by Lucy Blue
Outside they found a tiny village, a dozen or so shabby houses and half that many shops hunkered in the waist-deep snow around an open square. People, mostly women, were gathered in small, tense groups around the perimeter, many screaming or crying, all held back from the center by other groups of blank-faced men armed with automatic rifles.
A long flatbed truck was parked at the center of the square. A cross had been erected on the flatbed and set aflame. Beside the cross was a long, low cage designed for small livestock, and more thugs with guns were driving, tossing, and shoving children inside.
“Drug dealers,” Anthony explained as he fell into step beside Caleb. “They’ve used this village as a trafficking hub for years. Most of the men who still live here are part of the organization.”
Two thugs were dragging a third man up onto the back of the truck—a priest in his cassock and bare feet with no hat or coat against the bitter cold. He was shouting the Our Father in Latin in a clear, powerful voice, defiant and unafraid. Another man was sitting on top of the cab of the truck to survey the scene, his feet dangling toward the bed. At the sound of the priest’s prayer, he suddenly hopped down as if the drop were nothing. He walked up to the priest and punched him three times in the face.
“That’s the one we want,” Rachel said.
“He took over this branch of the heroin trade six months ago,” Anthony said. “No human has any record of him before that. His father was a demon.”
Caleb watched as the last child was bundled into the cage, and the door was chained shut. He felt desperate, helpless, completely enraged. But he would put it right.
“Tell me, Father,” the half-demon shouted, his voice bringing silence from the crowd. “Who has brought angels to torment me?” He took up a wooden torch and lit it from the flaming cross. “Whose prayers are so pure heaven sends Its soldiers to respond?” He picked up a gas can with his free hand. “Is it you?” He poured gasoline over the priest to hoots from his soldiers and wails of horror from the villagers. “Where are your angels now?”
Rachel started forward, but both Anthony and Caleb caught her and stopped her. “He’s in human form,” Caleb said. “If you destroy him on this plane in this form, his mortal soul will pass on and be damned. And you will be, too.”
“I don’t care,” Rachel said. “I can’t just stand here.”
“What do you think happened to Malachi?” Anthony cut her off. “He couldn’t just stand here, either, but he couldn’t kill him.” His face was pale with fury. “He let the creature hack his heart out before he abandoned his post, but he couldn’t strike him down.”
“What does it want?” Rachel said.
“Will none of you come forward?” the half-demon shouted. “Have the seraphim no valor?”
“What every demon wants,” Caleb said. “To prove the weakness of the Light.”
“This one also wants to be free,” Anthony said. “He believes that if his human body is destroyed by holy power and his human soul damned, the rest of him will be become a full demon, immortal.”
“So what are we supposed to do?” Rachel demanded. “Watch him murder these people? Stand by looking sad and wringing our little white hands?”
“If we could push him into the space between worlds, his demon self would emerge as the more powerful form,” Caleb said. “Then we could kill the demon and leave the human half alive with its soul still intact.”
“Say good-bye, old man,” the creature said, brandishing the flaming torch. “Give my regards to your God.”
“He can’t be forced between worlds,” Anthony said.
“Wait!” one of the children screamed from the cage. “It was me! Leave him alone! It was my prayer! I did it!”
The half-demon stopped. He held the torch high, grinning triumphantly as one of his thugs opened the cage just enough for a girl to crawl out. “Oh no,” Rachel moaned.
The child climbed to her feet directly in front of the creature. “I prayed to God to send His angels to make you go away,” she said. She looked to be ten or eleven with a pale, sharp little face and long, black braids. “If you think you can win by burning someone, burn me.”
The creature touched her face. “So this is what a real saint looks like,” he said, his voice rough silk as he caressed her. “Much too pretty to burn.”
“Oh no,” Rachel repeated, struggling to get away from Caleb and Anthony. “Forget this shit. I’m going.”
“You will fall,” Caleb said, tightening his grip. “Let me.”
He let her go and drew his sword of flame. He stepped out of the crowd into the square, a seraph in full glory, visible to all. “Leave that child in peace, creature of filth!” he called out. “I am Hesperus, the Evening Star, and I am calling you out!”
A hopeful whisper rippled through the crowd, and several women fell to their knees to pray. But the creature on the truck was laughing. “The Evening Star,” he repeated. “Come to me, uncle, and welcome.”
Rachel and Anthony had transformed as well and were standing at his back. “We’ll get the other children,” Rachel said. “Save the girl.”
“You called upon the seraphim,” Caleb said, moving closer. “What is it you seek?” The child saint was facing him now, and though her back was straight, she was trembling all over. Had she seen what had happened to Malachi? Was her faith in the Light still strong?
“Nothing,” the creature said. Unlike a true demon, he looked like any other man, smooth-skinned, even handsome. “Everything.” He took a step toward Caleb, away from the child. His arms were outstretched as if in surrender, but he held a long knife still stained with Malachi’s blood. “Take your magic sword and strike me dead, uncle,” he said. “Or I will kill them all.”
Caleb raised his sword. For a moment, he thought of what Serena had said. If he used his power to strike down the child, she would pass straight into the Light. He would be releasing her from torment. He was empowered by his office to make such a decision; he would not fall. Many seraphim had made such choices since humans had come into the world. He didn’t doubt that Malachi had hoped he would take on this task when he sent him here.
Then he looked into her eyes. She was so young, so full of promise. She deserved to live, to grow up, to fall in love, to be a mother, to pass her faith on to others who would learn from the example of her life, not the tragedy of her martyrdom. In a flash, he knew exactly what to do.
In a single, fluid motion he sheathed his sword and took flight. He snatched the creature up by the lapels of his leather coat and carried him into the sky.
“Will you fly with me to heaven?” the creature said, laughing, shouting over the rush of the wind. Caleb ignored him, flying higher. Soon the air was too thin for human lungs and too cold for human bearing. The creature gasped in Caleb’s grasp, ice forming over them both, his human skin turning blue, but he didn’t struggle. “It won’t work, angel,” he rasped, a flicker of fire showing in his eyes. “I’ll die of cold before I transform.”
Caleb hovered, still holding him by his coat. The lights of the village had disappeared among the clouds A fall from this height would take several agonizing minutes, plenty of time to imagine the moment of impact. “No,” he said, letting the creature go. “You won’t.”
The half-demon screamed as he plummeted toward the earth. Caleb followed, drawing his sword. If the creature let himself die, they would both be damned. But he trusted his long, bitter experience. No demon was that brave.
Less than half a mile from the ground, his human skin flayed bloody from the wind, the creature roared and transformed. Great black wings rushed out, stopping his fall, and Caleb struck, driving the sword of flame through the demon’s breast. The crowd below them screamed as they fell together, gold wings tangling with black. The demon twisted, clinging to the angel like a drowning man grasping at reeds, and with a force of will, Caleb passed over to the space between worlds, carrying the demon with him.
The demon realized his mistake at once and
screamed, but it was too late. Breaking the demon’s grip, Caleb tore the sword upward, splitting the creature in two, ripping his heart apart. Then he caught the dying creature as it fell and held him close, willing life back into his mortal body, using all his healing gifts. He passed back into the mortal plane with a broken but breathing mortal in his arms.
He dropped him on the flatbed in front of the burning cross. “He lives,” he shouted to the crowd in Russian. “He is just like one of you.”
The villagers rushed forward, overpowering the thugs, wrenching their weapons away. Rachel and Anthony broke open the cage and set the children free, then moved through the mob, calming them, using their powers to convince them to bring their oppressors to the law instead of tearing them apart, even the creature himself. Two old men came forward and picked him up, nodding to Caleb before they carried him away.
The saint child was standing before him, smiling. Two more men went to help the fallen priest, and three women came out of the crowd and fell to their knees in front of Caleb. “No!” he and the child cried out at the same time.
“Get up,” Caleb ordered. “See to your children.”
The women moved away, looking back over their shoulders. “You are not my Lord,” the child said, looking up at him. “You are His soldier.”
“Yes.” He knelt before her, putting his eyes level with hers. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” When she smiled, her severe little face was beautiful. “I knew you would come.” She pulled a necklace free of her collar, a tiny gold cross. “I knew He would send you to us.” She held the cross out to him, the chain still looped around her neck. He could see Rachel behind her, watching.
He bent his head and kissed the cross. “The Light saved you, little one, and your faith.” He kissed her gloved hand, too.
He stood up as the old woman from the first house came running across the square like a woman half her age. “Elena!” She pushed past Caleb to hug the girl tight. “Thank God,” she repeated over and over. “Praise be to God you are safe.”
Caleb put a hand on Caleb’s shoulder. “Come, brother.” His smile was as joyful as the girl’s. “Let’s go home.”
Caleb stepped out of the space between worlds back into Laura’s city. His senses were assaulted by the vital horror of humanity around him, the stench of motor fumes, the sharp, bitter cold of the wind. But there was beauty, too, he realized, seeing it all as if for the first time. The light of the streetlamps glimmered on the icy pavement, and down the block a late night club was pouring the music of a saxophone out into the night, seductive as a woman’s soft kiss in the dark. He felt reborn. He had passed the test. He had walked to the edge of the abyss and not fallen. He had felt too much, but he had served the Light.
Chapter Thirteen—The Imps on the Street
Laura walked back from the cemetery down the frozen sidewalk. She was later than usual; it was almost midnight. But she had been so scared for so long, she barely thought about it any more. So she didn’t see the three figures lurking in the shadows of a stoop as she passed or notice when they fell into step behind her. She didn’t notice a thing until the first one grabbed her.
“Hey pretty,” he said in a barely-human rasp, slamming a gloved hand over her mouth as he shoved her back against a wall. They were in front of a boarded-up building just two doors down from her own. If she could have turned her head, she could have seen the light burning in her own kitchen. The other two moved in on either side of her, blocking any hope of escape.
“Hey pretty,” they repeated, one slightly after the other in perfect imitation of the first. One of them smiled, licking his lips, and a trick of the light made his tongue seem forked.
The leader leaned in close, sniffing her. “You reek of angel, pretty.” All of their faces were swathed in scarves and shaded by hoods; she couldn’t tell their races or pick out any features. But the leader had a spike through his eyebrow, accentuating a jagged scar. She tried to kick him, and he shoved a knee hard into her stomach, knocking her breathless. His sidekicks each grabbed her by a shoulder and slammed her hard against the bricks, making her see stars. When her eyes cleared, she saw the knife. “Sorry, pretty,” the leader said, holding it in front of her eyes. She thought about the bloodstain on the alley wall where the homeless woman had died, and she started screaming, the sound muffled against his thickly-gloved hand. His eyes were glowing blue, not reflected moonlight but flickering flames from within. “It’s nothing personal.” He raised the knife, preparing to strike.
Then suddenly his arm was gone. She heard the knife clatter on the pavement. He screamed, falling back from her, and hot, stinking blood spattered across her cheek, spurting from his shoulder where his arm had been. She caught a glimpse of Caleb’s face behind him as he crumpled to the ground, beautiful and terrible with rage.
“Caleb!” she cried out, and their eyes met for barely a moment.
Then the other two were attacking Caleb, screaming in high-pitched, inhuman voices. She thought she saw a flash of long, wet fangs as one of them latched onto his shoulder and the other darted past him, scuttling over the ice like a crab and coming up with the knife. The leader was still writhing at her feet, howling and spitting with rage. She could see the gleaming white bone of the shoulder joint. Caleb had ripped off his arm like twisting the leg off a chicken.
But she didn’t have time to feel sick. The one who had recovered the knife was coming after her. She tried to run, and he grabbed her by the hair. “No!” she heard Caleb shout, his voice like a roar, too loud, making her ears ring. The one holding her let her go, dropping the knife to clamp his hands over his ears. She kicked at him, tripping over the one on the ground, trying to reach the street.
“Help!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, but the sidewalk was deserted. “Somebody call 911!” She looked down, searching for the knife, and something shoved her hard, sending her sprawling facedown on the ice. A blinding white light swept over her, and she heard another high-pitched scream. Rolling over, she caught a glimpse of something glowing white but flickering like fire in front of Caleb’s face—a sword? The one who had bitten his shoulder was still screaming, half-crawling, half-running down the street, clumsy but fast as a cockroach running from the light. Caleb turned his back on her, watching him, and she lost sight of what he was holding, sword or not—the flickering light went out. She slid backwards on her ass, trying to find her feet, and suddenly the one who had lost an arm was sitting up, reaching under his jacket with the hand he had left.
“Caleb!” she screamed out, knowing what was coming, lunging for the gun before she saw it. Caleb turned as he fired, and the bullet tore through his shoulder—she saw the blood spurt from a smoking hole in his coat. Laughing like a lunatic, the third one came up with the knife again and leapt on Caleb like a monkey, slashing at him. He should have been cut to ribbons.
But he didn’t fall. He grabbed the one with the knife by the nape of the neck and shook him hard before flinging him against the wall. He smashed into the bricks with a sickening crunch and slid to the ground. The one with the gun was weak, swaying on his knees, but he raised it again, swinging it toward Laura. She saw the round, deadly mouth of the barrel and the blue flame in his eyes.
Then he was flying. Moving so fast she barely saw him, Caleb grabbed him by the head, lifting him straight up into the air. She felt the bullet whiz past her cheek as she saw him twist, heard the terrible crack. Then she was falling, swooning, her cheek bouncing slightly on the gritty, blood-slick ice.
“Laura!” Caleb was bending over her, holding her tight by the shoulders. “Laura, get up.”
“Can’t,” she mumbled, limp in his grasp. Then she looked past him and saw the leader. He was still moving, one blue eye still glowing. His head was hanging at a monstrous angle on his broken neck, but he was getting up. “Oh my God….”
“Get up!” Caleb was heaving her up from the ground, and she put her feet under her, willing herself upright. “Run!”
he ordered. “Get inside!”
“Come on!” She clutched his wrist in both hands and pulled with all her strength. “Caleb!” It was like pulling on a marble statue. But the man on the ground had made it to his knees, his one hand scrabbling over the ground like a spider, looking for the gun. The one Caleb had thrown against the wall was moving, too, hissing as he rolled over. “For Christ’s sake, Caleb, come on!”
For a moment, he just stared at her, his face a mask. Then suddenly, he was moving, the statue giving way. He let her steer him to the door of her building, running beside her, holding her upright from behind as she fumbled her key into the lock and half-carrying her inside. She could hear the footsteps running behind them and willed herself not to look back. The door was steel and safety glass, at least six inches thick. As soon as she had locked the deadbolt, something huge and heavy slammed against it, and she screamed, falling back against Caleb again.
It was the leader. His neck still looked broken, and his stump of a shoulder was still pouring blood. But he was smiling.
“See you later, Caleb.” His rasp of a voice carried through the glass. “Later, pretty.” He lunged, jaws snapping like a dog’s, and she screamed again. Then with a laugh, he was gone.
Chapter Fourteen—The Nymph in the Hallway
Caleb caught Laura as she crumpled, scooping her up in his arms. “No,” she said, pushing against his chest. “Put me down; I’m fine. You’re the one who’s hurt.”
“I’m not hurt,” he promised, carrying her up the stairs.
“You need an ambulance,” she insisted. “You’re just in shock. He shot you—I saw it.” She twisted in his arms, risking being dropped two flights to push back his coat from his shoulder. “Right here.” The burned hole was still there, but the flesh underneath was already healing. He had to concentrate to keep it open at all.
“The bullet barely grazed me.”
“Bullshit…I saw…” She faltered, pushing back his shirt to examine the scratch. “Put me down.”
