Angels and the Bad Man

by M. K. Gibson

  “He is too strong. He isn’t normal.”

  “No, I’m not,” I admitted. “I’m . . . different. But I mean you all no harm.”

  Macha stood in a fluid motion and left the fire. She paused to look back at me. I noticed she was wearing my gun holster. She took one out and aimed it at my head. She pulled the trigger.

  “Your guns don’t work. About as useless as you are.” Then, she left the cave.

  “Something I said?”

  “You made her look foolish and weak,” Akecheta said. “She doesn’t like you.”

  “Can’t say as I blame her. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Don’t turn your back on her,” Ehawee said with a smile. “Now, may I have another cigarette?”

  “Sure.” I offered her a smoke and lit it for her. “Oh, just out of curiosity, where are we?”

  “The ground,” Ehawee said as she enjoyed the smoke.

  “Uh. . . uh . . . ” I stammered, trying to think of a polite way to ask her to be more specific.

  Ehawee winked at me. “Unlike my daughter, I have a sense of humor. South Dakota, on the border with Nebraska.”

  “South Dakota?!”

  “You’ve heard of it?”

  “Well yeah. Who hasn’t?”

  “Aside from The People, no one born in the last hundred years,” Ehawee said, shooting me a wink.

  I was forced to smile. I was trying to think of a way to trick the old bird into saying something to give away her age. Instead, she nailed me. We shared a look that said there would be a later conversation.

  ********

  “So, what do you think?” TJ asked me.

  “I’ve definitely been in worse caves,” I said, looking around.

  The cave was near the central meeting area, on a higher elevation. The ravine’s rock face had pathways carved into the stone that acted like stairs moving up and down the canyon walls.

  The cave was closed by a circular wooden door carved with intricate native designs. The inside was dry and warm, with similar Abomination skins dyed and woven into beautiful tapestries. We had working lights, a pair of woven mats with furs to sleep on, and even a rudimentary toilet.

  “I guess I imagined something more rustic. Blame it on my preconceived notions about what life would be like out here. I mean you all had power when I came to Midheim, so why wouldn’t they? Underground fusion cells, maybe?”

  “Salem, I’m serious,” TJ pleaded. “What do you think they are going to do with us?”

  I plopped down on the fur-covered mat and lit a smoke. “I don’t know,” I said with all seriousness. “I don’t think they want to hurt us. But they seem pretty loyal to the big bird.”

  “Wakinyan,” TJ corrected.

  “Whatever. If that thing told them to find us, then we’re at the mercy of a colossal bird that craps thunder.”

  “Great,” TJ sighed.

  “Look, kid, I’m not going to lie. Things could get messy.”

  “Messy?”

  I didn’t to have to spell it out in gory details, but he had to know. “We have six days to get The Tears of God and get back. We’re fifteen hundred miles from home and I only have a pack and half of smokes. Things are bad.”

  “Salem.”

  “Look, the longer we’re here, the harder things are going to be. And while I don’t want to, we may have to hurt some of them. So do me a favor—get some rest. Come nightfall, we have to be ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “What do all prisoners want, kid?”

  TJ smiled. “We’re breaking out of here.”

  ********

  Once TJ was asleep, I stepped out of the comfortable cave into the winter wind and sat on the carved stone edge overlooking the valley. Pulling my coat tighter, I lit a smoke and watched the people below.

  Children continued to play. Those old enough helped perform rudimentary chores. Here and there I saw some pieces of tech. Nothing as fancy as one would find in a city, but useful nonetheless. No doubt The People picked apart relics of the old world as did all those who lived in the wastelands.

  Small patrols would venture out. Hunting parties, I assumed. I watched The People move, learning their habits just like I had on scouting missions when I was in the militia. The Outrider was parked not too far below me, near the mouth of the central cave where we met Ehawee. While no one was guarding it directly, there were eyes always on it.

  The valley had an entrance on the north and south end. But the patrols seemed to come and go at random. Getting out would be hard.

  But that’s not why I was really out here. It was because I couldn’t look at TJ.

  The sun wasn’t past noon yet, but each moment here was a moment I wasn’t moving towards The Tears. The kid wanted nothing more than to save his dad, and I was going to do everything I could to do that. But if I had to keep an eye on him while trying to do what I had to, it was a recipe for failure.

  I looked again at The People. They seemed . . . nice enough? If I left him here, they wouldn’t hurt him.

  Would they?

  I could make it much faster on my own. Then, when I was done, I could come back for him. I lit another cigarette as I could almost hear Gh’aliss over my shoulder, whispering as she always did.

  “Go on, leave him. You’re so much better on your own. You know he’ll only slow you down. Even if they did kill him, what was his one life worth? Compared to the thousands you’re responsible for, as sickening as that is, the decision is easy.”

  And she wouldn’t be wrong.

  But I would be a motherfucker if I did.

  Damn it. I’d spent too long with demons, adopting their morality, or lack thereof, as the norm. Thanks to Grimm, I’d started being a human again. Hell, thanks to Vali, Vidar and their people, I’d started being more than I ever was in my former life.

  No, I’d take TJ with me. I’d just have to be on my A-game at all times.

  “I’m glad I’m dead so I don’t have to see this pathetic display. You shone so bright and so fierce once. Now? You’re nothing more than a filthy human.”

  I’m sorry Gh’al, I am, I thought to myself as my eyes began to water. But you always did bring out the worst in me. You deserved better than dying in prison. You deserve more than me being the only being left alive who will carry on your memory. I’m sorry for what happened to you and your daughters. I love you, and in your own fucked-up way, I know you loved me. But I have to say goodbye now. May death bring you the peace I never gave you in life.

  I finished my smoke, stood, and walked back into the cave. Plopping down on the furs, I looked one last time to TJ.

  “No matter what, kid,” I whispered, “I’m getting you home.”

  With my mind resolute, my body finally succumbed to all the events that led me here. The prison, the breakout, the fighting, and the running.

  I simply blacked out. And thankfully, there were no dreams of pain and sadness waiting for me.

  Chapter Eleven

  Trophies

  Now, in Löngutangar

  “You’re insane,” Khurzon said while watching Vali pull out an old trunk from under his bed.

  “Maybe.”

  “Definitely,” Vidar added. “I like it.”

  “Thanks, brother.”

  “Both of you. Insane. What do you think this little stunt is going to do?” Khurzon asked.

  “With your knowledge of Flotsam?” Vali asked, placing the trunk on his bed. “I’m going to make them bleed.”

  “By yourself? It’s impossible,” Khirzon scolded Vali.

  “Not with these,” the god said, running his hand across the wood.

  The trunk was hand carved with intricate Norse runes. Inside were the remnants of a life he’d left behind. But life had a way of bringing back the sins of your past.

  With his eyes closed, his sense of touch was all he needed to know the box and its contents. Every facet and every groove of the wood was etched into his mind. His hands ran across the
wood in seemingly random patterns. To anyone watching, he was mindlessly pawing at a box. But Vali, and his brother, knew he was disarming the traps. Powerful runic magic protected the box and its contents from would-be thieves and curious minds.

  When Vali finished, the blue-black steel straps sprang open. “What’s in there?” Khurzon asked, peeing around the open lid.

  “My sins.”

  “Looks like a trunk of old weapons.”

  “They’re both,” Vali whispered.

  “What kind of weapons are they?”

  “Trophies,” Vidar said.

  “From what?”

  “Dead gods.”

  Vidar did not elaborate, nor did Vali want him to. While Salem, and to an extent Vidar, may have trusted this demon, Vali was not ready to share the dark path he once walked.

  Vali stared at the pile of ancient weapons, each of them taken from a fallen god or powerful being. When G-Day hit the mortal realm, humans fought Hell. But there was another war. A private war. One where the various remaining pantheons fought and killed one another.

  The gods were trapped and vied for power instead of uniting. And it was in those times when Vali did what he was born—no—created to do.

  He killed.

  Some up close. Some from a distance. But they died nonetheless. With each death, his collection grew. He told himself it was necessary. Should one of the other gods rise to power, gather followers, they would become too powerful. And the humans would be the ones caught in a battle of power between gods and Hell.

  But that was only the lie he told himself to sleep at night. The truth was, Vali liked it.

  He took thrill in bringing them down. In knowing he was the real threat. After what Vali and Vidar witnessed in Asgard, with the fall of the Allfather along with nearly all his Aesir and Vanir kin, he needed purpose. Killing was as good as any.

  Surprisingly, it was Vidar the berserk god who forced Vali to move into the wilds and take care of the humans of Midgard as Thor once did. But Vali never stopped killing, not fully. And in each of those times, Vali had a certain ritual. A way of knowing of his need to kill was justified, or simple ego and hubris.

  Vali pulled a simple sheathed sword from the trunk and held it with reverence.

  “What is that?” Khurzon asked.

  “The answer to the question.”

  “What question?”

  “Whether or not I’m supposed to do this,” Vali said, holding the sword.

  “Don’t,” Vidar said.

  “You know I have to. I can’t do it without knowing for sure,” Vali said as he looked at the sword while placing his hand on the scabbard.

  “Gonna get burned. Again,” Vidar said, shaking his head.

  “Maybe,” Vali said, flexing his hand in memory.

  “What is that?” Khurzon asked again, growing impatient.

  “Dyrnwyn, one of the Thirteen Treasures of Britain.”

  “And that’s supposed to mean what?” Khurzon asked.

  “It burns with fire when drawn,” Vidar said.

  “So?”

  “If drawn for a noble purpose . . . nothing,” Vidar said.

  Khurzon looked confused. “And if it isn’t?”

  “It burns the wielder like the fires of hell,” Vali said.

  “Like you would know,” Khurzon said, rolling her eyes.

  “More than you realize, demon,” Vali said, holding the sword in his left hand while placing his right on the ancient Welsh blade’s leather-wrapped handle.

  “In a couple of days, I’m going out there. I’m going to hurt them. Badly. They took our children. And while we got them back, they are once again threatening us. Threatening us with death. I can’t kill them all, no matter how much I want to. But they will feel pain at my hand. It may not stop them, but they will never again see us as weak. Now, burn me or not, but I’m going to fucking kill them anyway.”

  Vali drew the sword in a deft movement, throwing the scabbard across the room as the blade erupted into flame, bathing the room in golden light.

  The flame did not touch the god. It stayed on the weapon’s blade. Vali nodded, letting out the breath he was holding. More than once in the past, the flame burned him, indicating the path he was on was the wrong one. But the assassin-god did what assassins do regardless.

  This time, his path was just. The power of Dyrnwyn to know the innate righteousness of the wielder’s intent shown brightly, illuminating his way forward. And there was nothing anyone could say to the contrary, nor tarnish the moment.

  Vidar leaned in and lit his cigarette off the flaming sword.

  “I hate you sometimes.”

  Chapter Twelve

  To Be Cold

  Day One of The Wild Hunt

  Robbed of magic was something Grimm was unaccustomed to. The feeling was frightening, yet ironically, exhilarating.

  Rushing through the sloping wooded hillside, Grimm ducked behind a large tree and listened. There were no sounds of pursuers. No hounds, no creatures, nothing. Why were they waiting?

  Rasputin’s trap put him not only in one of the few places where he could not draw from the power of creation, but also where the inhabitants wanted him dead. When he found his former apprentice once again, he would have to congratulate him on such a well-conceived plot.

  Then Grimm would, of course, have to kill him.

  Once again, Grimm stifled a bark of laughter. One thing he never told any of his apprentices over the thousands of years was that during dire situations, he always had a particular trick up his sleeve.

  Literally.

  When it was clear no one was immediately pursuing him, Grimm removed his stetson and began removing the buttons, cloth wraps, and wooden toggles of his cassock, stripping down to the pair of black Synthskin boxer-briefs he liberated from Salem’s seldom-clean laundry.

  In the old days, a loincloth, or cut linen small clothes, were all one needed. But once he tried the underwear, he was a changed man.

  At his age, Grimm felt he had earned the right to have comfortable balls.

  But his choice of underwear was not what stood out. It was his skin. Grimm’s flesh was an artistic litany of global cultures. From the base of his throat to the tops of his feet, he was covered in tattoos. Symbols of arcane nature and languages no longer spoken, complex weaves and patterns from the Norse and Celtic, Maori and Zulu, Native American and Aboriginal.

  And each tattoo contained a specific spell.

  Grimm made sure that when he asked the Green Man what he was allowed, he managed to include his “present abilities” as part of the terms. The Fae were notorious for deal-making, twisting words and agreements for their benefit. As the lord of The Hitherlands, he agreed to allow Grimm access to his present abilities for the duration of The Wild Hunt. Thus, the spells stored in the tattoos would make all the difference, and give him a chance for survival.

  Testing his theory, Grimm placed two fingers on the tattoo depicting the zodiac symbol for Gemini along his left upper thigh. As he spoke the word of power to activate the spell, the tattoo vanished from his skin in a small flash of blue energy, leaving behind bare skin. Beside Grimm stood a duplicate of himself. This version was wearing a long black trench coat and sunglasses.

  Hmm, I have not updated that spell in some time. The 1980s were an odd decade, Grimm thought.

  “Where are we?” the twin Grimm asked, removing his sunglasses. Looking about, the twin settled his eyes on the Grimm prime. With a casual assessment of Grimm, the twin added, “When are we?”

  “The Hitherlands. Far into the future.”

  “Where?” the twin asked, unfamiliar with the location.

  “All that remains of Yon. A small slice of the hidden lands existing in a pocket dimension. This place now serves as the realm of Fae. We are being chased by The Wild Hunt.”

  “Well, I am glad to see we still know how to make interesting enemies.”

  “Indeed.” Grimm smiled. “Are you prepared?”

 
“To lead them away? Of course. I am only an echo, after all. But let me ask you one thing first.”

  “Of course.”

  “Are we happy?” the twin asked.

  “About being chased?” Grimm asked. “While interesting and most decisively not boring, happy about it, no, we are not.”

  “Why am I always so obtuse?” the twin asked. “You know what I mean. Are we happy? Have we found a purpose?”

  Grimm thought about it for a moment. How often does one truly have the opportunity interrogate oneself face to face?

  “Yes, I think we are. We have a new life in this new time. We . . .” Grimm trailed off as he searched for the correct words. “We have friends. And enemies. But we are on the cusp of building something new. Something the world has never been before. For the first time in our life, we are not seeing the same events unfold. I honestly do not know what will happen next. All our experiences are merely helpful, vice being the answer to every situation.”

  The twin nodded and clasped Grimm on his shoulder. “Then I am happy for us. Go on, get out of here. I will lead them away from . . . where exactly am I?”

  “Just outside of Loreholm, capital and the very center of The Hitherlands. The gate to the Prime Material plane shifts locations depending on the season. As it is currently autumn back in the real world, the gate is in Caern Messis. Following the equinox, the gate will shift to Caern Frigida. So, I will follow the border northwest. If I move swiftly, I can reach the gate before the equinox. If not, I will turn northeast into Caern Frigida.”

  “So, you need me to go northeast from here. But leaving enough of a trail to make them think I am prepared to move into this Caern Figida as well.”

  “Yes,” Grimm agreed. “You will be entering the lands of Caern Hortus, land of eternal Spring. Beware distractions and the usual Spring Fae.”

  “Does Titania still live?”

  Grimm lowered his eyes and shook his head. “No, she and Mab have both passed on. As have Oberon and Hern.”

  “Then who rules this place?” the twin asked.