Bladed Wings (5 page)

“Unless I join you.”

“I survive because I can call on my friends. My followers survive because they can call on me. It’s all about keeping ourselves alive and out of her claws.”

“You want me to join you,” Timothy said. “Doing what?”

“You might be called to join the common defense,” Cordinox said it so nonchalantly that there had to be something else. “Oh, and errands from time to time.”

“Errands?”

“Sometimes I need packages moved. Sometimes I might need you to watch Despada.”

“Common defense?” He couldn’t fight, didn’t know martial arts or even how to control the abilities this demon said he had.

“After I teach you how to use your new soul, you’ll do a lot better. My goal isn’t war, and I don’t aim for combat. No, I’m all about success. I’m not looking to conquer the world. Not yet anyway. After all, the hard part’s over. We finished a while ago. The real war is over. Now everyone is just bickering over the spoils. It’s a question of patience and strategic planning to see which demon gets to be on top.” He spoke with the measured focus of a man who enjoyed the sound of his own voice.

Timothy thought he sounded like a business major, but he asked, “War?”

“Against the angels. We won.” Cordinox headed for the door and motioned for Timothy to follow. “Twenty thousand years of bloody combat and we grind them down to a slow defeat. Mostly.”

“But you’re the bad guys,” Timothy said as he jogged to catch up.

“We’re the competent guys,” Cordinox said as he led Timothy through the different halls. Badly lit, they crisscrossed past different doors, all nondescript, and Timothy only needed about two minutes to get completely lost.

“You keep saying my new soul.”

“Correct. You have two now. Congratulations.” Cordinox went to one door, pushed it open, and said, “You should meet the others.”

They passed through hallways which were as dark and tight as mine shafts. Stale dust hung on the air and gave the demon’s hideout the feel of an abandoned museum. Timothy knew he should be asking questions. He needed as much information as possible, but he couldn’t think of anything. Instead he followed Cordinox until they opened into one big chamber filled with wooden boxes. “A warehouse?” he asked.

“Cheap rent,” Cordinox said before he turned back to the rest of the boxes and called, “Everyone, we have a newcomer!”

It was like they had waited for his order to appear. A sparrow hopped down, landed a few feet from Cordinox, and blazed with light to become Isis. She smiled at him, almost giggling when he retreated back, still shocked someone could do that. Then there was Morgon, but he was different now. He wasn’t eight feet tall. He was at least two feet shorter and his muscles were gone. Instead he appeared to be a very tall but very skinny guy. With his black hair pulled back into a ponytail, he watched everyone, bored. “And the last of our cheerful little group,” Cordinox said, as a brown haired woman with a wrinkled mouth and tired eyes approached.

“Cheerful,” she sneered.

“This is Hecate,” Cordinox said. “Then we have Morgon and Isis whom you’ve already met.” Timothy looked at them. Demons, these were demons. If Cordinox was right, a demon’s soul rested in his body too.

Morgon and Hecate looked bored. Isis waved a happy hello.

Cordinox showed Timothy around his lair, a warehouse stuffed with wooden crates. Locked doors lined the halls, rooms for his followers and the secrets he kept. Timothy tried to pay attention, but these tunnels, halls, and rooms all looked the same. It didn’t help that these new realities completely blew away any concentration he might’ve had. Architecture didn’t feel important when they talked about angels.

After the tour, he asked Isis to give Timothy a ride back to his apartment. And she drove him. That part felt the most normal. They drove a black sedan, unmarked. “Are you freaked out?” Isis asked half way back. Timothy glanced over her and couldn’t believe she was a demon. He thought demon and there was the still the image of horns, goat legs, a tail, maybe a pitchfork if he was feeling really unimaginative.

“Yes.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“Why not? Yesterday all I had to worry about was school and work.”

“Why worry?” she asked, way too chipper.

“Because now I’m in fights and getting chased and killing people with water. That seems like a good reason to freak out.”

“Yeah, but most of that’s done now.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Look at it this way,” Isis said. “You can’t control what’s happened. It’s done. Give up worrying about what you didn’t know or how you were wrong and maybe have some fun.”

“Fun?” Timothy asked.

“Yeah, fun. Enjoy yourself,” Isis said. “Play.”

“How?”

“Well, you’ll heal better, so maybe go get really drunk. You’re in college. Isn’t drinking supposed to be your favorite hobby? The alcohol won’t hurt nearly as much and you can regenerate through most hangovers, so savor these moments. They’re supposed to be the best times of your life, right?”

“Not really my thing.”

“Then go skydiving. You know, do something stupid.” Isis cocked her head and considered him as though he were an annoying math problem. “What do you want?”

“I want to get my life back.”

“Nah,” she waved him off with a flick of her hand. “No, you want something else.”

“Seriously, I just want my life back,” he repeated and hoped she might listen.

“You’re too high strung. Seriously. Relax. Enjoy yourself.”

“There are shadows squirming on my hands, and you want me to enjoy myself?”

“No one else can see them, just demons,” Isis said.

At first Timothy was quiet. He didn’t have an answer or know what this would mean. Life was supposed to be about parties and midterms. Shadows weren’t supposed to grow out of his hands. When Isis pulled through The Verge’s gates, Timothy finally said, “That doesn’t help. Things are different.”

But she just smiled with a happy “Bye!”

Timothy got out of the car with his backpack and started for the stairs to his floor. Passing through the lobby, he noticed some college students in the arcade. They had their plastic guns and fired at monsters trying to invade Area 51. Some of those monsters might’ve been demons, a thought which made Timothy check his hand again.

Lines of shadow still squirmed along his palm and around his fingers. It didn’t matter that none of the regular people saw them. He did, and he knew actually existed. Timothy felt them. Cordinox said he could live his life, go to school, and do everything else. Then why did anxiety twist at the back of his neck? Because he had a choice between realities he’d learned and realities he’d experienced.

Back in his apartment, Timothy found Jeremiah basking in the glow of their TV. Sprawled over the edges of his lounge chair, Timothy’s roommate looked pretty happy in the light. He hit mute and asked, “What’s going on?”

“Not a whole lot.”

“You look like hell.”

“You have no idea.”

“Hard day? Did one of your professors decide to beat you for something you said?” Jeremiah asked. “Maybe you suggested peace studies is a waste of time because the universe is all about bloodshed, struggle, and cannibalism?”

“Not quite.”

“Well, sit down. Enjoy the ambrosia that is TV.”

“You don’t think it’ll rot your brain?” Timothy dropped his backpack by the door. The clock over their TV said he had a couple hours before he had to wake up for his morning classes. Stifling a groan, he wished he could stop time. That’s the power he wanted.

“I need to ask you something,” Timothy said. Jeremiah glanced over, waiting for the question as he tried to think of the best way to ask, “When do you know you’re insane?” Timothy had his hands on his knees. Darkness played over his knuckles, squirming like fish swimming under a pond’s surface. Jeremiah didn’t seem to notice anything strange.

“It’s this late and you’re thinking philosophy?”

“Just curious. Any thoughts?”

“Does your insanity harm you?”

“I guess not.”

“Then continue as though you’re not insane. Crazy is only a problem if it makes you make big mistakes.” Timothy thought about running out into a street of traffic. That could be a big mistake, but then he couldn’t explain not getting hit. “Everyone’s perceptions are screwed up, dependent on mood, blood sugar, sleep, and a bunch of other factors. Add interpretation to the mix and realities become pretty different, so it’s not a big problem.”

“It’s so easy?”

“Only if you think what you see and feel doesn’t matter so long as you’re happy. That’s kind of the hard part. Why? Are you going insane?”

“No.”

“Well,” Jeremiah tossed the remote to Timothy, “Just be sure to pay the rent, don’t chop of my hands while I sleep, and we’re good.” Then he went to bed.

The rest of the week went by and nothing happened. Timothy still saw those dark splotches of energy squirming on his hands, but he started ignoring them when they didn’t do anything dramatic. Deciding to be a nerd, he spent Friday night studying and enjoying the fact nothing bad happened in a whole three days. He didn’t hear from Cordinox and started to hope Wednesday’s chase was a fluke. He could hope he’d never see a demon again.

Maybe those demons realized they made a mistake. They didn’t want some college kid to fight. Since movies didn’t count as experience, he didn’t know how to fight. He wasn’t a soldier. He never killed, not on purpose anyway. He wasn’t special. He hadn’t even picked a major yet.

Then Saturday morning he woke up to his cell phone’s ring. Rolling over, he clicked talk without looking at the caller ID. “Timothy,” came Cordinox’s voice, “It’s time to start some training.”

“Training?”

“You,” Cordinox said, “need to learn how to use your abilities. Meet us at that big mall over by your school today, noon. Don’t be late. Isis said she’d be willing to drag you there, sounded excited too. Don’t give her the chance.”

“But—” Timothy started, only to hear the click of getting hung up on.

A long sigh and he got dressed then headed back to the living room. “You want to get something to eat?” Jeremiah asked, peeking up from whatever book he’d been reading. Judging by the paperback’s size, Timothy guessed it wasn’t homework.

“Yes,” Jeremiah nodded. “I am one of the last Americans who still read.”

“Let me grab my coat.”

They got some tacos. Jeremiah burned up most of the hour and a half by suggesting different strategies Timothy could use to get rid of Jenny’s boyfriend. Most of them were illegal. Timothy nodded and half-listened, though most of his thoughts stuck to what Cordinox’s training would mean.

By the time they got back, Timothy had about twenty minutes before he had to be at the mall. He drove through the normal streets, pulled into the normal parking lot, and parked. For a second he just sat there. He could drive for Mexico, maybe go back to The Verge and ignore Cordinox. But then Timothy remembered what the demon said: loners got eaten. Exhaling the unfairness of it all, Timothy opened the door and started for the mall.

The lot was full of cars and people walking back to their cars, swinging bags back and forth, intoxicated by spending. “You look like a tourist,” Cordinox told him, strolling up, his hands in his pockets.

“You wanted me here.”

“That I did.” Cordinox started for the entrance, “The others are scouting.”

“For what?”

“A target.”

“You’re going to fight?”

“Here?” Cordinox laughed. “No, of course not. Too many people. Someone might suspect something when Isis became a wolf and Morgon grew a hundred pounds of muscle. No, we’re searching for someone. Someone special, almost unique at this point.”

“Who?”

“An angel.”

“I thought you said you won.”

“We did,” Cordinox said, “but that doesn’t they’re not born into the world every once in a while. Two people love one another enough, or if someone sacrifices enough, a human can get a regular soul and an angel soul to boot. Pretty special universe we live in, eh?”

“So what do you want me to do?” Timothy asked because he wasn’t in the mood to learn about the universe’s metaphysical structure. Getting through the next couple of hours would be hard enough.

“Just follow me. We’ll do some training, then we’ll see what you’ve learned.”

After passing the main promenade lined with clothing stores and electronics boutiques, they headed down one of the service tunnels. At the end were the restrooms and a water fountain, but Cordinox headed for the door that insisted:
Authorized Personnel Only
. They strode through the mall’s skeleton, a series badly illuminated halls that reminded Timothy of the Cordinox’s warehouse. Timothy’s guide led them like he’d been there a hundred times until they went through one more door into an empty storefront.

There wasn’t much light, just what streamed through the cracks in the windows which were taped up with posters advertising something. Plastic tarps covered the built-in counters. Some spare ladders leaned against the wall. There was a lot of dust and a few empty paint cans too. “A good place to train while the others are looking,” Cordinox said.