Harsh Gods (32 page)

“Mother’s Tears, Zaquiel,” Lil groaned.

“I shall take pity on you,” Malphael intoned. “The winner is he who lands a
second
strike after his first.” His eyes flicked toward Lil. “No interference from the hellcat.”

My blades thrummed with a familiar weight against my palms. Slowly, I nodded.

“Now bring it, asshole.”

Lil made an exasperated noise, and I heard her smack her fist into the wall.

“Fuck it,” she huffed. “You’re on your own. When you two are done with the dick-waving, let me know.” She turned on her heel and stomped off down the hallway, plastic bags crunching.

All other words were lost to a blaze of light and fury.

We fought with a formality as familiar as my blades. For the first pass I lunged, swift and low, testing his reactions. Garrett was a big man, Malphael even bigger. While the Gibburim didn’t have to worry too much about physical barriers like the ceiling and walls, Garrett did. I drove him back past the archway that opened on the dining room, hoping to limit his mobility. There wasn’t a whole lot of room to maneuver in the hall.

He dodged with unhurried grace, taking a step back but working it into a swift turn so he retained a clear angle on the opening. All the while he kept that cleaving length of blackened steel angled across his body, warding off any easy strikes.

He had to expose himself to swing the blade, but the thing had such a massive reach, my head and shoulders would be wide open even if I tried ducking to get under his attack. We made a few more passes, each studying the other, neither fully committing to any strike.

I fell back, keeping my body low, and readjusted my grip on my blades. The power singing through them thrummed all the way up my arms, focused by the endless repetition of three potent syllables in the substrata of my mind.

Zaquiel.

My magic, my station, my Name.

It took both concentration and energy to maintain the weapons in such a physical form—but I’d had practice keeping them going in long fights with cacodaimons. The shape of my blades wasn’t a conscious decision, but it held a fortunate practicality. The less mass I had to focus, the less juice it took to maintain the things. Malphael’s blade—that was like a Humvee to my Corvette. A huge energy sink. Endurance was going to be a factor in this fight. If I drew things out, I could turn that to my advantage.

Even better if I had my daggers.

The thought came unbidden, complete with a vivid recollection of two very real steel daggers forged in the image of my spirit-blades. The memory—as well as the sharp pang of longing that accompanied it—was foreign to me. I’d never seen those daggers before.

Had I?

The intensity of the associations shattered my focus on the fight. Malphael made a pass and nearly got me square on the shoulder. At the last instant, I danced away, shoving the distracting thoughts to the back of my mind.

Later.

We circled again, and while I studied him, it occurred to me that his weapon had seemed even bigger in the Shadowside imprint of his battle with Terhuziel—comically big. Maybe that had merely been a distortion of the imprint, but it might indicate wear and tear on his part. Malphael had gotten his ass handed to him at the end of that fight, and he’d been running around in a new body since. That had to take a toll.

The Gibburim could tell when I was thinking too hard, and before I could finish the next thought, he came at me, bringing his weapon down like an axe. I was half a heartbeat too slow to dodge, so I brought my twin daggers up, catching his sword where they crossed. Red flames met blue in a shower of angry sparks.

He bore down, trying to break my defense with brute force. I held my ground, but all I could see was the wicked edge of the blood-rimmed steel a few bare inches from my nose. I struggled to get a foot into play, balancing precariously as I aimed for his gut. It connected. With a shout, I hurled him backward.

Before he could fully recover, I feinted forward, making a half-hearted stab in the region of his stomach. That got the reaction I desired—he angled his body away, dodging the dagger, then brought his great sword down in an arcing swing.

I ducked the blow with the intent of rolling behind him. As quick as I was with my blades, I would catch him in the small of the back while the momentum of his strike was still carrying him forward. Although I successfully avoided his blow with my physical body, he clipped me on the wing. I staggered, roaring with pain and fury, then pivoted near his unprotected back, too shocked by the bite of his steel to land a jab of my own.

“You left yourself open,” he taunted.

“Won’t. Happen. Again.”

I crouched at the entrance to the dining room. Pain from my wing radiated all the way down to the tips of my fingers on my right side. That hand tingled sharply as I shifted my grip.

Right.
So we were playing with more than just our physical bodies. That changed the game. I hoped he understood the kind of shit-storm he just invited. Then again, it worked in my favor if he never saw it coming.

Cocky now, he shifted briefly to a one-handed grip, rolling his wrist to cut a circle in the air with the massive falchion.

“You want Terhuziel, right?” I asked.

“I will not be distracted by your talking.”

We sketched slow circles around each other, neither letting his guard drop.

“Not distracting,” I continued. “A little extra wager on the outcome of this fight. Don’t you want something else if you win?”

Ignoring the question, he drove me back with another powerful blow. I sidestepped in time, darting forward to catch his leg with one of my blades. Arcing jolts of power flickered against the walls as he swung his weapon around in time to block.

“I want you gone,” I said. “Along with Terhuziel.” He feinted, and I danced away, falling further back into the dining room. He followed, and I grimaced to cover my smile. “Far as I can tell, you chased him here, and your little feud’s brought nothing but death and chaos to my city.”

“Little feud?” he countered. Echoes of Malphael’s flames danced in the depths of Garrett’s eyes. “Have you strayed so far from your station in the House of Righteousness that you would demean our sacred duty?”

No clue what he was talking about, but it sure sounded important. I dashed forward, rolling onto my good shoulder—careful this time to tuck my wings. I almost managed to hamstring him, but he was just a touch swifter, blocking with his sword again. Soot and brimstone stung my nose as I deflected his counterattack.

Then he was in position, all the bits that were Malphael spreading wide to the vaulted ceiling of the dining room. I’d herded him effectively. Nothing behind him for about three feet, no walls pinning him on either side.

“So what else do you want if you win?” I prompted.

“You are losing.” He laughed. “Yet you would bargain?”

“You know me. I’m cocky like that.”

The molten cores of Malphael’s strangely twinned eyes danced with more amusement than fury.

“Yes. I remember. You have always fought with the heart of a Gibburim.”

Wasn’t sure that qualified as a compliment, but I kept that opinion to myself. He needed to agree before I launched this gambit.

“So, if I win, you get the hell out and take Terhuziel with you. I don’t want to see your ugly face again.”

“Only till the end of this flesh,” Malphael suggested. “Garrett, and Westland.”

I chewed my cheeks to hold back my grin. Not long now. He made another sally. I responded with a flurry of blows, my blades arcing so swiftly they left blue-white trails burning on the air behind them. He defended by dodging or catching them on the edge of his sword each time—just barely.

“I can agree to that,” I said. “What’s your price?”

A smile split his face—both the Garrett-face and the visage of shadow and flame hovering above it. It was a look born of blood, ferocity, and a naked lust for warfare. Tatters of memory stirred, and my mind welled with the roar of fire and the endless clashing of blades.

I clung to my memory of his atrocity, because
dammit
, a part of me
missed
that wild music of battle.

“You will come back with me,” he replied. The basso notes of Malphael’s voice thrummed beneath Garrett’s. “Pledge this flesh once more to our crusade.”

“We don’t fight the Blood Wars any more,” I choked.

“One must fight to keep the peace. You have turned your face away, but you know we remain our brothers’ keepers.”

He is not the good guy
, I reminded myself, but fuck, it was hard to argue with his sentiment. I had four of our brothers tucked away in my desk at home, and I sure as hell didn’t trust them enough to let them go.

I fucking hated my family.

“Fine,” I said evenly. “I’ll go with you if you win.”

But I won’t let you win, you child-killing asshole.

“Done.”

The instant he agreed, I charged—phasing out halfway through. The Kramer house was one big Crossing thanks largely to Malphael’s unspeakable crusade. The brief transit through the Shadowside stole my breath and pressed like a low front against my ears.

I popped back into reality immediately behind him, digging the tip of one of my daggers into the soft flesh over his kidney. It wasn’t a physical wound, but that didn’t mean it was painless.

“Tag,” I hissed against his ear, then spun away as he turned to chop viciously across my arm.

“That is a cheat,” he bellowed.

My blades blurred again, neatly keeping his big-ass sword away from all of my tender parts. I noticed with grim satisfaction that the swirling aura of heat and flame was starting to fade. Effort gnawed a hole under my own ribs, but I was used to fighting on empty. I was happy to win this last point through a war of attrition.

“Didn’t say I couldn’t,” I replied.

“Then I will stop holding back as well.” Rage made curling drifts of smoke and embers rise from his words. I would’ve felt better about that if I knew what to expect.

Too late to worry about it now.

Malphael poured on the speed, moving faster and more nimbly than anyone his size had a right to. Suddenly I found myself on the defensive, hard-pressed to keep up with the scything arcs of his oversized blade. He got my back to the windows before I had time to think about which direction I’d planned to lure him into next.

He drew a breath, and
roared
at me.

Blood and smoke, fury and flame all reverberated in that inhuman sound, underscored by the deep, throbbing notes of his Name. My brain raced, but the mortal part of me froze like food before a predator. Adrenaline made my pulse pound so hard, lights chewed at the edges of my vision.

My body yelled,
Run!
but the sound scrambled something in my nervous system so all I could do was gape. With a taunting grin, he prepared for a final, punishing strike.

He roared again as he raised his sword, and my legs buckled, all my strength run to water. I was down on one knee, trying to get my blades up to protect my head. Intoning my own Name, I shook off enough of the paralytic effect to move, but it was going to be too late.

Malphael’s flame-kissed steel loomed like the judgment of Armageddon, and then my left hand flickered forward, Nephilim-quick. My dagger on that side dispersed, and I caught him by the wrist. My elbow locked, holding back his strike. As he strained against me, I sought out the burning thread of power that forged his blade and I
ate
it. His weapon faded in a swirl of smoke and ash.

I was conscious enough of the action—and what I tapped into to accomplish it—so I stole only the energy he expended to sustain the blade in that moment, not the knowledge or essence of the blade itself. That would’ve revealed the cheat.

All six eyes stared at me in shock and horror. Still holding his wrist, I swept my other hand up toward his belly, cutting a wide slash with my remaining blade. The weapon didn’t touch the cloth or the skin. No matter how solid the energy, it couldn’t make a physical cut, but Garrett still cried out, and behind him, Malphael reared back, bellowing in pain.

I shoved him away, finally relinquishing my hold on his wrist. I curled my left hand against me, not entirely trusting it—the scar on my palm felt like it was chewing its way out of my skin. I shook out the power of my remaining blade while Malphael staggered back, gaping. He might not be able to prove what I’d just done, but he suspected.

I looked up from where I crouched on the floor, blowing the hair back from my eyes.

“I play to win.”

Malphael lurked at the other end of the dining room, glowering at his hand as if the meaty digits had risen up in a profoundly personal betrayal.

“You’re guilty,” I said. “You’re going to get the hell out of my city, and take that bastard Terhuziel with you.”

“You consumed my power,” he growled. “What treachery have you learned?”

“Consumed it?” I laughed. “I just waited until you ran out.”

It wasn’t true, but I sold it like my life depended on it—because it probably did. Malphael struck me as a sore loser, and tapping the Nephilim icon was a hell of a cheat. I wasn’t exactly thrilled with myself for using it again, but there’d been no other way to win.

Maybe that was an easy excuse to feed my conscience.

I rose slowly to my feet, wincing as I jostled the wounded wing. I stretched, testing it, and there didn’t seem to be any permanent damage, but it stung like a sonofabitch. I probably should have felt winded from that fight, but aside from the twinge along my wing, I felt great. There were definitely upsides to devouring the power of the enemy.

I swore not to get used to it.

The Gibburim eyed me warily, absently rubbing his wrist. I eyed him right back.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’ve spun yourself pretty thin,” I observed. “You just misjudged your strength in that last assault.”

“I did not misjudge my strength,” he objected sullenly.

“Yeah?” I chided. “Is that what you told yourself when you lost to Terhuziel? I saw that fight in the front hallway—you left imprints all over this house.” At that, Malphael snarled something that wasn’t exactly English. It sounded wrong coming out of Garrett’s mouth.