Bladed Wings (19 page)

              “I guess.”

              “My name is Roman,” he said, holding out a hand. Timothy didn’t say anything. “That’s a shame. We should be more honorable in combat. Demonic yes, but why no sense of decorum?”

              “Because we’re about to try to kill each other.” Timothy kept his eyes on his enemy as he tried to remember everything about this place. He wanted to make sure he didn’t trip on a crack in the stone or do something else stupid to get himself killed. Timothy felt the ground, remembered where broken car parts and piles of tires lined the ground. Fumbling around, he missed Roman’s hands. In another second, he saw them solidify into a dark blue, close to black, stone. He watched them sharpen into something like diamond.

              “True. But that doesn’t mean we have to be rude.”

              Timothy answered with the first strike. Palms flat, he swung his hands like he’d clap, but he stopped, channeling that momentum into the tips of his tendrils. Dark and almost transparent, they exploded out, like predators eager for blood. Timothy felt more weakness seep through his body. Killing the drudges must’ve helped, because he’d never fought this long.

              Roman didn’t block or try to evade.

              He snatched both of Timothy’s tendrils. Concentrating, Timothy changed the shape of those appendages; they thinned and he slid them free. “Impressive,” Roman said. “You’re stronger than I would have guessed.”

              “Thanks,” Timothy said. He searched this demon, looking for some weakness. Roman’s hands were solidified like rock, cold and hard, and Timothy doubted he’d be able to break them. Roman didn’t wear gloves; his hands had that dark blue sheen, unlike the rest of his body. If Timothy could stab him in the eyes, he was pretty sure he’d win. Then again, the rest of the demon’s body could be just as vulnerable, but a lot easier to hit.

              He didn’t get much time to think about it. Roman lunged forward, cutting down with all five fingers, slashing the air once, twice. Timothy blocked the demon’s first strike, holding up one tendril, stopping Roman’s arm at his wrist. The second attack scored blood, ripping across Timothy’s stomach just as he jumped back, not quick enough.

              Hobbling back, Timothy tried to ignore the burning that ran through his torso. Hot, the pain blocked out most of his thoughts. Biting down, he tried to breathe through it. That didn’t really work. No matter what he thought, the flame of pain seared up his chest.

              One to Roman’s stomach, one to the back, Timothy decided and hoped he’d have the speed and control for something similar. The tendrils spiked out, one shooting over Roman’s shoulder, the other aimed for his gut.

              “Too slow,” the demon mocked, twisting out, Roman’s grasp blurred for the tendril of demonic energy. He caught it again, his fingers digging into the tentacle as it struggled to break free. That was instinct, but Timothy didn’t care because Roman forgot about the second attack, the one that looped around him, the tendril that twisted around to stab into the demon’s back. Timothy felt the tendril rip Roman’s shirt and skin and muscle, scratching against bone.

              Timothy thought Roman would fall.

              Timothy thought he’d won.

              But Roman wasn’t done. He stumbled forward, barely intentional steps as Timothy reshaped the tendril trapped in Roman’s hand. He tightened to a slit of energy. It slid free, but Roman was there, hands raised. That’s when Timothy saw it; the dark blue was gone. That was flesh. Roman’s fingers looked human again, soft and beige.

              Roman fell, reached out, and grabbed Timothy’s shirt. “You’re different,” Roman mumbled, coughing against the wounds dug through his back and chest. Timothy pushed him back, ripping his tendril free from Roman’s body. “Secret’s out. I can smell it on you.” Timothy thought Roman would fall, that getting out one last cryptic message would have taken the last of his strength. Then he fell back, almost dropping to his back as he hobbled away. Timothy would’ve peppered the demon with extra attacks, might’ve tried to take his head to be sure he wouldn’t see Roman again, but someone else demanded his attention.

“Erzu Cordinox,” boomed a voice from atop one of the piles of crates. It didn’t look stable, but she didn’t wobble. Unarmed and confident when she called out, “You declared war on me when your Cipher destroyed my Connor at the church. I’ve now come to give you your reward.” Timothy glanced back for Roman, but the demon was gone.

              “She’s calm,” Morgon said, his tone quiet.

              “She thinks she’s so strong that a failed ambush doesn’t matter,” Hecate answered.

              “If we lose, you’ll die too. Just remember that little girl,” Morgon told Devi, but she giggled with something about being the first to run away if that happened.

              “I’m big,” Devi protested. Timothy looked surprised at that; she didn’t look like someone so young, someone who’d still be defending her size. That’s why he agreed with Hecate. Something happened to her.

              A figure appeared at the center of the battle. She wasn’t tall, but she a wore black silk blouse that caught the light and her brown hair blew with the wind. Clean and straight, she appeared every bit the leader, a diminutive general for this epic war of demons no one would see. A tattoo, some kind of lizard of green ink, stretched across one cheek. “Erzu,” she shouted to everyone there, “I’m going to kill each of your minions unless you surrender. Sacrifice half of them to me, and the rest may live.”

              “They aren’t minions, and you’re a liar,” Cordinox answered. Timothy tracked the voice, saw their leader. Arms held behind his back, covered in the black of his collared shirt and those slacks, he might’ve been on his way to a board meeting. He looked a lot like someone who’d sit at a keyboard and type out words for reports that didn’t really matter. “C’mon then,” Cordinox said, “If you’re so interested in combat.”

              “Conquest,” Despada hissed and leapt. There must have been at least sixty feet between them. She’d be at one side of the battle, just a few feet from the gates that led to the street. A moment and she crossed that distance, the air like nothing to the speed of her flight. But it wasn’t a flight or retreat. She landed in a crouch then hopped to her feet. Cordinox slid back, dodging to one side. At first Timothy didn’t understand how she’d fight, if she’d grow claws or throw fireballs or something.

              In one hand, midair, a weapon formed. It grew from her palm, two lines in both directions of black steel. At first it looked like a staff, just a long rod of metal. But when she landed, swinging out, her weapon was tipped with curved blades.

              They flashed with that first swing, catching light and speed as she tried to gut Cordinox in the first second of combat. It didn’t work. He moved, faster than Timothy would have guessed. Then he pulled his hands from behind his back and it was his turn to attack. He swiped, swinging one dagger for her torso, deflecting one of her blades with his second knife. Thin and straight, they didn’t look like much. They didn’t have the bladed staff’s reach, but they were faster, a lot faster Timothy soon saw.

              At first, he didn’t understand how they fought. Every heartbeat and Cordinox translated, jumping between points in space even as he fought. He flickered with every other second, sliding through space. It made him look like a character from some old movie.

For each of Despada’s attacks, whether slash or a thrust, Cordinox managed to stay out of the way or slide a dagger into the right spot, just enough to deflect or slow Despada. When she would have scored a hit, would have had the force of one strike to Erzu’s head from his shoulders, he disappeared, flashing back into existence right behind her.

              Together they jumped and every few seconds Cordinox would teleport, dashing through space without moving. Every attack that might’ve killed him, he avoided by just not being there. Then he’d have an advantage because Despada couldn’t know exactly where he’d reappear, and he’d almost get a blade between her ribs. His blade thrusting, he might’ve been able to win too. But she twirled her blade, the ring of motion knocking away his attacks.

              Timothy thought about helping then remembered that he didn’t know what he was doing. He saw himself climbing up there, running across the roof with his shadowed tentacles. He’d make an attack, she’d snag his tendrils in her staff, pull him close, and behead him with one swing.

              Again Cordinox disappeared with a thought to call on his demonic heritage. This time Despada got lucky. She slashed a random direction. It probably wasn’t mortal, but she hit him, cutting a deep gash down his shoulder. It probably wouldn’t kill him, but it could slow him down, and that could be a death sentence.

              They jumped apart, both Despada and Cordinox watching the other. Even from the ground, Timothy could see they were both panting hard. Cordinox touched one fist to his wound. Prodding the damage, he probably wanted to know how hard this would be. Then there was Despada who watched him with crinkled eyes because she thought she’d win.

              “You won’t win,” Cordinox promised.

              “A fool’s boast. Prove your strength and feed on my soul.”

              “I don’t eat garbage.”

              “Idiot,” Despada hissed, swinging her blades back at Cordinox. The next seconds were his retreat. Maybe he wanted to know how he’d fight with his wound. Maybe he didn’t have a better strategy. In either case, every second was another step back. He blocked the blades, keeping them from scoring any more hits, and that meant he fell further and further back. Timothy waited for him to teleport again, to just jump behind her and get one blade into her back. Timothy beat Roman that way. Cordinox should’ve been able to do it too.

              “Jump?” Despada asked.

              “We’ll see.”

              She spun her blades again, a disk of speed and blades that she pushed closer to him. He deflected the attacks as she bounced her weapons back and forth, darting those grafted scimitars at his neck. He ducked, his neck safe. He dodged to the left and blocked another attack. His timing off, her blade bit into his hand. He pulled back, quick enough to keep Despada’s momentum from severing his hand. That dagger fell, clattering against the ground after a sickened pause.

              Cordinox held out his one blade, still cornered, with just half his weaponry.

              Timothy figured he was dead. He figured they were all dead.

              “You can still jump.”

              “Nope.”

              “You think you’re going to survive this, don’t you?” she snarled.

              “I think you’re going to have to attack me to win, and I can try something really stupid.”

              “You’ll still be dead.”

              “Probably.”

              Despada moved forward and chopped down. He blocked the first attack before she reversed her blades, the bottom scimitar flying at him. Instead of dodging forward or anywhere else, Cordinox rushed into her attack. He got past the blade, grabbed her weapon’s haft and yanked. He caught her off balance. He pulled and they both stumbled.

              They fell.

              Timothy didn’t breathe as they tumbled, tilted through the air and he expected a thump of splattered flesh against concrete. He heard a crack, a snap, the clatter of Despada’s staff. What he saw was Despada crumpled against the ground.

              She forced herself up and wavered on her feet.

              “Kill her,” Cordinox ordered.

              If Despada feared this moment, she didn’t let it show. Only Roman and another demon came to her side. Cordinox had Devi, Timothy, Morgon, and Hecate stood with Cordinox. And they weren’t badly hurt. But there wasn’t a big fight, no final melee.

              “Later,” Despada promised. She inhaled and Timothy thought of a dragon. She exhaled, and he dropped to the ground when he saw the black fire, felt the cold rush through the air. Winters in Sacramento felt cold. But this was arctic frost, the kind that could snap steel. He dropped and felt the air punched from his lungs, his hands over his head, but he didn’t care. Everything he thought about was making sure he lived through the next five seconds.

              Cold burned and stabbed and dug through his body.

This was freezing to death in a second.

              Thousands of stabs ripped through his skin.

But then it faded. World blurry, Timothy tried to inhale and exhale through the sensations. It was like he couldn’t think even as the remembered pain began to ease.

              Lifting his head, Timothy saw one of his shields. He didn’t remember creating it, couldn’t even feel it over the cold that clung to his skin. The dark frost burns were already half-healed. Then he saw that Despada was gone, her followers too.

              Above them, Cordinox touched a hand to one of his wounds. He examined his fingers, wet and red. He looked more curious than anything else when he said, “Congratulations my comrades. We’ve survived this attack. She wasted resources with this assault and now she’s weaker for it.”

              But Timothy just thought about how he was still alive. He’d made it. Then his watch beeped six o’clock. He wasn’t late yet so he could still see Jenny, and that second thought felt like the most important idea he’d ever had. Even his cuts were almost healed, so he ran for his car.