent hands waving and circling in a bizarre dance, body jerking and coiling, magic sizzling and sparking and crackling, visible as golden particles of energy that pop and snap and flare, coalescing into a shimmering veil of raw power, which twists and spins in synch with Nadira’s motions, circling like a whirlpool. The maelstrom rages silently, growing in size and violence, a dot of blackness appearing at its center. The dot grows, stretches, spreads, and becomes an expanding hole in the golden veil of magic.
Nadira needs more time, I realize. She needs Hassan distracted long enough to allow the portal to fully form. Leila shrieks behind me, her voice feminine thunder, all rushing winds and hurricane rage.
I drop the useless pistol, and stalk forward toward Hassan with no other weapon but my fists. I have no chance against a force like him. I know this, now. I never did. But I can’t give up. I won’t.
I hear my name called as if from a great distance, and I turn to see Ibrahim tossing me the sword from the study, the ancient, priceless Damascus blade. I catch it, draw the sheath free and toss it aside, marveling at its featherlight weight and perfect balance.
A dozen feet separate Hassan and me, but they flash beneath my feet in a single impossible bound, the blade slicing down to split Hassan’s arm from his shoulder, the disembodied limb dropping to the ground still flaming and flexing fiery fingers, still grasping at me. A sidestep and a swipe of the sword, barely missing Hassan’s head, and then I feel a blow smash against my chest and I’m hurtled across the charred lawn, my skin sizzling and smoking. I roll to a stop, gasping, heaving, agony shooting through me, the sword still clutched in my white-knuckled fingers.
The crowd has become wild now but no one heeds their noise, not Ibrahim, nor his wife holding their still-screaming and thrashing daughter back, not one-armed Hassan bellowing and clawing for me, and certainly not me, the lone foolish human wielding an ancient sword, facing an enraged ifrit twice my size.
Fear pumps through my veins, but I refuse to give in to it. I take the fear and transform it into fury. I charge at Hassan with the sword stabbing forward, aiming for the wide, heaving red-flame chest.
Hassan pivots aside at the last moment and plunges his claws into my back, grinning evil glee as a scream of pain bursts from my lips. Hassan withdraws his talons and steps back, evidently assuming victory as I stumble backward, consumed by agony, using the sword to prop myself up, feeling fire and blood leaking down my back, carving a path of agony through my flesh. I feel my strength begin to ebb away. I marshal the last dregs of my strength and turn to face Hassan once last time.
I push the sight of hysterical, weeping Leila from my mind, knowing I can’t spare a thought for anything but a final, fatal strike.
I take a single, tremulous step, and then a second and third, pretending to be weaker than I actually am, although it’s not much of a farce, now. I’m dying, and I know it.
But I’m not dead yet.
Hassan stands his ground. “You are a fool, human,” he sneers. His voice echoes, causes the earth to tremble under my feet.
“Perhaps,” I answer, lifting the sword to rest the back edge on my shoulder, taking another step forward. “But I know something you never will.”
“What?” Hassan demands.
“The taste of Leila on my lips.”
Hassan roars in fury, and I lunge forward, crashing into Hassan and knocking him backward, toward the portal Nadira has finished summoning behind him. I accept the torment of flames licking at my skin and hair and face, stagger backward a single step and then throw myself forward and plunge the sword up to the hilt into Hassan’s chest. He stumbles backward, surprised, and I slam my heel into his stomach, feeling the rubber and leather and cloth of my boot flash-burnt into ashes, feeling my skin sear and bubble. Hassan staggers a step closer to the portal, and I use the last shred of strength I possess to kick him one last time, my foot slamming into the pommel of the sword protruding from Hassan’s chest, forcing him off-balance. He topples backward through the portal.
The world beyond the gap in the shimmering golden circle is one of fire and brimstone, an ancient vision of hell, a lake of blue-white-yellow-orange-red fire, the sky blood-red, jagged black claws of mountains skewering the sky, bat-winged demons soaring through curtains of flame, hundred-foot-tall giants lumbering past the opening, small darting creatures flicking and fluttering like sparks, horned beasts with gaping, toothy maws roaring.
Falling backward, arms pinwheeling, Hassan screams, flails, grabs for the edge of the portal and catches it with desperate claws. I lurch forward, dizzy and seeing double, afire with agony, weak, collapsing. I knock away his hand and he falls, spouting a spume of flame at me in a final act of hate, enveloping me in heat and hell and horror and pain.
Nadira brings her fists together, and the portal closes on Hassan’s roar of futile rage. I tumble to the blackened earth, my skin and clothes and hair burning. Nadira douses the flames consuming my flesh, but then she too collapses, still in elemental form.
Leila finally breaks free from her parents and rushes to my side, weeping, sobbing, kissing my charred lips. My eyes are barely open and I see Leila above me, a white-gowned angel with tender lips. I gasp, struggling for breath, each gasp of oxygen causing a searing pain to rip through me. It feels like a building is sitting on my chest, making it impossible to breathe. My vision fades, my body no longer blackened meat but still throbbing with agony. I clutch for Leila’s hand, feeling my breath fail me.
Her eyes are locked on me. I hear her whisper my name, hear her whisper the three words that make it all worthwhile: “I love you.”
Darkness subsumes me.
Chapter 20: Words of Sealing
Leila
I watch him fall, and something inside me breaks, dies. My parents let me go, finally, and I’m at his side, kissing him, desperate and pleading with him to live, to breathe, to be okay. I don’t think he hears me, but he’s looking at me, and I know he did all this for me. He fought Hassan and won, for me.
He did the impossible, for me.
And now he’s dying, for me.
I deny it. Refuse it.
No.
Nadira, weakened to the brink of collapse from summoning the portal, is somehow still upright and running water-blue hands on him, magic-laced liquid soaking into charred flesh. His skin heals at her touch, his hairless scalp pinking and sprouting brown follicles, muscles returning to their heavy, rounded perfection. His eyes, however, retain their dying, fading listlessness, the encroaching darkness clouding his gaze. I can’t even speak, can’t make the words form. All I can do is kiss him, weeping, as Nadira heals him to the best of her abilities.
Finally, she topples to her back beside him, and I know she can do no more. It will be days before she can resume her human form.
“Lungs,” Nadira murmurs. “He…can’t—can’t breathe. I’m too weak. Can’t do…anything else.” Her eyes meet mine. “Leila…you have to help him. You have to be—you have to be his breath.”
Shock runs through me as I realize what she’s suggesting. It’s possible, but I’m not sure it’s ever been done, or if it will work.
I look back at Carson, and my heart cracks further. He’s gasping for breath, shuddering with every lungful. His eyes are latched on mine, and I refuse to look away.
He’s still breathing, but barely, his breaths coming in slow, long-spaced gasps. His heart still beats, but barely. Carson’s fingers clutch mine weakly, as if holding on to me is synonymous with holding to life. I am so tired, so sapped of all strength. But Carson is slipping away from me, and I have to summon the power to save him.
“I love you,” I whisper. His eyes flutter closed, open again and search for me, then roll back into his head.
His breathing slows, a ragged gasp every second or two.
No, no, no. Pleasegodno.
I take his face in my hands, press my forehead to his a
nd delve down within to the sea of magic. It surges to my command, but I know it won’t be enough. Not for this. Desperation rips through me. It has to be enough. This has to work. I can’t lose him. I can’t. I hear a whimper escape from my lips, followed by the swish of skirts.
I feel a presence beside me, and I recognize the cool hardness of Mother. She puts a hand to my shoulder, and a surge of power ebbs from her into me, then from me into Carson.
It’s not enough.
I draw deeper from myself, pull harder at the siphon from Mother; I hoard the power, wrap myself into it, curl it around myself like a shimmering cloak.
Carson’s breath shudders. Time is nearly out. I clutch the power to myself and dredge up the strength to turn incorporeal, feel the edges of my body fade and meld with the gentle breeze. I let the fading spread through me, match my breathing to the rhythm of the wind. Between one moment and the next I have transitioned from woman to zephyr, and as a breath of wind I clutch in my slippery fingers a ball of thrumming blue-white magic.
Before I can question the wisdom of the act, I force myself into Carson’s nostrils and mouth and down into his lungs, where I let the orb of power burgeon and expand, filling in the spaces and pushing against the walls of his lungs. The wounds have been healed by Nadira’s ministrations, but too late. Carson’s lungs still and deflate, and now I must force them back into motion.
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