by D. J. Butler
“What do you mean,” Mike asked uneasily, looking from Eddie to Jim and back, “when you say that Jim used to be in Hell’s good graces?”
Eddie turned to look at Jim; Jim nodded.
“It all has to do with the reason that the rebel angels fell,” Eddie explained slowly. He started reciting again: “They took wives unto themselves, and everyone chose one woman for himself, and they began to go unto them. And they taught them magical medicine, incantations, the cutting of roots, and taught them plants. And the women became pregnant and gave birth to great giants.”
The stone overhang felt very close, and loomed over Mike’s head like it wanted to crush him; the ground below felt very far away, and seemed to be spinning. “The angels had children.” He took a deep breath. “With human women.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Jim’s not a giant.” Mike gulped, and then glanced quickly at the big Viking-looking singer who loomed over him. “Well, sort of, he is.”
“Sort of, he is,” Eddie agreed. “And sort of, so is Twitch.”
“Twitch?”
Something silver flashed in the corner of Mike’s vision. Mike only saw it for a split second, but if pressed, he would have sworn he’d seen a big silver bird, like a hawk or an eagle, swooping to alight on top of the pyramid. Only the eagle, he would have sworn, had a long tassel flying in the wind behind it, like the tail of a horse.
He turned, and Twitch was standing there.
“Yes, Mikey?” she said.
“What are you?” he asked. He was so thrown off by the entire conversation, he barely noticed her calling him ‘Mikey.’ Rafi grabbed his hand and squeezed it.
“Haven’t you figured it out yet?” she chuckled, her white tail swishing merrily back and forth. “Some would say I’m one of the fair folk.”
“Descended from rebel angels?”
Twitch snorted. “Oh, that’s what some of the Fallen say, but they say that about practically everyone. Everyone who’s anyone, at least. Who knows, really? Semyaz goes around tooting his horn that he’s Osiris’s father, but you don’t see Osiris sending the crusty old bastard Father’s Day cards, do you?”
“I don’t,” Mike admitted. “But I’m new to all this.”
“Trust me,” Twitch elbowed Mike confidentially in the ribs, “he doesn’t.”
“But what do you say?”
“I’m Mab’s child,” Twitch said lightly. “By Oberon. Whose children they might be, they’ve never told me and I don’t care.”
“Well how else do you explain it?” Mike asked.
“Explain what?”
“Uh … explain fairies? That’s what we’re talking about, right?” Mike’s head was spinning, and he tried to clutch tight to the thread of the conversation. “You’re a fairy, aren’t you? How do you explain that?”
Twitch snorted. “Explain that I exist? How do you explain that you exist? Do you have an explanation, or just a bunch of guesses? And since when did everything have to be explained, anyway? I swear, the Enlightenment ruined you humans forever.”
“I don’t know.” Mike felt defensive. He wasn’t sure what enlightenment even had to do with anything; didn’t that mean people in California sitting in the Lotus position and burning incense? “Stuff should make sense, I guess.”
“For that matter, how does Eddie here explain that Jim and I are so different, if we’re supposed to be cousins?”
“Different?”
“Do you see Jim changing shape? Do you see him burning at the touch of iron? Or do you see me commanding the legionaries of Hell and biting my tongue all the time for fear my dad will hear me?”
“You’re both immortal,” Eddie pointed out.
“And you and the chimpanzees both have opposable thumbs!” Twitch snapped. “Do I go about telling everyone you’re related?”
“I might be related to chimpanzees,” Eddie said, “for pretty much exactly that reason.”
“Jim’s immortal?” Mike asked.
“Well, he doesn’t get old, anyway,” Eddie modified his words. “We think he can probably be killed.”
“Probably?”
“Well, you never really know until you try, do you?” Twitch pointed out. “And if it was you, would you want to experiment?”
“How old is he?” Mike looked at Jim.
“I’ve been hearing about him for a good long time,” Twitch said.
“He once told me he learned to fence from Cyrano de Bergerac. So what is that, at least four hundred years?” Eddie shrugged. “He might have been pulling my leg.”
Mike wasn’t sure, but he thought Cyrano de Bergerac might be one of the Three Musketeers. Or the fourth musketeer, maybe, the new guy that got into all the fights. He felt disoriented and afraid, and then Jim put a hand on his shoulder.
The hand calmed him somehow. And in the shadow, poorly lit by reflected light from the stars above the canyon and from the two flashlights, Mike thought he saw Jim smile. It was enough.
He took a deep breath. “Okay. What now?”
Puffing, Adrian reached the top of the pyramid. The space they all occupied was a flat platform, roughly ten feet to a side. “There’s a way in,” Adrian huffed. “I can’t see it from the ground, but it’s up here.”
“Everybody step back,” Eddie said. “Without, you know, falling off. Look for something that will get us inside.”
“It won’t be a doorbell!” Adrian snapped. “There are wards.”
Mike shuffled back to the edge of the pyramid. From the top, it reminded him not of Egyptian pyramids nor of Anasazi kivas, but of old Maya ruins he’d seen on TV documentaries, late at night and drunk. The connection didn’t put his mind at ease at all—he had a dim memory that, according to those same documentaries, the Maya had sacrificed humans on top of their pyramids. Tied them into balls and rolled them down the sides or something. He looked down the slopes of the pyramid into darkness, sweating and nervous.
Rafi took his free hand.
“Thanks, kid,” he said.
“What do you see?” Eddie asked.
Adrian stood at the other end of the square platform, his lens held up to his eye. He swept his head back and forth, examining the pyramid. “This thing is warded to high Heaven,” he said. “Forgive the pun.”
“What kind of wards?” Eddie asked.
“Sealing, for one, and strengthening.” Adrian blinked through his lens. “I think the top of the pyramid itself is the door,” he said slowly, “only those wards will have to be undone. And that’s complicated by a gnarly-looking ward of entrapment.”
“Should I go back to the van and get your jammies?” Eddie mocked him.
“Making fun of me doesn’t lift the curse,” Adrian growled. He was still looking through the lens. “And under all that there are serious wards of obfuscation and silence.” He looked up at Jim. “Serious wards. Someone wants something inside this kiva to stay hidden, and I’d guess anything inside is undetectable … to anyone.”
“This might be it,” Twitch suggested. “About time.”
Jim nodded.
“Better get going,” Eddie pushed the spellcaster along. “You have everything you need?”
Adrian tucked his lens away and grinned. “Of course. I live by the Boy Scout slogan: be prepared.”
“That’s the motto,” Eddie rumbled. “Get on it, then.”
Adrian took two pieces of colored chalk from inside his jacket and stepped out onto the platform. He knelt, to begin to draw—
and Rafi suddenly yanked on Mike’s arm, hauling him sideways and off balance—
the kid grabbed Mike’s gun as they crossed paths in mid-air—
Bang! bang! Adrian tumbled back—
and Mike hit the brick hard, bouncing and tumbling down the side of the pyramid. He threw his arms and legs out, slapping at the brick as the world spun about him and catching himself halfway down, his shoulder jammed up against the top of the super-kiva’s pole-ladder. When he stared up again past his own t
oes and toward the top of the pyramid, he saw Rafi, pointing Mike’s pistol at Jim.
“The Hound and the Baal are minor servants of Hell,” Rafi said, “and nearly mindless.” His voice boomed and echoed, like Jim’s had when singing in the bar. He didn’t sound like a little kid anymore, not at all, and the giant voice was all wrong, coming out of a kid in baggy jeans and high tops. “They don’t know about the hoof, and I won’t let them learn. All they want is you … Jim, if that’s what you want to call yourself … and as far as I’m concerned, they can have you.”
At that moment, Mike heard the squealing bellow and a thunder-like roar.
He craned his head around and saw the Hellhound finally burst from the mouth of the labyrinth, the flames of its body lighting the swarming cloud of flies and the Baal Zavuv that followed closely on its tail.
***
Chapter Eight
“How did I not see you?” Eddie demanded, staring at the little kid.
“He’s not an Infernal is how,” Twitch guessed. “He’s something else.”
Mike heard the words, but it took a moment for them to sink in. He couldn’t turn, and he couldn’t stand, so he was letting his body do a slow half-somersault over his own shoulder, grunting and straining in discomfort, to try to get upright. The ladder helped—he gripped it with both hands and hoped it wouldn’t shatter. He wondered how sturdy six-thousand-year-old wood could possibly be, and as he asked himself the question, the grasses holding the top rung in place snapped. His somersault rolled downward and forward faster than he meant it, a piece of wood came off in his hands, and he scrambled with fingers and toes to keep his grip.
“I’m not an Infernal,” Rafi agreed. The little kid’s voice boomed against the overhang and echoed loud in Mike’s ears. It seemed deeper now.
“Rabbi Feldman?” Eddie ventured.
Mike got himself upright and looked around. He found himself standing high on the side of the super-kiva, the balls of his feet and his toes wedged onto a shelf barely big enough to hold them. Rafi had his pistol, which left Mike a spare clip, a pocketful of shells, and Eddie’s pocketknife. And a chunk of wood the size of a fireplace log.
The Baal Zavuv squealed. Mike could hear the buzzing of the cloud of giant flies.
“Getting warmer.”
“You’re Raphael,” Twitch said. “The angel himself. There’s no line of Hebrew priests in Dudael, there never was. Just you, like the book says, keeping vigil here by yourself for thousands of years.”
“Very good.” The voice was way too big for the little kid, and sort of creepy coming out of his mouth. The gun was too big for him too, and as he waved it at Eddie it looked like a cannon in his hands. “Drop your gun,” he ordered the guitar player. “Unless you want to go to Hell right now.”
Eddie dropped the shotgun to the top of the kiva, a sour expression on his face.
Jim strained forward at the shoulders, like he wanted to go all Hulk on the guy, shred his shirt and then rip the kid to pieces, but he didn’t. He just stood in place and left his sword where it was, hanging on his belt.
Mike was painfully aware of the Hellhound and the Baal Zavuv, racing across the sand toward them all. He didn’t know how long they had, but it wasn’t minutes—it was seconds at best. He forced himself to keep his back turned to the approaching demons and to keep dragging himself up the side of the kiva, one brick at a time.
Maybe, he thought, I should have shot myself after all.
“I guess you’ve been switching bodies over the years,” Eddie grumped. “Makes sense. Couldn’t have people seeing too many full-on fire-of-Heaven manifestations, even out here in the ass end of New Mexico.”
“When the Baal spiked you, you already had a new host body, and you just made the jump.” Twitch laughed. “I guess it’s better to be a little kid than to be an old man full of hatching fly eggs.”
The Hound roared.
“It seemed like a random event,” Rafael nodded, “and it was. They didn’t recognize me and they weren’t after my charge. They were hunting you. At first I thought I’d just have to wait out the flies, but then you showed up. Now I’ll give you to the Hound and the Baal, and they’ll be on their way.”
“Or Jim could say boo,” Eddie countered, “and this little tussle would suddenly have the attention of half the Infernal Council.”
“Jim goes back to Hell either way,” the little boy said. The light from Eddie’s dropped shotgun shone up off the floor into his face, making his grin look demonic. Mike inched a few more bricks up the side of the super-kiva, sweat freezing him. “I’m betting hope will keep his mouth shut.”
“Heaven’s secret weapon,” Twitch said grimly. “Pandora’s curse.”
Mike hefted the wood in his hand, wondering how close he’d have to get before he could club Rafi with it. The thought made him hesitate—Rafi looked a little too much like Chuy for Mike’s comfort. Plus, he was just a kid … or he looked like a kid, anyway. What kind of man hit kids?
Mike felt a wave of guilt and shame.
“Don’t you think Heaven would be interested in getting its hands on Jim?” Eddie suggested. The Hound and the Baal were close enough that Mike could hear the buzzing of flies and the whumph-whumph-whumph of big demon claws in the sand even over the hammering of his own out-of-control heart. “He’d be one hell of a bargaining chip, forgive the pun.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Rafi laughed. “Heaven doesn’t want Jim. Heaven doesn’t want any of you.”
ROAR! Graaaaraaagh!
Jim opened his mouth like he was about to speak—
“Unless—” Rafi said. He looked sly and devious.
No more time. Mike took aim at the kid’s chest and threw the wood at him.
Rafi took one slight step forward and the throw missed—
Rafi turned and grinned at Mike, and Mike’s heart sank—
Plunk!
Adrian rolled over onto his back, both hands out in front of him, and Mike heard a high-pitched chatta-chatta-chatta sound. Rafi’s arms and legs danced spastically, he dropped the gun and fell to the platform.
“Taser, bitch!” Adrian shouted.
“Eddie!” Twitch yelled. The fairy moved like a blur, her batons appearing in her hands (Mike wondered where she kept them—they seemed to be in her hands when she wanted them, and then they vanished when she didn’t), and as Mike lumbered up to the top of the platform, she met him, shoving his pistol into his hands and then passing him, headed down.
“Watch the kid!” Eddie shouted, then shook his head. “I mean, the archangel!” Then the guitarist slid down the edge of the kiva on Jim’s heels, shotgun blasting at the cloud of incoming Zvuvim.
Adrian handed the taser to Mike and brushed himself off. Adrian held the second flashlight, and in its beam Mike saw that filaments ran from the little gray rubberized box in his hand to darts in Rafi’s chest. The boy was sitting up, slowly, as if his muscles were cramped.
“Don’t talk, you slimy bastard!” Adrian barked at the little kid. “You talk, Mike here zaps you!”
“Yeah.” Mike tried to sound tough. He tried to remember that the little kid was really an immortal archangel, and had just thrown him off the top of the kiva like Mike was an unwanted kitten.
“Also,” Adrian told Mike matter-of-factly, “zap him if you need to keep him under control so you can get off a shot at the bugs coming in. For that matter, you ought to zap him every once in a while for fun.” Adrian grabbed the taser in Mike’s hands and pressed down on the button with his thumb.
Chatta-chatta-chatta.
Rafi thumped back onto the platform, heels kicking and head bouncing around.
Boom! Boom! Jim kept the Hellhound at bay, stabbing down from the side of the super-kiva as the beast lunged at him with its forepaws. Eddie rained shotgun blasts at the Zvuvim swarming around his friend. Mike couldn’t see the Baal Zavuv, or Twitch, and that made him nervous.
“And don’t forget,” Adrian said, “he’s an archan
gel. Don’t trust him for a second, those guys are in on it.”
“In on what?”
“It.” Adrian waved his hand around vaguely at the world. “Everything. Believe me, Mike, the joke’s on us.”
Mike looked down at the taser. “How many zaps does this thing’s battery hold?” he asked.
Adrian shrugged, holding his lens up to his eye again. “I’ve juiced it up a little,” he said, “tinkerer that I am. In theory, that should mean bigger shocks and more of them. In practice, well, don’t count your chickens, et cetera.”
“You saying the taser might fall asleep when I try to use it?” Mike grinned.
“Hey!” Adrian barked. “Don’t you start!” He swept the top of the platform with the flashlight beam, then started to chuckle. “Everybody thinks he’s a comedian. Even the monkey on the bass.”
Rafael opened his mouth to say something. Remembering Adrian’s warning, Mike thumbed the shock button on the taser and sent the kid into another round of spasms. “I kinda feel weird,” he said. “I mean, I’m standing here tasering an angel. At least I think I am.”
Adrian chalked a straight line along one edge of the super-kiva platform, jogging it into a lightning bolt every couple of feet. “Don’t feel weird. Feel proud. Get some good licks in for the whole species.”
“On angels? I mean, joy to the world?”
“Yeah, joy to the world, exactly.” Adrian squinted through his lens and switched to a different color of chalk. “Joy to the world, whether you want it or not. Can’t leave the poor shepherds well enough alone. Can’t let Balaam just ride his donkey in peace. Can’t just let people live decent lives and be happy, can they? Nope, Heaven meddles. Heaven is a bunch of busybodies. Heaven wants to make everybody better.”
Mike shook his head, confused. “But what I really mean is that I can’t believe it works on him. I mean, he’s an angel.”
“Yeah, well,” Adrian exhaled slowly as he drew a long arc with his chalk. “He’s in a body now, isn’t he? Anything with a body, you can taser it. Remember Legion and the pigs at Capernaum?”
