Crossed (5 page)

There’s a long pause as I swallow his truths.

He raises an eyebrow and looks at me. “Was that what you were looking for? The
truth
.” He laughs again, bitter. “What would you have done if I told you the truth
then
? Before any of this.” More chains rattling as he waves at our situation. “Before you realized I’d hidden the Beacon Map. What If I had told you then that by refusing to side with the demons—not sell your soul, I wouldn’t expect
that
sort of sacrifice, not from you,” he smiles sharply, “just to
work
with them—that I would go to hell?”

Before we had ever met, zi-Hilo—demon ruler of the Washington D.C. Acheron and my very own dear old dad—had promised to release the soul of any demon who could convince me to join them. Armand had pursued me, had himself thrown into the cell beside me when the demons held me hostage, then later followed me to the Crusader community in order to befriend me.

Unbidden, I see Armand then. I see him on the Mountain Park roof, laughing. I see the delighted gleam in his eye as we stand over the broken corpse of a murderer. I see him at my side after Isaiah and his buddies tried to kill me, after Jo and I had the harshest of our many fights.

“I like you as you are. Good, evil, whatever. All I care about is that you’re alive. Please, Meda.”
His long fingers tangled in my hair; his voice hoarse
. “Please, just come with me.”

I remember the freedom of being with someone who understood me for the first time in my life.

“We belong together. They—demons, Crusaders—they want to pick little pieces of you; I would have you all. Unlike your friends, I can delight in the darkest recesses of your soul just as I can the other parts.”

Armand’s voice calls me back from my painful memories. “What if I had told you
then
, that, by picking them, you were condemning me to an eternity of suffering?” He leans forward, climbing to his knees, then rises to his feet. “When we were back in that underground room, hiding from the Crusaders and demons who were right above us, fighting for the right to kill you.” He pauses, giving me time to remember, to feel the blackness of that darkroom, the hopelessness of our situation, closing around us. To feel again the fear of wondering what would happen to us. To him.

The next line he says is soft. Bleak. The tone of someone remembering something precious they lost. “When you took my hand.” He looks down at it then and rubs his fingers and thumb together, as if he can still feel my palm in his, our fingers entwined. He looks back up, his words still soft. “I almost told you then.” A pause. “What would you have said?”

He must remember how I did react when I discovered the truth, because his hand moves to his wrist, where I had clasped the manacle just a short time later.

I see him as I left him, chained and waiting to die. I hear his pleas as I abandoned him.

“Maybe you can go both ways, Meda, but I can’t. I’m trapped. The Crusaders would never accept me, even if they could. If you chose them, we could never be together. It wasn’t betrayal; it was expediency. You may not like my methods, but I did it all for you. If I could choose, I would. I would choose you. Please Meda, choose me.”

I didn’t. I left him to die, instead. A pity it didn’t work out as I planned. It would have saved me a lot of trouble now. “If you had told me, I would have told you to have a nice trip.”

“Would you?” It’s soft. Almost a whisper, his hungry eyes searching my face for something he will never find. When I don’t respond, he falls backwards against the wall and slides back down. His tone becomes mocking, his mouth twisted in a not-smile. “I guess it’s better that I didn’t then.”

“You must have known that’s how I’d react. Or why not tell me?”

“No, that's not why. I thought we were . . .” he finishes with a shrug instead of a word. “I didn’t think you could be happy, knowing I was in hell, knowing what was happening to me. Knowing you could have stopped it. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to have to make the choice, to choose me over your Crusaders. I thought it’d be easier if your hand were forced. I’d save you that, at least.”

“Well, you were wrong.”

After a long moment he relaxes. “Ah, well, I’ll keep my version.” He tilts his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. The rigid knob of his Adam’s apple is in sharp relief in his emaciated state. His eyes close. “As I said, there’s no fun in the truth.”

“Fun or not, you didn’t answer my question. Why marriage?”

He releases a resigned breath and doesn’t open his eyes. “Because I need the Crusaders to do something for me.”

“You
need
them.”

“Where else am I going to find an army of heroic self-sacrificing idiots?”

Can’t disagree with that one. “And you think they’re going to help you?”

His eyes open and he smiles faintly. “Not on purpose. Obviously.”

“Help you do what?”

“To get my soul back, of course.” He smiles sardonically at my shock. “What else?”

“How?” I stride forward again. “How can they help you?”

“The demons have secrets . . . secrets that if the Crusaders knew, it could change…” His voice became strained and his mouth forms words that he can’t get past his lips. The demonic gag-order at work. He finally substitutes a breathless “everything,” instead of what he wanted to say.

Even seeing the demon magic at work, I can’t help but ask again. “How?”

He opens his mouth then closes it again with a chagrined smile, unable to speak. “If I could tell you, we wouldn’t need to get married now, would we? Though maybe I would anyway.” His tone becomes challenging. “Anything to get rid of that damned indifference.”

I debate the value of pushing for more information, but Puchard had confirmed Armand’s claim that he can’t reveal secrets that the demons have forbidden. Gifted torturer though I am, I’m unlike to succeed at pulling the information within a few hours when the Crusaders haven’t managed to do over the last several months.

And frankly, I’m concerned he’ll discover more of my secrets in the process than I will of his.

“You have my attention now, Armand.” I place my hand on the door. “But I think you'll come to regret it.”

FIVE

There’s a tentative knock on the door. The kind of two-knuckle tap that’s more question than statement. Jo and I haven’t spoken since the night before, but we don’t need to. Not for her to know what I decided. She knows. She knew when she said yes.

“Meda?” Jo asks. I don’t answer and I don’t lift my head off the pillow. I hear her shuffling step as she crosses the room. The bed sags as she sits on its edge. “I
am
sorry. I know it’s not what you wanted.” I still don’t answer. “I didn’t . . . I mean, I don’t . . . I know this needs to happen, but I’m sorry it’s happening to you.” A pause and I hear the click of her leg brace as she shifts. “I would have gone through with it, you know. I still will.”

“That doesn’t make it better, Jo,” I answer without turning. “In fact, that’s the problem.” The bed twitches as she flinches.

“You heard them, Meda. We’re losing. The
world
is losing. We have to do something.”

“Did it ever occur to you that, no,
we
don’t? That
we
are already doing enough and it’s not our damn responsibility?”

I expect her to snap back, but her answer is solemn. “No.”

“Well you don’t have to bring me down with you.”

“You give me too much credit.” A little of her starch returns. “We both know I couldn’t take you anywhere you weren’t willing to go.” She takes a wavering breath. “Focus on the bright side. What you’re doing now, it could save the world. I know that means something to you, no matter what you say.”

I don’t lift my head out of the pillow and I don’t answer. The silence stretches, taut and twisted like scar tissue. I realize she’s holding her breath. Waiting.

I release my own and turn my head on the pillow. “No. The bright side is that you’re my maid of honor and I’m going to saddle you with an ass-bow the world will never forget.”

She releases her breath in a short, relieved laugh. “It’s not that kind of ceremony.”

“Dream-killer.”

She shifts a little on the bed. “They . . . they want to do it as soon as possible.”

“Before I change my mind, they mean.”

“Maybe.”

“How soon is soon?”

She clears her throat in a way that answers.

“Now?”

She shrugs, sheepish. “The world’s not going to save itself.”

I slam my head a few times into the pillow, muttering curses. Then allow myself to be hauled to my feet. Chi was called on assignment a few hours before dawn, so while he isn’t waiting for us in the common room, the Sarge is. She stands when I enter, but slowly, and I’m reminded suddenly of how old she is. She doesn’t smile, but I think there’s a hint of approval in her light blue eye, though I can’t be certain as I’ve never seen it there before.

I flick a look at Jo and raise my eyebrows.
Why is she here
?

Jo gives a tiny shrug.

“Melange,” the Sarge says in needless acknowledgment. With a curt motion she waves me to precede her through the door and falls into step next to me, slowing her clipped military stride to match my slouchy, reluctant one. “You’re about to get married.” She clears her throat uncomfortably. “And as you no longer have a mother, I feel it’s my duty to explain what to expect.”

What to expect?
She can’t mean…

She clears her throat again. “Now, it’s been quite some time since I’ve done it.” She scratches the back of her head. “Years and years, really, but—’

My look of absolute, utter horror cuts her off.

She sees my expression and her face takes on an equally horrified one. Under different circumstances I would laugh to see the severe, emotionless Sarge turn such a brilliant shade of red, but the threat of a sex talk from the Sarge is too terrifying to allow levity.

Fortunately she holds up her hand. “No. No. Oh, God, no, this isn’t
that
talk.”

I’m weak with relief.

“The spell.” She pulls herself under control, her military mask falling back into place. “I want to walk you through what to expect with the
spell
.” Something occurs to her and she looks at me sideways, affronted. “Really, Melange,
years
?”

Before I can decide whether I want to faint, vomit, or cry, she launches into an explanation of what is going to happen as we trot down the stairs, which I only half pay attention to. I imagine I listen as well as any death row inmate on the way to execution.

There’s a carefully non-denominational church on the premises, but the wedding isn’t going to be held there. Instead they’ve selected a windowless interior classroom. Probably because they’re unconvinced the bride and groom won’t burst into flames upon crossing the church’s threshold.

It’s clear the Crusaders had optimistically set everything up in advance, and there’s an air of anxious urgency. Now that they’d committed to the experiment, they’re anxious to see if it will bear results. All the furniture has been removed from the room, but for a white-draped alter that is shaped suspiciously like a debate-team podium. On it rests a pair of holy blades.

As if I wasn’t dreading what was going to happen enough.

Marked on the floor surrounding the altar is a large chalk circle surrounded by ornate, twisting symbols I can’t begin to decipher. The delicate lines twist and swirl, spiraling outward in a design that looks like it should be done in henna. The posters on the wall and equipment lining the shelves declare the room’s more standard use as a science lab, which makes perfect sense. This ceremony is more science experiment than wedding.

All Crusaders not currently on assignment—mostly from the medical wing, judging by the number of bandaged limbs and crutches—cram into the small room and are pressed against the walls to allow enough space for the ceremony. Their uneven gaits, wrapped wounds, and the generable disreputableness that characterize the Crusaders’ style make them look more like a mummy invasion than a wedding party. The mood, also, is not the celebratory joviality typical of weddings, but rather one of the bated-breath optimism, the hope-for-the-best-prepare-for-the-worst bracing of family members waiting for news in an ER.

Armand already stands beside the altar with Crusader Puchard. Graff, as lead perpetrator of this farce, stands just outside the circle and the Sarge joins him. They both watch Armand, their distrustful gaze suggesting they expect him to make a run for it now that his chains have been removed. They have no need to worry. The satisfied gleam in his eye says he’s not going anywhere.

His mouth lifts in a triumphant smile when he sees me. “Ah, there’s my blushing bride,” he murmurs as Jo and I join them.

I ignore him. “Remind me again, Jo, what happens if I kill him?”

“Agony for all eternity,” she says, sounding as dismayed as I feel.

“Ah. Right. Well, maybe we should make him wear that on a T-shirt or something.”

“Ouch.” He rubs his chest as if I’d stabbed him there. I wish. “Come on, Meda. Let’s let bygones be bygones. Bury the hatchet so to speak.”

I just give him a look. It’s pretty apparent where I want to bury the hatchet. I might be marrying him, but I have no intention of being caught in his snare. Not again.

I know I have a weakness for Armand. It does no one any good to deny it. It’s there, some fault line in my character, which could crack me wide open if I’m not careful.

Hey, even diamonds have flaws.

My only option is to avoid him as much as possible. We’ll be wed and bound by Crusader magic, so I can’t avoid him entirely, but Jo said it takes weeks of separation before your power starts to drain away, then months before the flow of power
out
is replaced by a flow of pain
in
. It sucks, but if I only need to be near Armand for a few days every few months, I’ll have time to guard myself, to shore up my inherent weakness where he’s concerned. Plus the Crusaders can bind and gag him when I’m in his presence.

They owe me that.

He thinks he’s won, but he has forgotten that I never lose.

“I don’t know what you’re so mad about,” he says, disgustingly cheerful. “Or need I remind you that
you’re
the one who left
me
to die.”

“You’re the one who shouldn’t forget it,” I say sweetly.

Puchard interrupts our exchange. “Beauregard.” He nods pointedly outside the circle. She gives me one more apologetic look before stepping carefully over the chalk art, joining the mummified wedding guests. The tension in the room heightens.

“Hold hands,” Puchard orders. I hesitate; taking his hand feels somehow irrevocable. I feel flushed, my heart suddenly racing. Armand’s hand is open, but he doesn’t reach for mine, I meet his eyes and there’s a retrained eagerness, as if it’s taking all his will not to reach out and snatch my hand. It’s as if he, too, feels that me taking his hand means something.

But it doesn’t. It means nothing at all. I grab his hand with a deliberate coolness and turn my face back to Puchard.

But not fast enough to miss the jubilant victory in Armand’s eyes.

“Don’t let go,” Puchard says ominously. “No matter what happens, don’t let go.”

I suddenly wish I’d paid more attention to the Sarge’s explanation.

Puchard begins a low, chanting murmur and the room is dropped into darkness. An unnatural pitch black. Darker than a mere flicking of a light switch could ever be responsible for. Surprise alone makes my grip on Armand’s hand tighten.

A wind stirs, tossing my hair, swirling around my legs, curling around Armand and my joined hands, twining about us like a living thing. Then it becomes stronger, harsher. The gentle zephyr becomes a screaming banshee. It whistles around us, until it becomes a buffeting gale, trying to tear us apart. I manage to stay on my feet and keep my grip on Armand as the storm rages around us, screaming in fury.

Then suddenly a voice explodes from everywhere at once, so loud it all but drowns out the storm. I would have fallen to my knees if not for Armand’s grip on my hand. The sound of it, the achingly beautiful musicality of it makes me want to scream in both joy and pain as it hammers my eardrums. It chants in the ancient language of the Crusaders and I have no idea what it is saying. It must be Puchard speaking. It must be, but I know it is not. Suddenly the brutal beauty of that foreign voice is replaced with Puchard’s voice in English. But it has a depth, an underlying power that the little old man is quite incapable of.

“Do you swear before these witnesses?” Each word is slow and heavy, delivered with the solemnity of a priest.

The raging storm suddenly stops, the whistling wind cut dead in an instant. In the calm, endless dark that surrounds us, a thousand lights flare into existence. There is a weight to their presence, a throbbing sentience, which says they are not mere bits of heat and oxygen. They are something more. And then I recognize them. I saw them once, in a shrine to the Crusaders’ dead, back in a time when the Crusaders had the time and resources to honor their dead with more than a shallow grave and a hasty incantation.

They are the glowing flames of the inheritance, the burning fire that bursts into light at the death of a Crusader.

The brilliant lights seem to extend into eternity, though that’s impossible. There are walls, there are Crusaders, there’s Jo, standing mere feet from us. I know that, but I can’t see it. I see only the night sky full of waiting, watching stars. That and Armand’s face bathed in the soft light of their glow. He, too, looks around in wonder. Then our eyes meet we’re suddenly the only two people in the entire universe. We are suspended among the stars, alone but for each other.

The voice, when it comes, doesn’t shatter that impression. Instead, its otherness seems to heighten it, seems to emphasize Armand and my similarities by comparison. “Do you swear before these witnesses?” It states again.

The holy blades on the altar burst into light, our next step apparent. I reach out with a trembling hand and wrap my hand around the glowing hilt of the nearest blade. My skin crawls in revulsion, the demon part of me, which is forbidden to use weapons, making itself felt. I ignore it and grip the blade firmly.

“Cut me.” The sound of Armand’s voice, so quiet after the deafening roar of the Other, startles me. “I can’t touch the blades. Cut me.” Of course not, still being a demon.

Though, if this goes as it should, not for long.

There’s a heavy oppression in the moment, an intimacy in his request that disquiets me. Again,
again
, I feel that terrifying sense of irrevocability. I take refuge behind my usual shield of humor and bluster. “I thought you’d never ask.”

His sudden smile is replaced with a grimace as I bring the blade across the forearm of the hand that holds mine.

The voice roars into existence again. “Do you swear?”

Armand watches the red blood swell from the wound then roll down his arm and over our joined hands. “I do,” Armand says, his voice hoarse. Then louder. “I do.”

I bring the blade across my own arm. The stinging pain makes my voice rougher than I intend. “I do.”