Sinners & Sorcerers: Four Urban Fantasy Thrillers (60 page)

That night, Laila realized that she loved Mamma and Papa, these old farmers who had let her stay in their barn and yard. She had never been inside their house before—she knew how much they feared her—but that night, Laila crept into their home, Eclipse in her arms. They saw her enter the window and froze, staring at her, pale, as if they had seen a ghost. Laila said nothing, but lay down on the rug at their feet, curled up, and went to sleep by the fire. For the first time in as long as she could remember, no nightmares filled her sleep, and she felt as if she had real parents, a true home.

She spent months sleeping on the rug by the fire, silent. Mamma and Papa tried talking to her, tried reading her books, tried teaching her to read and write, but Laila never spoke back. She knew by then that she was half-demon, and she feared that her words could curse the farmers, could bring evil into them. Yet slowly, as they tended to her, gave her dolls and dresses and love, Laila began to feel her angel side. She began to feel like maybe she had beautiful angelic light within her, a goodness to her soul that came from Heaven, that could shine upon anyone who loved her. When she finally spoke to Mamma and Papa, her first words were, “I love you.”

Half a year after she found Eclipse, several bedraggled children came to the farm, barefoot orphans seeking food. They came as beggars to the door, bellies empty, faces ashy. Laila and Eclipse were huddling under the staircase, reading from a book, peering out of the shadows.

When Mamma opened the door to the orphans, Eclipse began to growl. He was a large dog by then, larger than Laila, with sharp fangs, and the farmhouse was his territory. “Hush, Eclipse!” she said to him, but he would not stop growling. When the orphans stepped into the house, Eclipse barked and broke free from her grasp. He leapt toward the orphans and bit one’s leg, drawing blood. The child screamed, as did Laila. When she rushed forward to save the orphan, the children froze. They stared at her, pale, eyes wide and teary. Her bat wings were unfurled, her eyes burned, and her halo of fire crackled above her head; even Mamma gazed at her in terror.

Laila grabbed Eclipse’s collar and dragged him outside, tears of blood on her young cheeks. As the orphans wept, Laila pulled Eclipse into the forest.

“Bad dog!” she said, dragging him as he yelped. “Bad Eclipse!” She hit the dog, anger burning inside her, tears in her eyes. “Mamma and Papa will kick us out of the house now. We finally had a home, and you had to ruin it.”

She hit the dog again, then sobbed and embraced him, rocking him, weeping. “I’m sorry, Eclipse!” She had never cried so hard. “I’m sorry I hit you.”

He gazed up at her with glassy eyes and did not move, and Laila realized for the first time that great strength filled her, greater than any child ever had, the strength of an archdemon or archangel. Eclipse, her dearest friend, was dead.

She howled into the sky that night, and tore down trees, and etched her claws along her arms and legs, drawing her mixed blood. She fled into the forests in terror, until she was lost in the darkness and wilderness, until the farm was miles behind and she could never again find it. She knew then, with a pall of blood that covered her eyes, that the demon inside her eclipsed the angel, that she was a being of light turned monstrous with fire. She knew that none were safe around her, and that she could never love again.

She would never make another friend, she swore. She was a monster, Laila knew, and she must keep herself in exile, away from any pet or human. Nobody was safe from her; not Mamma, not Papa, not children. In caves and riverbeds she lived, a creature covered in mud, hair draggled. She hunted wild boars and birds, and lived as a banished spirit with a dirty, bloody face, her clothes woven of leaves and fur, an outcast hunter.

“I am Laila!” she shouted into the forest sky, a bedraggled youth, a teenager with bat wings among the trees. “I curse you Heaven, and I curse you Hell. I am Laila, of the night, of shadows.” She howled like a wolf, face covered with the blood of animals she hunted, halo flaming.

The years went by, and she wandered from forest to desert, wild and dirty. For a decade after she killed Eclipse did she live as a hunter, as an animal, alone in the wilderness, fierce and untamed and cruel. For ten years, she howled in the night in her grief, until that one day.

Until that terrible, wonderful day at age seventeen.

Until the day she met Beelzebub.

When she heard the creaking and shifting above her, she thought at first that it was him, that Beelzebub had come looking for her, to save her again from darkness and fear. Groaning, blinking her eyes, Laila shifted her claws.
I’ll have to fight him,
she knew, for he was no longer her lover, no longer the one who tamed and consoled her, who taught her of Heaven and Hell. He was her enemy now, the fallen angel who had sent Zarel to kill her, the fallen angel she must supplant from the throne of Hell.

“Laila!” came a voice above, and hands grabbed stones and tossed them aside. There she saw his face, the face she had once loved so much... only it was not Beelzebub. Instead of dark hair, blond curls topped this head, crowned with a halo. No dark fire filled these eyes, only godlight and heavenly piousness that seared her. It was Michael, Beelzebub’s older brother.

His hands, ashy, tossed aside rocks and stones. Sweat drenched his face as he pulled the boulder that covered her. The sunlight burned Laila’s eyes, and she squinted, head spinning, muzzy. Volkfair dug beside Michael. When the wolf saw her, he leapt onto her, licking the ash off her cheeks. Laila blinked weakly, lying down. She wanted to embrace Volkfair, but her arms would not move.

“Eclipse,” she whispered, lips dry, dusty. “I killed him, Michael. My demon blood, my evil. Let me die, Michael. Please, I deserve it.” She felt tears flow down her cheeks to touch her lips, bloody and dusty.

Michael tossed aside another boulder, then knelt beside her, examining her, eyes narrowed. He placed his hands atop her arms, her legs, her belly, her chest, feeling for injuries, then finally leaned back.

“You’ll be all right,” he said, voice muffled as if speaking miles away. “How do you feel?”

She managed to shift her head, but could not lift it. “Like a demon hive collapsed on top of me.”

She tried to speak again, but no words left her throat. Her body felt bashed up like an old tin pot. She could not raise her head to look at her body, but from what she saw, it was dusty, bruised, and bloody.
I’m hurt,
she thought.
Maybe badly. I wish I had died down there. Why do I keep living, only to feel more pain?

Michael and his angels lowered a litter into the pit, lifted Laila gingerly, and carried her back to the surface of the world. Laila lay with eyes shut, hating that she cried, hating to be so weak, so helpless.
It could have ended there. I could have died, and I would have deserved it. I’m sorry, Eclipse. I’m sorry, Bat El. I’m sorry that I’m like this, that I’m tarnished. Run from me, let me be. I’m a monster. Leave me. Let me die.

“We’ll heal you,” Michael spoke, and she felt his calloused fingers against her cheek.

Laila swallowed, pain burning through her. “Your godlight can’t heal me,” she whispered. “God’s grace is forbidden to me, and your healing light would burn me.”

She could say no more. As the angels carried her litter, Laila found herself wishing Bat El had joined them. For the first time in her life, Laila missed her sister, worried for her.

Be careful, Bat El,
she thought, as if she could transfer her thoughts into her sister’s mind.
Be careful out there in the fort. If I know Beelzebub, he’s on his way there... or with you already. He can be sweet, Bat El, and he will be a friend to you. But be careful. He is dangerous, more than you’ll ever know.

She tried to speak to Michael, to ask of Bat El, but could not. Sleep overcame her, and darkness covered her world.

Bat El woke up, sunlight against her eyes, pain across her body. She kicked off her blankets; they felt heavy as boulders, crushing her, constricting her breath. She looked around, blinking, confused. In her dreams, she was stuck underground, buried, and still her body ached as if bruised.

With stiff fingers, Bat El pushed the hair back from her eyes.
Laila is in trouble,
she knew.
Laila is in pain.

Bat El rose to her feet, smoothing her nightgown. She gazed out the window of her chamber, and saw a thousand demons flying in rings around the fort’s tower, a constant vigil. Bat El wished she could fly to her sister’s aid, but there was no escape from this fort. She looked past the flying demons to the sea, and the waves seemed so beautiful to her, so close yet out of reach.
I used to swim in those waves in the morning,
Bat El remembered, the memory bringing tears to her eyes.

If Laila hurt, that was good, Bat El told herself; it meant the half-angel was still alive. Bat El had long known that she could sense the tribulations and heartache of her sister. Whenever Laila got in a fight, the pain pounded through Bat El’s head. Whenever Laila found comfort in a mossy cave or dry burrow, Bat El slept peacefully through the night, sweet dreams comforting her.

Laila hurt this morning, but in the deepest shadows beyond her conscious mind, Bat El felt the steady pulse of the half-demon. Laila was wounded, but strong, strong in ways Bat El knew she would never fully comprehend. Laila would live.

Bat El sat down on her bed, placed her hands in her lap, and stared at her fingers. Demon blood still dirtied her fingernails. Beelzebub had left her only a small jug of water, which she had drunk, leaving no water for washing. She had tried to sneak down into the bathing chamber at night, but demons patrolled outside her window, and her door was locked.

Beelzebub will visit me soon,
she knew, and she hated that, strangely, the thought comforted her. He was the lord of Hell, the demon who had imprisoned her, who slaughtered angels around her; how could she feel anything but hatred toward him? Bat El sighed. As much as it shamed her, she did look forward to his visit, perhaps because all other demons here were twisted, scaly, cruel. Beelzebub was still an angel, albeit a fallen, demonic one. He was, she hated to admit, the closest thing to a friend—or at least a fellow angel—she had in this fort.

He was also, Bat El thought as she gazed to the shades out the window, the only one in this fort who didn’t want to rip out her throat.

Sure enough, she soon heard his footsteps climbing the stairs, and he unlocked the door and stepped in. As always, he wore his old Roman armor, blackened as by fire, filigreed with gold. The breastplate, vambraces on his arms, and greaves on his shins carried the dull sheen of two thousand years of use. Instead of a helm, he wore only his dark curls. He looked so much like Michael, Bat El thought; the straight nose, the strong jaw, those ancient eyes.

“Good morning, Bat El,” he said. “How did you sleep?” He carried a basket topped with cloth, and Bat El struggled not to sigh with pleasure, the basket smelled so good. She could smell fresh bread, oranges, and omelets, and her stomach grumbled. When she noticed that Beelzebub also carried a thermos of coffee, she couldn’t help but sigh; coffee would be heavenly. She quickly composed herself, struggling to hide her hunger and thirst.

“I slept fine, thank you,” she said icily, but he caught her eyes flick again toward the basket, and he winked. Bat El cursed herself and felt her cheeks flush.

“You must be hungry,” Beelzebub said. “I know I am. I have some omelets. I made them myself, with cheese and mushrooms and green peppers. And trust me, after twenty-seven years of war, it’s tough to find cheese, mushrooms, and green peppers. I thought we might have a picnic on the beach.”

Bat El stared at the wall.
Why does he want my friendship? Why is he so pleasant this morning? Whatever he wants from me, I won’t give it to him.
“I’m more than content to eat here,” she said, “and mushrooms or peppers won’t be necessary. I am on Earth for duty, not pleasure. Toast and water would suffice.”

“There will be no toast and no water in this fort. Come with me to the beach. I insist. If you agree, I’ll let you have a bath later. You must be wanting a good bath, at least.”

Bat El pursed her lips. A bath would be as heavenly as coffee; the demon blood and ash still coated her skin, and her hair had never been so dirty. She knew she had come to Earth for war, and had been prepared for it, but temptation was hard to resist. She looked out the window to the beach, and a longing filled her to let the sand touch her toes, the wind touch her cheeks, to escape from this fort which had become her prison.

She walked to the window. “Let’s go,” she said, placing a foot on the windowsill.
I’ll humor him today,
she thought.
I’ll go with him to the beach.
The real reason she kept to herself. Out there, at the beach, no demons flew in vigil.

There, outside the fort, Bat El could escape.