by J. D. Brown
Sam released the angel and staggered back, cradling his broken arm between the scythe and his right breastplate.
Azrael grabbed the scythe and yanked it from Sam’s chest, tearing through his ribs.
Scorching pain engulfed him. Sam coughed and the simple inertia forced him to his knees. He coughed again and blood splattered the ground. His gaze widened at the pool of molten lava already waiting for him, singeing his knees. When had he bled so much?
He wouldn’t die—the Cherub proved it—but he may have overestimated the amount of abuse he could handle. Exhaustion slowed his movements and the pain of his wounds made his muscles clumsy. He needed time to heal. What would happen if he didn’t?
A swift kick to his spleen knocked Sam face-down. His human façade sizzled as he hit the fiery ground. He wheezed as his breath left him, and he dropped his human skin in favor of his true form. The solid brimstone of his demon body provided a barrier against the Hellfire flowing over him. Choking on blood and dusts, Sam flatted his left hand against the ground, willing himself up, but his muscles refused to co-operate. Battered, and with his will waning, Sam stayed down. He focused on breathing.
In. He inhaled.
Out. He exhaled.
The taste of metal accompanied each breath, and he honestly worried his chest cavity wouldn’t recover. A sudden blunt trauma hit his right shoulder blade. He hadn’t seen it coming, and he cried out in pain as something deep within him cracked. His upper arm went limp.
Azrael delivered a second blow in the same spot, and Sam’s entire body flinched at the crushing pain. Numbness darkened the edges of his gaze, and his surroundings somehow seemed far away; like he was slowly sinking into a void. He became faintly aware of a strange buzzing sensation between his shoulder blades, though he wasn’t sure if it was real or imaginary. Sam glimpsed Azrael’s shadow on the ground beside him and watched the angel raise his weapon …
Sam rolled onto his back moments before Azrael brought the club down again. It hit the ground, shattering the cement to dust. Sam kicked the Reaper’s shin, but all it earned him was a frown from the angel.
“Is that all you got?” Azrael taunted. “I remember when we used to spar for days. Hell has made you weak.”
Sam grunted. I’d like to see you fight a Cherub and live to boast about it.
He glanced around, taking stock of his immediate surroundings, and noticed the scythe less than a foot away. Azrael must’ve discarded it upon seeing the damage to the blade. Sam’s core had warped the metal, but it was still a viable weapon. Using one hand and a mountain of grit, he pushed to his elbow, moving agonizingly slow.
Azrael waited. The jerk was too righteous to take advantage of his weakened state. Too bad the Reaper’s niceties would be his fatal flaw.
From his left elbow, Sam pushed to his knees. His right arm hung limp at his side, broken and—Sam suspected—with a dislocated shoulder. He would have to continue this fight left-handed.
Azrael took a step back and un-furrowed his wings, spreading them wide. His ashen feathers tipped the ground. “I wonder,” he said while admiring his span, “if you can even still fly.” The Reaper beat his wings, kicking up thick clouds of dust as he rose steadily through the air. He hovered ten feet above Sam and then pointed at him with the club. “Are you certain you can’t die? What happens if I crush your spine and sever your head?”
Sam growled. He had enough.
The fire within him swelled, burning hotter as he stood. He drew a deep fulfilling breath, pushing through the pain, and his lungs expanded wider than they had in years. The backs of his ribs cracked through the stone exterior of his celestial flesh. The buzzing beneath his shoulder blades intensified and Sam rolled his arms, working out the kinks as the inferno in his core reached a crescendo. Sam’s wings burst through his shell and unfurled.
“Look at that,” said Azrael. “Not quite a demon after all.”
“You’re right.” Sam met the angel’s gaze and smirked. “They say I’m something much worse.” He lifted his wings high and then ran for the scythe. Grabbing the snath in one hand, Sam beat his wings and rose through the air in a graceful arch. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d flown, but the mechanics came back to him like a second nature, as natural as walking or using a portal, only this was so much more exhilarating. He felt freer. Stronger.
He hovered in the air, facing the angel.
Azrael lifted his club. Sam raised the scythe in defense. He expected his successor to attack, but the angel merely pointed the club to the heavens and uttered a single word.
“Lacero.”
Sam wrinkled his nose. No, that makes no sense. Lacero is only evoked when …
The space inside the factory darkened as a storm cloud gathered over the broken roof. Thunder rumbled in the distance and the winds whispered of a cool rain. The fine hairs on the back of Sam’s neck stood and his gaze widened.
No! This can’t be.
In a moment of panic, Sam charged. He lifted the scythe over his head and then brought it down in a swift and powerful arch aimed at the angel’s skull—
A lightning bolt reached through the roof like the white-hot claws of a giant skeleton. It struck the blade of the scythe first, then ricocheted off the metal and hit Sam’s sternum. His entire body stiffened with the shock of a thousand bolts of electricity coursing through his system.
Sam opened his eyes and then blinked in slow confusion. He didn’t remember falling, but the ground was solid beneath his back, damp and cold.
Thousands of feathers drifted all around him, floating aimlessly, landing gently. Like a blanket of powdered snow, the delicate plumes settled softly over him … over everything.
Tears rolled down his temples. He hurt all over, the pain so intense it wasn’t pain at all, but an overwhelming sense of utter dread; the kind one felt deep within their soul when their mind couldn’t make sense of things. He shivered. He was so cold, he pulled his knees to his chest and hugged himself tight, but it wasn’t enough. His teeth chattered.
His core ... His core was cold.
The storm cloud passed and sunlight bathed him in a sheet of golden warmth. He appreciated the small comfort as his muscles relaxed and his breath evened out. Exhaustion weighed at him, his eyelids heavy. He closed them as a shadow draped over him, stealing what little warmth he could get from the sun. Sam squinted upwards.
Azrael loomed over him, his gaze grave.
Sam looked away as a fury unraveled within. He knew what had happened. He knew what the dull ache in his shoulders and the utterly broken feeling in his soul meant.
‘Lacero’ was Latin for ‘cut off.’
Cut off from Heaven. Cut off from friends. Cut off from everything that mattered. Lacero was exile. Lacero made an angel into a Fallen.
Sam clenched his jaw, waiting for the Reaper to finish him, but the angel did nothing. Azrael merely turned away and left.
Sam closed his eyes to the lonely sunlight and absorbed its warmth. I failed, he realized sadly. Again.
Without his wings, he couldn’t pass through the Gate. He couldn’t go home. Even though he had never planned on going back—except to wreak havoc on the Commander’s behalf—the option had always been there, in his back pocket; a reassurance in case he ever changed his mind. Leaving Heaven had been his choice. Now the choice was taken from him. His wings were taken from him. Lyn was taken from him. How had he messed up so badly?
“We don’t need to kill you,” Azrael had said. Indeed, he hadn’t. Being Fallen was enough.
Why didn’t I foresee it? Sam knew of the deceit in his pupil’s heart, but he never imagined Azrael had it in him to extract such brutality.
His instincts stirred and he opened his eyes at the realization that he was not alone. Dark shapes scuttled in and out of his periphery as though too nervous and unsure of the Fallen’s proximity. One creature bravely stood over him and tilted his head in curiosity. It bore horns and resembled a small goat with a fishtail; a Kimar
is demon.
“Go on,” said Sam. “Fetch the Commander. Tell him what has transpired here.”
The demon darted away, slipping into the shadows.
Sam’s chest rose and fell several times before he found the strength to sit upright. What now? Wait for Lucifer to pounce on him in a blind rage? It was smarter than trying to run away again. But what of Lyn? Sam’s job was to open the barrier, but without his wings, he was locked out with the rest of the Fallen.
I can still open portals in this realm, though, right? Fallen, demon, or other, he was still exempt from the limitations of mortals. That had to be enough. Besides, when was the last time a Fallen had tried? The Cherub had been guarding the Gate ever since Eve made that dumb door. But why would an impenetrable door need a guard?
Sam stood. His stomach clenched with nausea, but he pushed through it. He crossed the meadow, went to the mystical blue door that was never supposed to open, flattened his left hand against the glass wood, and called upon the veil.
It came.
Sam sighed in relief and then drew the sigil, the lines squiggly and uneven. He pressed his call into the ether. Open.
He waited.
When nothing happened, he grabbed his right hand in his left and re-drew the sigil. Sam grimaced at the dull ache throbbing through him, but the lines were straighter. Stronger. He closed his eyes and prayed.
Open. For her.
The air hissed and Sam opened his eyes. He took a step back as metallic light glowed softly from within, illuminating the outer edges of the frame, and the door popped open.
Sam’s breath puffed in disbelief. It worked?
Carefully, he wedged his fingertips between the wooden door jab and the stone wall and then pulled the barrier aside. A portal—the mother of all portals—the Gate—shone brightly on the other side. It worked! I unlocked the Gate!
A glimmering vortex of blue, lilac, and silver light beckoned to him, calling his soul home. Sam’s gaze widened and he swallowed hard, enraptured. The swirling, spinning lights beckoned. He reached toward it but hesitated. What was the worst that could happen? The barrier was already open. If he couldn’t pass, then he couldn’t pass—but he had to try.
Sam extended his arm past the threshold. His fingertips dipped into the spinning lights. It didn’t feel like anything, except warm, like sunlight. Excitement fluttered in his chest. Not only had he opened the Gate, but he could go through it! Sam stepped into the portal.
White light surrounded him and his ears popped. Squinting, Sam lifted his arm over his eyes. For a brief moment, he was vaguely aware of a horrific yet faint shrieking sound. His blood drained as he realized the source. The Lesser demons in the factory.
He turned to face them. The white light had spilled into the room, filling everything; every crevasse, every shadow; so bright, the details blurred into oblivion. He could hardly make out the edges of the meadow and some of the bigger demons. They were writhing, convulsing, dying …
His breath hitched. He had to help them. He had to close the portal.
Sam took half a step, then everything went black.
21
Goat-Sized Cockroaches
Three Weeks Later …
L yn plunked the social sciences textbook on her dining room table and groaned into her hands. “I’ve read this paragraph three times. It’s hopeless.”
“Study,” said Angie.
Lyn looked across the table at her BFF. A myriad of study guides, notebook paper, and number two pencils sprawled between them. Angie ran a pink highlighter over a line of text in one of her accounting books, then highlighted a line of neat writing in her notes. Her bestie’s perfect study habits made Lyn want to run face-first into a brick wall.
She lowered her gaze and ran her hand along the edge of the small circular dining table, feeling the dings in the wood. She had noticed it when they went to the storage unit to organize some of Gran’s stuff. It had a few dents and scratches, but it was the perfect size for her apartment now that she no longer lived with a roommate that stored his tighty-whities adjacent to the kitchen.
Lyn wouldn’t admit it out loud, mostly because Sam was a topic they still did not discuss out loud, but his absence was weird. She kept expecting him to appear around every corner with a bushel of kale in one hand. And her couch? It was so big and awkward in her tiny living room. When she sat on it, she felt as though the cushions were swallowing her. She tried to sell it, but even the hoarders on Craigslist wouldn’t bite. The damn thing was cursed.
“Seriously,” Lyn whined. “Why did I let you talk me into this? Between Gran’s grimoires and the weekly pop quizzes in algebra, I can literally feel my brain oozing out of my ears. It’s like my head is so full of information, it has to purge the things I’ve already learned in order to make room for …” Lyn scanned the aforementioned paragraph, “… the judicial branch? I’ve been reading about the judicial branch? It’s been forty-five minutes and not once in all that time did I realize I was reading about the judicial branch!”
“Don’t sign up for the B.A.R. exam,” said Angie.
“Dude, that’s like the only exam I have a shot of passing. I can make three different cosmopolitans.”
“Not the bar exam. The B.A.R. exam. B-A-R. It stands for—”
“Whoa, missy, I don’t have the bandwidth to learn your fancy accounting lingo. I might forget the entire English language.”
Angie rolled her eyes.
“Hey, this is a serious problem. My reading comprehension skills and short-term memory have gone completely out the window since I started this course. What if I forget my social security number next? Or, like, how to put on pants and tie my shoes?”
“Study,” said Angie.
Lyn reached across the table and grabbed her friend’s shoulder. “Excuse me, miss, can you tell me who I am?”
“Fine, we’ll take a five-minute break.” Angie put her highlighter down. Lyn swore it whispered thank you. “But no television.”
Lyn scrunched her nose and pouted. “Boo.”
“I mean it. You need that G.E.D. to enroll in college.”
“About that …”
“Oh no, there’s no getting out of it. It’s happening whether you like it or not.”
“Unless I fail the G.E.D. test.” Lyn grinned.
“You won’t fail if you study.”
“Did someone say something about a five-minute break?”
“This is a break. We’re talking and not studying. That’s a break.”
“Oh honey, the break doesn’t start until I leave the table.”
Angie sighed. “Then go get another slice of pizza.”
“Good idea. But for the record, I still don’t see how being a private investigator is going to help me hunt demons.”
Angie glanced up from her notes and arched her brow. “Really? You don’t see how having access to criminal records, classified data, and the ability to read forensics might help you out a little?”
“Nope.”
“Well, maybe it’ll help you get a date with Jackson.”
“Hmm. Seems like a lot of trouble for a man who already drops by every few days.”
“How’s the investigation going anyway?”
“Eh, the guy’s totally clueless. The case will go cold eventually.”
Gran’s death had been ruled a murder, but like the suicides, this case was unsolvable to the naked mortal eye. Poor Jackson. He was going to lose his badge at this rate.
“See that?” said Angie with an enthusiastic smile. “You’re already using the jargon.”
“What, you mean going cold? I got that from an episode of Law & Order: SVU. Hey, do you think maybe if I binge watch enough SVU I could just B.S. my way through the P.I. classes?”
“Sure, why not.” Angie shrugged.
“Speaking of cold, I’m getting that pizza now.”
“Bring me a slice.”
Lyn went to the kitchen. She grabbed a few slices of Hawaiian pizza—their f
avorite—and arranged them on a paper plate. Her copy of The Enochian Dictionary rested on top of the microwave where she had set it down when Angie arrived. She had found it under the couch weeks ago, lodged behind Channing. Lyn had no idea how the sword got there. She considered tossing Channing in the dumpster so he could visit Johnny, but she didn’t have the heart to throw it out. It wasn’t Channing’s fault he reminded her of Sam.
She popped the pizza in the microwave and set the timer, then picked up the dictionary and thumbed through a few pages. The angelic language was a bit over her head, but just holding it made her feel closer to Gran. Like they were still connected somehow. It gave her comfort at night when she woke in a cold sweat—which had been happening a lot lately. She still hadn’t told anyone what happened the night of her birthday—where the Duke had taken her or what he made her do to herself—not even Angie. It was too unreal.
Tell that to the scar on my arm.
The microwave beeped and Lyn sat the dictionary on the counter. She was about to remove the pizza when a loud thump followed immediately by the crack of glass came from the living room. She ran into the room, thinking Angie had finally snapped under the academic pressure and smashed her T.V. screen.
“You owe me a new television, Garcia!” Lyn paused near the couch as she found Angie by the window, peering outside.
Her BFF looked over her shoulder and frowned. “I owe you a what?”
“Never mind. What was that loud bang?”
“I think a bird crashed into your window.” Angie pointed to a super long hairline fracture in the glass.
Oh perfect. Diego would add that to next month’s rent, along with the broken lock on her door, and she still hadn’t gotten Norte Dame’s back window repaired yet.
Lyn went to the glass pane, traced the crack with her finger, and then looked at the ground. A blackish animal with hooved limbs and a fish tail lay haphazard on the sidewalk six stories below them. It resembled a small goat—only goats didn’t have fish tails—and she had no idea how it managed to jump high enough to hit her window on the sixth floor. “You’re not going to believe this. It’s another Kimaris demon.”
