by A. J. Norris
“Oh, no, where’s your mate to rescue you?” Dahlia taunted, circling back around with a snarl on her face.
Evita recovered, rocked back on her hands, and catapulted herself to her feet. “He’s not coming. I don’t need him to kick your ass.” Putting her hands out in front her, she created more distance between them, increasing her reaction time. She moved out of the hallway. Dahlia followed, coming forward with a right cross. This time Evita blocked the punch, went low, and jabbed her in the stomach. Dahlia grunted and staggered, clutching her middle. “Deus, you’re predictable.” Evita grabbed a fist full of the other female’s hair.
“So are you.” Dahlia spun, sacrificing a wad of tresses, yanked free, and landed a roundhouse kick to the side of Evita’s head. She bounced off the wall, leaving behind a red splotch. Listing further into the living room, the recliner kept her from hitting the floor.
Dahlia laughed and wrenched Evita’s wing at an odd angle. A sharp pain shot through her wing and right through her body. She zigzagged toward the wall and smashed into the drywall again. A bone snapped near the crest of a wing and she whimpered. Evita refused to cry. Instead, she gritted her teeth. The pounding ache weakened her but she straightened her spine and squared up to Dahlia, ready for more.
Evita eyed the other Warrior’s feathers as she flared her wings. They weren’t vibrant gold any longer and bald patches stood out. Feathers didn’t change color without a reason.
What did she do?
The only thing that made sense was Dahlia had ingested Abaddon’s Taint. His poisonous venom.
“Since when are you so chummy with Abaddon?” she taunted.
“Who said we were chummy?”
“Oh, so you went psychotic all on your own?” Evita flapped her wings and instantly regretted it. She winced at the blinding agony and stumbled sideways, searching for something to break her fall.
Dahlia grabbed her broken wing and whipped Evita around. She swung her fist but Evita raised her shoulder, deflecting the punch. She brought her knee up at the same time, confusing Dahlia. Evita seized the opportunity, striking her with both fists. Dahlia’s head knocked back past the vertical and she went over.
CRACK!
The coffee table broke in half and caved in the middle. Glass inserts crunched beneath Dahlia. Evita went for the lamp on the side table next to the couch, however, Dahlia had freed herself and kicked her in the center of the back. Evita shoved her hands out in front, although hit the wall anyway. Dazed, she backed away from the dent her head made. Blood ran from a cut over her left eye and clouded her vision. She located the adjacent wall and leaned against it. A towel was shoved in her face. Dahlia was stopping the fight?
No.
Way.
This was far from over. For some reason, Dahlia wanted to drag this out. Despite her apprehension, Evita used the offering and calmed her labored breathing.
“I trust you got my message about the amulet and…Virgil?” Dahlia asked. When Evita didn’t answer, she continued. “I’m really looking forward to your mate.”
Evita glared at her. She spoke as if she knew where the amulet was. She ignored the comment about Virgil. “I don’t believe you have it,” she said behind clenched teeth.
“Oh…then why are you here?”
“Where is it? What kind of game are you playing?” Bloodied and weak, she kept Dahlia talking.
“No game. I simply want you out of my way.”
“You’re crazy. Even if you defeat me, Virgil will never want you.”
Dahlia laughed humorlessly. “Oh, I don’t want him back.”
“Then why do want me out of the way?” Evita pushed off from the wall.
Dahlia uncrossed her arms. “Revenge. What else?” She furrowed her brow. Was she surprised at her own thoughts? Angels didn’t seek retribution under normal circumstances. However, this situation had Abaddon’s venom all over it and smelled like soot.
“Are you hearing yourself? Abaddon’s weak, you know.”
“This has nothing to do with that—”
“He poisoned you.”
“No he didn’t.”
“Then why do your wings look as sparse as a baby bird’s?”
Dahlia glanced over her shoulder and gaped like it was the first time she noticed her tarnished molting feathers. “Are we going to chit-chat or settle this like females?”
“You tell me, you’re the one who wants—”
“Shut up and fight!”
Gladly, Evita thought. Once again, they faced off. She brought her damaged wing in close to her body, holding her breath until the sharp pain faded to a dull ache. She circled Dahlia, stalling. Using Gregory to keep Virgil away may not have been the smartest decision, except she couldn’t bear the look on his face when she failed. The other Warrior seemed stronger than she remembered and Evita hadn’t fought in two centuries. But Dahlia wanted to cause her mate endless suffering.
Not going to happen.
A plan formed inside her head. She bellowed a war cry. Light shot out of her mouth. The room brightened despite the drapes being drawn shut. Dahlia squinted. Evita’s muscles strengthened. She jumped in the air, coming down upon the poisoned angel with a closed fist. Dahlia walked unsteadily, disoriented. However, she regained her footing and ducked Evita’s spinning kick.
Evita landed with her back toward the Warrior in a vulnerable position. Dahlia ripped on her busted wing, whipping her around. She punched her in the solar plexus. Evita grunted, clutching her middle, gasping for air. At least the blow to her gut masked the pounding in her wing. A lone stray tear escaped from the corner of her eye. She coughed, biting back vomit.
Dahlia charged at her, but Evita forced her hands out. They grabbed each other’s arms and spun around, knocking into the wall. The broken lamp shards crunched beneath Evita’s shoes. Thank Deus she thought to manifest something she saw in a store which looked stylish yet practical for fighting. Virgil had called them sneakers. She called them the most comfortable shoes she’d ever worn.
Their hand to hand battle turned into a grappling match on the floor. They rolled about, slamming into the chair, then worked toward the drapes hung above the door wall. Dahlia tore the curtain and wrapped it around Evita’s head. The velvet made breathing impossible. She thrashed, her hands seeking the heavy cloth. The material was sucked to her lips with every breath. Lightheadedness washed over her and she struggled to stay awake.
Evita stopped fighting, preserving her energy. Dahlia straddled her hips. She slapped Evita repeatedly across the face. Warm blood coated the inside of the drape, further adding to the suffocation. Evita lay there absorbing blow after blow. Dahlia eventually grew tired and stood. The last hit pitched Evita’s head to the side, allowing some oxygen into her lungs.
“Are you dead?” Dahlia asked, kicking Evita’s foot. She stayed still. “Huh…this is going to be easier than I thought. Virgil will make Abaddon a great pet goat, and he does have the beard for it.”
Evita seethed under the drape. Without a flaming red sword, she couldn’t be stricken from the Earth. Dahlia kicked her thigh and she grunted.
“I knew you were awake. On your feet!” Dahlia booted her again in the ribs.
Evita rolled and ripped at the velvet around her head. She scrambled to a crouched position and swept the other female’s legs with one of her own.
Dahlia crashed through the door wall. The glass broke, raining down like water. She staggered across the tiny balcony and flipped over the iron railing. Evita hopped over the glass shards and looked for her. Below her, Dahlia hung by a bloody hand from the railing, one story down. Evita pulled her head back when the tenant’s door slid open.
A man’s voice said, “I don’t see nothing.”
“Something fell, I swear it. Let me see,” presumably his wife said. Feet shuffled in and out of the door.
Evita looked at the balcony below her again. A blood-stained feather was all that remained. Her Warrior sister had teleported.
The
neighbor picked it up, shrugged, and then threw the now ordinary brown plume over the side. “Must’ve just been a stupid bird.” She went back inside.
After taking a few deep breaths, Evita had calmed enough for teleportation. She concentrated on Dahlia and with a whoosh, vanished.
CHAPTER
FORTY-FOUR
Virgil
Virgil slammed to the ground with a thud. He bit the inside of his cheek but didn’t feel much pain as he gasped for breath, rolling side-to-side, desperate for air. He knew exactly what hit him. The demon named Berus. The male had a distinct odor, although not a bad smell like one would expect from a bull.
Berus seized Virgil’s arm and leg. He lifted him off the ground and spun twice before releasing him. Virgil rotated in a flat-spin, the trees a blur of greens and browns. He struck a mid-sized tree, the trunk hit him where his neck and shoulder met. The bark skinned the top crest of a wing as he fell to the ground with a moan. The edges of his vision fuzzed black until he had only a small field of sight.
Oh Deus.
He thought he was prepared for battle, but the demon had taken the first blow. Virgil regained some focus and pushed himself to his hands and knees. Feathers littered the base of the tree. He shook the grogginess from his head. Berus waited for him. Why? It didn’t make sense. Was the demon showing compassion or had he simply not wanted to fight for Dahlia?
An iron hand clamped on the back of Virgil’s neck, forcing him into the dirt again. Twigs impaled his cheek, puncturing the flesh. He bit down, stopping the wood from making it out the other side. One jabbed him close to the eye, its sharp point scraping across the bridge of his nose. Surviving this and returning to Evie was his only thought. He only hoped she defeated Dahlia.
With a growl, he threw Berus’ hand from his nape and sprung off the ground. He assumed a battle stance, on the balls of his feet, ready for the demon’s next move.
They circled each other, both snarling.
Berus bolted toward Virgil. Black filled his eyes until no white showed. It never occurred to him before tonight that Gregory was part demon. His eyes had done the same. He’d seen the other angel in Arcadia, clearly he possessed no poisonous venom from the Demon Ruler.
Focus!
A roar cracked through the air. Virgil flapped his wings and came down upon the demon with his fists cupped together. The hammer-like punch threw Berus off balance. He teetered and nearly toppled to the forest floor. For his size, he was remarkably agile.
The demon about-faced, not wasting any time. He ran at Virgil, cocking his fist back. Virgil countered, sidestepping Berus, and kicked him in the back of his knee. The former bull landed hard then lunged at Virgil, swiping at the air. He caught Virgil by the bottom feathers, grabbing enough of them so that the quills stayed rooted.
“Ahhh!” Virgil wrestled his wing free. The demon’s hold slipped, pulling the feathers. Each plume stung as it ripped out. He flew back and up and hovered in the air. Winds from his flapping wings pushed Berus’ hair around and he squinted, protecting his black eyes.
Virgil went higher. He swooped toward the demon and grabbed him from behind, lifting him with an arm around his neck.
“Awk!” Berus choked. He pried at Virgil’s arm, beating his prison with closed fists. When that didn’t work, he raised his knees and flung his legs down repeatedly. Each downward thrust loosened Virgil’s grasp until Berus dropped onto the ground. He didn’t run; he crouched into battle mode, putting his weight forward.
A twig snapped. The demon stared at the woods surrounding them. His back stiffened and he shook his head. Mouthed something. A small animal, maybe a squirrel, let out a soft squeak. Leaves rustled.
Virgil followed Berus’s line of vision though couldn’t see anything. Was this a means of distracting him or was there something there? He landed twenty feet away and manifested a flaming red sword. Better to be cautious, since demons had mastered trickery.
“Have you ever seen one of these before, demon?”
Berus tilted his head to the side. One corner of his mouth perked. He nodded once.
“Good, then I won’t have to explain anything to you.” Virgil hefted the sword above his head, charging the demon. “Die!”
The demon responded by running full tilt at him.
Jeremiah materialized in front of Virgil, blocking Berus. The angel waved his hands frantically. “No! Stop!” From behind, the demon grabbed him, whipping him off to the side. Already in the process of bringing the blade across, Virgil slashed Elliott’s son’s shoulder. Flesh burned and sizzled. His clothing caught fire. Jeremiah stopped, dropped and rolled, groaning in agony as he hit the ground.
Stunned, Virgil stood open-mouthed and wide-eyed. He let the weapon fall. His first thought had been attending to Jeremiah. He didn’t get the chance. The bull-demon raced toward him. Virgil took a hit to the mid-section and went down, his head bouncing off the ground. He moaned, squeezing his eyes shut. “Ohhh…”
Berus straddled his waist. Virgil veered his head too late. The initial blow connected with his face. Blood gushed from his nose. Tears blurred his vision. He unsuccessfully attempted to block the hailstorm of punches. Berus knocked his hands away. Each punch felt like it buried him deeper into the ground. He thought of Uriel’s human funeral, which had resulted in his entombment for two centuries, six feet under. Virgil saw Evie in his mind. Her bright red hair splayed out on a pillow, her silver eyes shining up at him as he lay between her thighs.
I love you…
Jeremiah shouted again, his voice sounding muffled and far away. “Please! Stop!”
From the start of this fight, Berus had made the most impact, caused the most damage. There was truth that the first one to strike, wins.
“Don’t do this!” Jeremiah yelled.
No amount of pleading with the demon would help. Virgil braced for another fist to the face.
“Berus!”
The demon stopped and looked at Jeremiah, who held the flaming sword in his shaking hands. “I’ll use it. I swear.”
Berus growled and reached for the top crests of Virgil’s wings then snapped the bones. He bucked and arched his back. “Oh Deus!”
The fire from the flaming sword made swooshing sounds as Jeremiah sliced the air with the weapon. “Back off!”
“Use it!” Virgil yelled. A right hook smashed his jaw. Shooting pain radiated out from where Berus punched him.
The demon jumped up and faced the other angel.
Virgil clutched his face and rolled onto his side. Blood filled his mouth. His cheek swelled. Everything ached then went numb. The blood drained past his lips, pooling and mixing with the dirt on the ground.
“Get outta here!” Jeremiah yelled.
As much as Virgil needed to stay, Jeremiah held a sword.
Watch over him, Deus.
He closed his eyes and concentrated on Eternity. Tears blurred his vision. A rush of blood thundered past his eardrums. The air changed, and he found his nose inches from a puddle of urine inside the men’s bathroom.
***
Berus
Berus and Jeremiah stared at each other. Neither demon nor angel moved. The sword shook in the angel’s hands. Had he never held one before?
Seconds ticked by and the longer they stood idly, Berus decided Jeremiah wasn’t going to use the blade against his flesh, though he didn’t ease his fighting posture. His hair blew forward when the other angel teleported away behind him.
“Don-Don’t w-want to k-kill me,” Berus stammered and stepped cautiously toward the angel.
“I do. I will.” His voice lacked conviction.
Berus’s eyes traveled the length of his wings. So soft had his feathers been. He rubbed his fingers together, the memory of the silky feel still fresh in his mind. His lips parted. Desire took hold. He wanted to feel the plumes on his skin. The ring through his nipple flipped up and down when he flexed his pectorals. His nostrils flared and he moved closer to Jeremiah.
“Don’t come
any closer!” The angel raised the sword, wincing from the pain in his burned shoulder.
Not convinced the warning would be backed up, Berus ignored the winged one. He stalked Jeremiah, spiraling in toward him. The angel kept his eyes trained on his predator, beads of sweat rolling down his face.
Heat gathered and swept throughout Berus’s body like a brush fire. He became hyperaware of Jeremiah’s every move, even the way his chest heaved with each breath. The angel readjusted his grip on the sword.
“Why did you kiss me?” Jeremiah asked just above a whisper.
Why did you let me?
Berus was within an arm’s length, yet respected the space between them by choice. Unskilled as the angel seemed, he was more than likely the better fighter. Jeremiah wasn’t quite as large and had less bulk, although he was bigger now that he didn’t have goat legs. More substantial. Damn him to Netherworld! Why did he care? His hands curled into white-knuckled fists. He growled like the animal he was, a loud rumble, birds in the trees around them mistook it for a crack of lightning. They squawked and the branches quivered as the birds sought shelter inside the trunks.
Jeremiah gripped his sword tightly. Too firm of a grip meant he’d drop the weapon in lieu of a broken arm if Berus whacked at his hands. His theory proved correct. He thumped the blade close to the hilt and Jeremiah let go. His skin was fireproof and red flamed swords only worked if they penetrated the skin. At least in Netherworld. Berus’s assumption that Abaddon hadn’t altered the toughness of his skin was correct. The flame extinguished when it hit the ground, except for a tiny spark that lit a patch of grass and fizzled out.
The angel spun and took a stride away from him.
Berus lunged for the angel and his hand grazed some feathers as he stuck his arm out. Jeremiah flapped his wings, but the demon ducked too late and got slapped across the face and thumped in the chest. Clearly, wings were a much mightier weapon than a sword. Berus ass-planted, slamming onto the ground with a thud. Jeremiah lifted off the earth and barrel-rolled until he hovered behind him. A slick move. Misguided pride swelled in Berus’s heart.
