Revelation (37 page)

Fine.
He swallowed, cold, and frost settled over his heart. “Sure. Let’s do it.” He retrieved his sword, bracing for backlash, but the steel just glowed, blue and bright like it always had. He twitched his wings, steeling himself, and shouldered Dash aside.

“Jae.” Dash’s whisper pierced his skin like a hot needle.

Japheth halted, shaking.

Dash lighted beside him, his own blade flashing into his hand. “I get you, man. I really do. But point that sword at me again? I’ll chew your fucked-up little heart out and eat it. Okay?”

Suhail drove the stolen cab like a juiced-up maniac, and sooner than Morgan had thought possible, they screeched to a halt by the burned-out housing project, where the grade school’s high security fence glinted in sunlight.

Morgan climbed out and clunked the door shut, her pulse alive. The hot air hung rich with death’s rotten stink. No breeze lifted her hair. She itched to move, run, fight. She’d discarded the white coat, and felt in her jeans pockets for the blood-testing kit. “You wanna take some more—”

“Not just now.” Suhail held up a finger for silence, and like hungry ghosts, his gang oozed from the broken building.

Three of them, dressed in jeans and ripped t-shirts, guns and knives spiking silver in the sun. One wore his long hair coiled in a black scarf atop his head, the ends sprayed with blue fluoro paint. He carried a black zipped sports bag over his shoulder, and his jeans were held together with safety pins.

Suhail sauntered up and smacked fists with him twice, a gang salute. “Tariq, meet Morgan Sterling. She’s got some zombie-kickin’ blood for us.”

Tariq surveyed her, his kohl-lined eyes shadowed. “She’s a white chick, man. Probably a freaking Jesus lover.”

“So? Fuck you, T. Did God give you the monopoly on zombie hate?”

“You sound like an unbeliever.”

Suhail shrugged, impervious. “Hell, I like unbelievers. They have cool phones and shit. It’s getting my neighborhood bombed to matchsticks by neo-Nazi assholes that pisses me off, and guess what? I didn’t see Morgan there. Grow up, man.”

Tariq jerked his chin, a denial, and his friends lined up behind him, menacing.

Morgan smiled, nervous. “I’m not any religion. I’m a doctor. I just want to help.”

Tariq scratched his blue-sprayed hair with a sigh, and tension dispersed like mist on a breeze. “Shit. White girl too pretty for you, So-so.”

“And you’re not?” Suhail grabbed his crotch, lewd. “Bite me, princess.”

“You should be so lucky. You sure you wanna do this?”

“Hell, yeah.” Suhail nudged her.

These guys were creepy. Zealots. Fanatics. But it took extremes to defeat extremes. She steeled herself, and nodded. “I’m up for it.”

“Okay.” Tariq unzipped his bag, and tossed a heavy gun to each. Black assault weapons, metal burnished dull, laser sights and an underslung tube for grenades.

“Sweet.” Suhail handled his expertly, unseating and reseating the magazine, clearing the grenade launcher. “Courtesy of the United States Army. Thank you, Mr. President. Kiss my skinny anarchist ass.”

Tariq glanced at Morgan. “You ever fire one of these?”

“No.” The weapon made her blanch. She didn’t care. She wanted to see those people cured, watch the light fade from Vorvian’s haughty eyes.

Tariq showed her, glancing up with warm painted eyes as he demonstrated. “Safety. Empty mag warning. Grenade launcher, takes four shots. You load here, twist this, snap it shut. Slam and you jam, so be careful. Squeeze, don’t pull.” He dipped his wire-pierced lips to her ear. He smelled like Suhail, hash and sweat. “And don’t shut those lovely eyes when you fire.”

Her heart thumped as she took the weapon, but amusement
curled her lips. “Why, Tariq. Are you flirting with a Jesus-loving white girl?”

“You tell me. Am I?”

She eyed him, defiant. “I believe in justice. That’s all you need to know.”

Tariq’s eyebrow arched, and he dipped her a graceful salaam. “You’ve got guts, lady. God be with you.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

Suhail was already messing with the grenades, little silver cylinders about three inches long, popping the reservoirs open and injecting the blood with a dropper. He tossed her a handful one by one, and she caught them and loaded like Tariq showed her. Her fingers slipped on the hot metal. The weapon was heavy in her hands.
Please, let this work. Let this not be a stupid dream.

Tariq finished loading, and kicked the bag aside. “Okay, ladies. Let’s roll.”

Vorvian’s estate still crawled with zombies.

Morgan wrinkled her nose at the stench. Horrid memory caterpillared over her skin. The demon’s dark kiss, his hands on her body, the way his influence wormed under her skin and into her, a sick lover’s caress…

The brick wall itched her sweaty back. She dragged wet hair from her forehead. Beside her, Suhail whistled an inaudible tune between his teeth, and closest to the corner, Tariq ducked his blue-sprayed head around the edge and whisked it back again. “I heard this was going down, but shit, this is
epic
. There are thousands of the meatsuckers.”

Suhail scratched his ear, listening. “What’s that garbage he’s spouting?”

Morgan strained to hear, and her blood trickled cold. She’d know Vorvian’s supercilious voice anywhere. Sounded like he was giving a speech. “…my rotting friends, it’s time to get truly pissed at these living monsters who think they’re better than you. We are a swarm of insects. We are a great plague, my friends! And we will cover every inch of this stinking island like locusts and eat our way to oblivion!”

Suhail chuckled. “Zombie people power. Who does the fucker think he is, Gandhi?”

Raucous cheers, grunts and hungry moans rose, a sickening wave. Morgan shuddered in memory. She wanted to block her ears, drown out the sound of the horrible disease that had poisoned her.

Tariq spat on the ground with a curse, and crept around the corner.

Blindly, Morgan followed.
Squeeze, don’t pull
. Ahead, a blackened brick wall stuck broken from the ground, and around it, zombies wandered and punched each other, moaning. She pulled the weapon in tight to her shoulder, and fired.

The shot rammed back into her collarbone. The grenade popped, whistling in a sun-flashed arc. It exploded amid the flailing bunch of zombies, scattering its bloody vapor onto their skin.

They spat, and yammered, clutching their abused ears. One howled, her arm blown off. But the blood didn’t burn her. It didn’t catch fire or sizzle or light with holy vengeance.

It didn’t do anything.

Morgan crouched, stunned. Maybe it was used up. Maybe she’d waited too long, the heavenspell dissipated by time. Maybe, she just didn’t believe in it enough.

Now, the confused zombies muttered and shambled and fixed their roving eyes on her. And Tariq’s fingers fastened around her arm, and he dragged her to her feet.

“Huh?” She stumbled. “What are you doing?”

“Suhail, give us a hand, will you?” Tariq knocked the weapon from her hands, and jabbed his knee into her kidney. She grunted in pain, and expertly he bent one arm up behind her back.

Now she needed to pee. Her shoulder ached, and she tried to shake him off. “Let me go. It’s not my fault. I thought it’d work!”

“Then you’re as dumb as I thought.” Tariq twisted her wrist hard, making her yelp, and jammed his gun barrel into her side. “Shut up. It’s not like you didn’t know we’d screw you over. White chick like you, trusting us? Shame on you.”

She struggled, sweating cold. She’d heard evil stories about what gangboy fanatics like him did to people like her. “I don’t care about any of that! Let me go!”

“I don’t give a fuck what you care about, lady. Vorvian will love himself a slice of white-girl-doctor pie.”

“What? Suhail, tell him. Make him let go!”

But Suhail just bit his lip, and didn’t move. “I’m sorry, Dr. M. I can’t.”

Oh, shit.
Frantic, she stared at Suhail’s young face. His eyes, brown and cold. His skin, dark but unflushed. He wasn’t infected, she was sure of it. Neither was Tariq.
What the hell?

Desperation attacked her voice. “What are you doing? Suhail, please!”

Suhail shrugged, hard. “The prince promised us victory if we gave you up. He’ll help us crush our enemies, give us the edge over those Aryan Brotherhood assholes—”

“You’ve got to be kidding!” She fought, useless. She’d done it again. Trusted him because she thought he was like her, and he’d screwed her over. She’d never learn.

“Afraid not. We’re God’s people, and we’re getting squeezed out of our own place. We can’t kill this prince, and our own guys are getting the virus and turning on us. What choice do we have?”

“God’s people? Are you serious? Didn’t you listen to anything I told you? The world’s ending! We’re all in this together.”

Tariq wrenched her wrist harder. “Tell that to the Brotherhood.”

“But Vorvian’s a demon!” She gasped, all the air sucking out of her lungs to bleed and die. “He’s evil. You can’t seriously be going to team up with him!”

“Martyrs go to heaven.” Suhail prodded her with his rifle barrel. “Even if they break a few rules.”

“You son of a bitch.” She struggled, tight with futile rage. Religion poisoned everything, no matter what its flavor. “I thought we were friends!”

“Sure. I like you, Dr. M. I’m sorry. But this is for God. Did you really think sharing a few hot dogs would top that?” His brown eyes didn’t falter. Not an ounce of shame or remorse. “I know you don’t believe. You probably don’t understand. I’m sorry for you.”

“Don’t you dare feel sorry for me, you twisted little prick.” Morgan gritted her teeth, and kicked for his face.

Suhail ducked. Tariq wrenched her elbow apart, hard. Pain exploded, and her vision clotted black.

By the time she focused, they were dragging her across broken concrete, slobbering zombies watching on. Morning light angled through the broken buildings, and atop a mound of rubble, Vorvian whirled in golden sunshine, sparks trailing from his fingertips.

His white hair flew, his arms outstretched. And when he saw her, he tumbled to a stop, laughing like a drug-fucked banshee, his thin handsome face aflush with delight. “Dr. Morgan Sterling,” he cackled, wiping tears from his scarlet eyes. “How the fuck are you, sweetheart?”

Lune flashed into the Prince of Blood’s sabbat, or as close as he could figure with his wits afloat in whiskey. His head swam, and his feet hit wet concrete with a graceless thud.

The stink of dead flesh punched his guts, and his feet slipped. He caught himself, hands sliding in muck. Blood. The floor was covered in blood. His oversensitive ears grated, screams, rending flesh, humans howling like ghouls in pain.

His guts heaved, single malt and bile. Heaven’s grace, he didn’t know if he could do this.

He dragged his sword blindly from the air and forced his stinging eyes open. A screeching hellsnipe thrust sharp talons into his face. He tore it apart on pure instinct. Bones cracked. He tossed it aside, staggering, and the full gory vision of the Prince of Blood’s death-wish party slapped him in the face.

A vast basement, tainted with smoke, blood dripping down the firelit walls. In the center, a huge steel vat, crimson gore spilling over the sides. Corpses piled around it, throats slashed, their skin pale and drained. The air hung foul with screams and acid fear, the bitter stink of cursed souls that glowed sick scarlet in his angelsight. More humans thrashed in makeshift cages built from wire and broken steel. And everywhere, creatures of hell swarmed and feasted, hungry eyes, sharp claws, tongues drooling blood.

In the corner, a rotting starvewraith tore at a child, crimson staining his beak. There, a gang of rubber-skinned bonecrushers raped a screaming girl, two holding her down while another had his way with her, munching on her throat at the same time. Lune glimpsed Trillium, a furious flash of steel and reddish feathers, and Iria, exploding imps with her crossbow, her dark iridescent wings aflutter.

Beside Lune, a gang of scaly monsters giggled and gnashed their teeth like evil children. Pale angel wings flashed, and he glimpsed Jadzia, her blond hair flying, fighting them off with a whirling blade.

Lune gripped his sword tighter, and dived in unsteadily to help. Fever sweat and alcohol made his grip slippery, but in swift seconds the hellkids lay dead. He eyed them dully. Dead flesh. Blood. It meant nothing.

Jadzia flung him a ghostly smile. “Hey, Lune,” she gasped, and spun to fight a fresh onslaught.

He whirled with her, and they fought a pair of sniggering green envywraiths, their wiry bodies whippy like rubber as they flipped and twisted. Green jealousy fogged the air on their breath, and Lune spat it out, tart like poison. He hurled his sword at one, slicing it neatly in two on the backspin, and when the other charged him with a hateful wail, he grabbed it, one fist around each arm, and tore it in half.

Flesh ripped. Blood hissed on his face, and he scorched it off with a toxic heavencurse that set the dead envywraith’s hair alight. He hurled the burning meat aside, and his sword grip smacked back into his hand in a flash of holy flame.

It didn’t feel good. He didn’t feel anything. The meaninglessness of it all hit him like a smothering wave, and he staggered, choking, his breath sucked away.

The next minutes or hours blurred, a hot stinking cloud of bleeding and dying. He fought to keep his feet. Angelfire dazzled him. He blinked the glare away. Dash and Japheth, by the vat, where some higher-level demon in human shape slashed throats with a long razor, his scarlet hair splattered with gore. The demon’s pointy face gleamed, black eyes alight with wicked golden glee. He held the kicking victims, emptying their blood into the vat and then tossing the corpses aside for his fawning minions to gobble.

Bile frothed in Lune’s throat. But that demon’s rotting stink was all wrong. He wasn’t Quuzaat, the Prince of Blood. Just some lower-level minion, twisted cruel with rage and ambition. “Jaz, let’s…”

But Jaz was gone, whirled away into the fight. Distantly, he hoped she was okay.