The Resurrection Game

by Michelle Belanger

  There was a flaw. On the far side, between one and two o’clock in the pattern. It wasn’t just a flaw, but an exploit. An irregularity in the cement of the floor, splitting a crucial symbol. Fine threads of Remy’s blood trickled through the crack, further separating the lines of energy.

  I could get through there.

  It would take a few slashes of my blades, but I could do it, and do it quickly. Zuriel would still have some time to react—time enough to drop Remy onto the sharpened spit of wood—so I had to move when my enemy was distracted.

  * * *

  Time resumed its normal pace in limping stages.

  The tip of the punch-dagger pressed against the rondure of Remy’s closed eye. The Nephilim’s skin had bled so pale that the deep blue of his iris sketched a faint shadow against the paper-thin lid. Zuriel leaned close enough to kiss my brother, sick ecstasy twisting his young features. His lips, moist and pink and completely obscene, parted in eager anticipation.

  I knew when I had to act. It killed a cringing, human part of me even to consider it, but just looking at Zuriel’s euphoric face, there was no better option. His pulse was a war drum. He hungered for the act, utterly seduced by its nauseating cruelty. The moment he did it, all his senses would narrow…

  I waited for him to take Remy’s eye.

  And then I moved to strike.

  49

  The wet sound was audible, thanks to Neferkariel’s gift of heightened senses. I tried not to think about it. If I thought at all, I would stop, and that would defeat the sacrifice. As I blurred across the basement, the power went out. The darkness was immediate and complete.

  And yet I could see, not in color, and not in any way I was accustomed to processing sight. Depth, shape, texture, it all spoke an impossible language I nevertheless understood. My Anakim sight remained layered over this, so the glinting lines of the circle sketched an interlocking weave of light against the darkness. Zuriel’s dagger shimmered with the same glacial light as his wings.

  The Anakim reared back from Remy, startled and infuriated by his sudden inability to see. Like a pale brand sprouting from his knuckles, he lofted his weapon, pouring more energy into its rippling light. I looked away from the dagger, not just to save my night vision, but because I was unwilling to see if any miserable bit of gore were impaled on the tip.

  Instead, I focused on his hand with the rope.

  Zuriel still clenched the coils that kept Remy from the stake.

  Good.

  I held power back from my own dagger for as long as I could, tightening my grip while I focused on the patch of the circle where I wanted to be. Thinking of Saliriel’s fleet appearance—so fast she might as well have teleported—I pushed harder than ever before to surpass my mortal limits. I sighted the spot like a target, imagining myself already there. Distantly, I knew my legs were moving, but they weren’t my focus. There was only the goal.

  Pain, bright and brilliant, blossomed immediately under my chest, but I pushed harder. My lungs burned and my eyes couldn’t keep up—and then I was there, right where I’d intended. The flaw in the magic hung like a blind spot among the stuttering lines of power, six inches above the floor and no broader than the palm of my hand.

  Zuriel hadn’t even finished turning his head to react to the wind of my passage. It was as if we moved in separate layers of time. It would cost me—I knew that—and I didn’t care. Calling my power with a breathless whisper, I jammed the curved tip of my gleaming blade low into the webwork of energy. First try and I caught the weak point, dead center. In a brilliant blast of blue and white power, I punched right through.

  With every ounce of strength I possessed, I ripped upward, gutting the magic as if it were a great beast comprised entirely of lightning. Searing sparks spat wildly around me while jagged bolts snapped across the rippling curtain of force until this whole section exploded inward.

  I was through.

  Zuriel had barely begun to process what was happening around him. Before he could complete a pivot in my direction, I rushed him, circumventing the laden weight bench in the middle and knocking back his arm with the blade.

  With my empty hand, I seized his other arm and its coiled burden of rope, wrenching the cruel leash from his grip. Time began ticking back to its normal progress as we struggled hand-to-hand, but I still caught his every reaction, responding before any blow could connect.

  His jacket was warded, like mine, and the leather turned away the first strike of my blade. Rather than waste another, I jammed the butt of my weapon into the taut tendons across the back of his hand. His knuckles spasmed and he almost dropped his dagger. Viciously, I struck the same place a second time, and the weapon clattered noisily to the cement.

  Swift as instinct, I kicked it away.

  Enraged and clutching a fistful of energy, Zuriel spat the syllables of his Name. Nevertheless, I kept his wrist immobile, and with it the rope. He lashed out, but instead of pulling away, I stepped even closer, turning my head so his strike glanced off my cheekbone. As his knuckles connected, I brought the pommel of my dagger down on his temple like Thor’s mighty hammer.

  Blood gouted and the ringing crack vibrated all the way up my arm. Zuriel went down and I tore the last few coils from his slackened grip. I kicked him once in the face to make sure he wouldn’t wake up any time soon.

  Remy was the priority.

  As I rushed to grab my wounded brother, one of the basement windows shattered inward, the whole section of glass blocks thudding heavily to the floor. Bits of concrete and cinder block erupted from the hole like shrapnel, pinging walls and floor and hollow ductwork.

  Tucked like a diver, Saliriel threaded the impossible narrowness, diving head first and dropping lightly to roll to her feet. Above her, Javier’s face and one broad shoulder blocked all starlight, the eye of his gun blacker than any shadow the massive man cast.

  I felt the toll for my speed like a furnace in my chest, but I pushed past it, getting my arms under Remy without even stopping to sheathe my blade. Swiftly, I lifted to get him off the deadly pike. He was light, too light, most of his weight spread in the red stain upon the floor, but that was a bitter blessing. His body was knotted like a taut bow in the bonds, making it awkward as hell to hold him.

  “Hold on,” I breathed. “Please, hold on.”

  Kicking the weight bench away, I laid Remy gently on the gore-covered floor. The knotted ropes, soaked in drying blood, creaked with every motion. He weakly moved his head, but with a touch, I stilled him. His right eye was a pulpy ruin, and I could see the mess even in this total lack of light. I wished I couldn’t. Digging through my pockets, I let my gaze drift elsewhere, but every inch of Remy’s flesh was a geography of anguish. The ticks and twitches of his knitting wounds had all but ceased—he was finally fading.

  In a rush of wind, Saliriel knelt beside me. With a tenderness I did not expect, she cupped his sunken cheek in one long-fingered hand.

  “Oh, my beautiful one,” she whispered. “What has he done to you?” With the hand not cradling Remy’s cheek, she covered the weeping socket of his damaged eye.

  “The cuffs are killing him,” I said. “We need to get them off.” I began searching through my pockets.

  “Does the little beast have keys?” Saliriel demanded. She eyed the still form of Zuriel as if planning his vivisection.

  “No, I do.” Briefly jangling the sparse ring of keys, I bent to free my brother. Jolts of adrenaline left over from my flurried speed twitched through my fingers. The angle was bad, so I had to yank on Remy’s already tightly bound arms to make any kind of headway. A frothing gurgle at the edges of the gag made me keenly aware of his pain. “Would someone cut these fucking ropes already?” I shouted. Then I got the first cuff off.

  Still cushioning Remy’s battered face with one hand, she clawed at a thick hank of rope. For once, her fierce nails weren’t up to the task. “I need a blade,” she said curtly.

  “Coming,” Tanisha answered. The guard’
s voice was a tight and small thing, as if some of what she’d witnessed had made her shrink upon herself. Even so, she crossed swiftly through the choking dark to offer help. Light sputtered as she reached the edge of the circle. With a startled hiss, she drew back.

  I felt around for the lock to the second handcuff. Remy was laying on it. With muttered apologies, I moved him again, still fighting to fit the key. The brow above the mangled socket twitched and, softly, he groaned.

  Saliriel traced soothing fingers through his damp, matted hair, refusing to leave his side. “Follow the circle and step around,” she called to Tanisha. “There’s a way through over here. Follow the sound of my voice and don’t press too far forward if you feel static again.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Tanisha whispered, stepping cautiously in a wide arc.

  “How can she see anything?” I hissed.

  Sal’s response was immediate and pointed. “How can you?”

  I turned my face from the question, straining to fit the key through the narrow strip of space between the handcuffs, knots, and Remy’s deathly-cold wrists.

  “That’s what I thought,” Sal mused. Pitching her voice to carry, she began calling orders. “Ava, bring the Denali from the other house, and do it swiftly.” Wherever Ava was—probably still crouched near the power lines—Sal assumed the driver heard and obeyed. She tipped her face toward the wreckage of the window.

  “Javier, I need you down here immediately. You’re donating blood.”

  Without so much as a flicker of a question, the guard rose obediently from his post. Holstering his weapon, he took off at a dead run, moving faster than I would have believed possible for a man of his bulk, even with the benefit of Nephilim blood.

  “Use the upstairs window,” Sal yelled. “The firstfloor wards are still active.”

  Judging from the sounds, he was already halfway to the patio.

  Tanisha made it haltingly through the tear in the circle, dropping next to me in a crouch. She flipped open a wicked tactical blade and wordlessly held it out. Her other hand brushed the shriveled valleys of Remy’s ribs. At the chill of his flesh, she jerked away as if burned.

  “Jesus,” she gasped. “How is he even still alive?”

  Neither of us offered an answer. I got the second cuff unlocked, the metal teeth rasping as I pulled it away from Remy’s shrunken wrist. Taking care not to jostle the wounded vampire more than necessary, I threaded the cuffs from among the nest of ropes and knots, happy that Zuriel hadn’t thought to lash the things into the web of his sadistic cat’s cradle. Saliriel looked up sharply as I rose to my feet.

  “What are you doing with those?” she snapped.

  The lines of sigils glimmered faintly on the metal as I turned toward my wannabe doppelganger. Hungry magic buzzed uncomfortably against my hands, full of devastating potential.

  The battered Anakim sprawled motionless where he had dropped, one arm thrown back, the other trapped awkwardly beneath his torso. Blood oozed sluggishly from his temple, mouth, and nose. He wasn’t dead—the subtle tick of pulse at his throat confirmed that much—but I didn’t expect him to get up and dance a jig any time soon.

  “An eye for an eye,” I said, ignoring the irony as I moved to bind Zuriel’s wrists with the bitter cuffs.

  50

  Zuriel was waiting. I should have guessed it, should at least have stripped him of the jacket. I knew better than anyone how many handy trinkets that leather could hold. But all my focus had been on Remy—saving him, and then trying to mitigate some measure of my brother’s anguish.

  Holding the Thorns of Lugallu open like steely jaws, I bent for Zuriel’s outstretched arm. Maybe he’d foreseen that, and it was why he’d fallen that way. Maybe it was nothing more than a convenient accident. It didn’t matter—as soon as I got close, the little bastard sprang to life, yanking his remaining punch-dagger free from the interior of his jacket.

  Two hands, two daggers. That was how it worked for me, and I should have fucking known better with Zuriel.

  Hissing his Name like a fatal curse, he drove the bright blade toward my heart. With a cry of my own, I moved in time to block with my forearm, driving the deadly blade away. But he pressed bodily forward, using that startled momentum against me. My stance wasn’t stable—I was down in a half-crouch and had been leaning over him just a moment before.

  Twisting his whole body, he kicked out my knee. He didn’t catch the right part of the joint to break it, but my leg still buckled and, as I caught myself, I skidded on the slick coat of blood.

  “Zaquiel!” Sal shouted, but I had neither the breath nor the time to respond. The skid put my back to him, and I fought to blur so I could turn around and meet his blade in time.

  I’d spent all my speed to get to Remy and free him.

  Agony blossomed deep in my chest, almost dropping me to the floor. Zuriel seized the advantage. Snarling, he launched himself at my midsection, striking fast and low in a series of vicious kidney punches—each tipped with four inches of blazing steel.

  It happened so fast.

  The warded leather of my jacket turned the first blow, and the second, each failed strike still bludgeoning with staggering force. But there was only so much the magic could do against Anakim steel. Lines of scribed symbols flared along the cuffs and zipper as the power fizzled, then, in a flash, was spent. Zuriel just kept stabbing, shrieking incoherently. Finally, he pierced the armor, the knuckle-blade sinking at an upward angle deep into my flesh. A hot wash of blood flooded down the small of my back, but the rest of me went cold.

  I’d seen the length of that punch-dagger, and it felt like he’d sunk it to the hilt.

  For a moment, I lost that leg entirely—all feeling and strength just winked out. Pitching forward, I barely managed to catch myself before I landed on my face. I hadn’t even gotten my weapons into play, one fist still clenched around the enchanted handcuffs. As blood pasted my T-shirt to my back and soaked through the waistband of my jeans, I called energy in a breathless rasp, trying to direct some of the power from Club Heaven to staunch the throbbing wound. I had little expectation of success, but I’d healed before with energy stolen with the Eye, so maybe my body would remember how it worked.

  Some feeling returned to that leg, and I could move again. That meant it was working—I hoped. I redoubled my focus, trembling through alternate waves of dizzying heat and bitter cold.

  While I tried my damnedest not to bleed out, Sal bellowed my Name again. The syllables still rang in the cavernous basement, as a blurring force rocketed past me, buffeting me in its slipstream. Sal, blonde ponytail pluming like some Viking’s grisly war trophy, slammed full-force into Zuriel. The other Anakim hit the ground with bone-crunching force. He skidded on his side halfway over the damaged circle, smearing the sigils and further wrecking the sputtering curtain of magic. The whole thing shivered in a cascade of sparks, then collapsed, leaving the basement reeking of ozone over the cloying sweetness of Nephilim blood.

  Heavily, I levered myself up on braced palms, striving to breathe through the molten sensation in my back. Slowly, the pain retreated until it was a distant rumble down a long and echoing hall. I couldn’t tell if that was the energy working or just shock. Waves of hot and cold continued to shiver through me and I didn’t dare reach back to explore the extent of the wound.

  Zuriel struggled to crawl further away but mostly ended up squirming uselessly on his belly, elbows and knees smearing weird shapes in the mess upon the floor. Sal was on top of him in an instant, heaving him to his feet by the front of his jacket. With one hand, she continued lifting until his boots dangled half an inch from anything solid. Weakly, he brandished his remaining dagger, the whole blade dark with my gore. Stuttering wisps of energy curled around his fists and glacial light danced faintly on the steel.

  Uplit by that pale energy, Saliriel looked like a banshee birthed by the nightmare-forge. Her yellow eyes were incandescent, plump lips skinned back to reveal far too many teeth. Too stupid to kn
ow when to quit, Zuriel took a stab at her. With an almost casual motion, her free hand darted forward to intercept the strike. She snapped his blade arm neatly at the wrist.

  Bones cracked like branches toppled in a storm. Zuriel howled and his weapon dropped from useless fingers, clattering to the floor. Sal backhanded him to shut him up, and from the crunch, she might have broken his jaw. He spat blood and flecks of teeth. She didn’t even flinch. With that chilling smile, she leaned close enough to drag her pointed tongue through the smear of blood at the edge of his mouth.

  Zuriel looked ready to puke, but with her other hand on his jacket, he couldn’t pull away.

  “I shall cut strips of your flesh and feed them to you until you choke upon your own insolence,” she promised. “Death with not come swiftly, little Anarch.”

  Their eyes locked. Zuriel started weeping, cradling the broken arm high against his chest so there was no question Sal could see it. Only I caught the slow, creeping motion of his other hand, fingers straining toward something in his pocket.

  All too keenly, I recalled his disappearing act.

  “Relic,” I hissed.

  It was in his hand already, about two inches long, like a foreshortened pen. Without thought or hesitation, I launched myself from where I crouched, scrabbling to tear the item from Zuriel’s clenched fingers. Even the echo of pain grew strangely distant. All my attention narrowed to a single focus—the blasted relic. He wasn’t going to get away again.

  My fingers closed on it, even as Zuriel tapped its power. Smooth and pale and ivory-slick, I recognized it at once as human bone.

  Not just any human. It thrummed with a life cut short.

  Zuriel had carved this from his father.