Sinners & Sorcerers: Four Urban Fantasy Thrillers (74 page)

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Beelzebub said, taking a step forward, sword in hand. “I don’t want to remember what happened between us. This war is for soldiers. It is for Michael and me. Go back to Heaven now, Raphael, or you might never see it again. I forgave you long ago for what you did to me. It wasn’t easy, and it took me long, but I managed to forgive you. But if you stand before me again, Raphael... if you try to oppose me once more... I will do what I could not do then.”

Raphael stayed where he stood. He pulled his flask from his belt, uncorked it, and sipped. Sadness filled those brown eyes. “Beelzebub, you are my brother. I never wished you harm. But when you rebelled against God, I had no choice. You asked me to choose between brother and God. You ask me that again today. I wish I could give you a different answer this time, Beelzebub. Truly I do. But I serve Heaven, and always have. I fought against you in your rebellion, it’s true. And I stand here now. I won’t leave.”

Beelzebub shut his eyes for a moment. What did he feel more, rage or grief? He did not know.
Damn Raphael. Damn him.
Beelzebub could hardly believe the two shared blood. He clenched his teeth, remembering that day, thousands of years ago, when Raphael had betrayed him.
I came to you then, brother,
he thought.
Thousands of years ago, I spoke to you of my hatred of God, of my plan to usurp him. And you turned me in. Because of you, I was banished.

He opened his eyes and stared at his brother, and seeing Raphael’s sad eyes, rage exploded within Beelzebub. He stepped forward, sword drawn, and grabbed Raphael’s shoulder. “Don’t make me kill you.”

Raphael yanked himself free, and Beelzebub—blinded with anger—shoved his brother. He did not know how, but they were fighting; shoves became fists, and fists turned to staff and blade. The fires burned around him. The fires burned within him. The old pain resurfaced, filling him, bringing tears to Beelzebub’s eyes, tears of blood.

“You betrayed me,” he said, his voice half a snarl, half a sob. “Do you know what it feels like to be banished, brother? To be outcast from Heaven, cursed, stripped of my halo and wings?” His tears covered his cheeks. He could not remember the last time he had wept; it must have been centuries ago. “I wanted you to join me, Raphael. You and Michael. But you two joined against me. You two always did, even in the games we played as kids, you two joined against me. You always hated me. But I’m strong, Raphael, stronger than you or Michael, stronger than God. Heaven will be mine, and your precious God, your tyrant, will bow before me.”

He kept shaking his brother, slashing at him with claws, until he realized that blood soaked his sleeves, covered his hands, splashed against him. He stared, horrified, at his bloody claws and let his brother go. Raphael slumped to the floor, soaked in blood, dead.

Beelzebub stared in shock. Terror filled him. Glancing around, he knelt by Raphael’s body, clutched it, shook it.

“Raphael,” he whispered. He tasted tears of blood on his lips. “Baby brother. I didn’t mean it. Are you okay? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

Yet Raphael would not move. He was dead, Beelzebub knew, and that enraged him again. How dare his brother do this to him? Hurt him like this?
I’m glad he died. I’m glad I killed him. He always opposed me, him and Michael. The two of them always hated me.

The rage blinded Beelzebub. He howled and splintered Raphael’s staff between his claws. He slammed at the alley wall, crushing it, stones cascading. Flapping his wings, he rose from the alley, besmeared in blood, wreathed in flame, howling in rage.

“Michael!” he shouted. “Where are you, Michael? You’re next! You’re next, brother. This world will be mine. Heaven will be mine!”

He flew over Jerusalem, mad with rage and horror, blasts of godlight flowing around him, columns of fire blazing, shells exploding. As he flew, he kept shouting Michael’s name. Raphael’s blood stained his clothes and hands.

Godlight burst ahead, and Michael rose in a pillar of sunrays, swan wings glinting, halo alight. He shone with more light than the seraphs, light that would normally burn Beelzebub’s eyes, but today he felt no pain. Michael, archangel, Lord of God’s Hosts, raised his lance and stared at Beelzebub above the battlefield.

“Beelzebub!” Michael cried over the din, voice stern, echoing, accusing.

“I am here,” he replied.

“What have you done, brother?”

Beelzebub laughed, holding out his hands, stained with Raphael’s blood. “Do you recognize this? It is archangel blood. I did what I should have done five thousand years ago. I’ve come to kill those who oppose me, who betrayed me, who banished me. Yes, Michael. I killed Raphael. I killed our baby brother. And now I’ll kill you.”

His tears painted the world in blood, and his rage burned more than the fire and light. He lunged toward Michael, swinging his sword.

Laila marched at the head of her army, wings unfurled, halo flaming, staring up from under her eyebrows, her blade slung over her back. Dust rose from under her boots, staining her pants, and the wind moaned through her hair. She held a handgun stuffed into each boot, just in case, and a string of grenades along her belt.
Michael might not believe in guns, but Michael isn’t here now.

Behind Laila snaked her troops, tens of thousands of angels moving over the fields, dust clouding around them. Clouds veiled the sun and ash blew in the cold wind, dulling the gleam of angel wings and armor. Only their eyes glinted like beaten gold, almost demonic as they marched to war. Here were no angels of harps and psalms; these were angels of wrath and retribution, a hammer of God.
These bastards are as mean as demons.
Laila let a crooked smile find her lips, peeling back from her fangs. She couldn’t wait to meet Moloch again.
I bring some friends this time.

They could have flown, but Laila ordered all troops remain aground until the invasion, to make their movements harder to track. Beelzebub would soon learn of this invasion, if he hadn’t already. This one will be a race against the clock, she knew.
We’ll have to take the place, and fortify it, before Beelzebub crashes the party.
A drizzle began to fall, softening the earth and dousing the dust, pattering against armor. The army seemed strangely silent as it marched. Their banners blew, thudding in the wind, their colors deep in the veiled light.

Soon they reached the lake, or what was left of it. The last of the water was draining into Angor’s tunnel, leaving a muddy bowl like a damp crater. Briefly, Laila wondered about Kayleigh. Would the girl stay by her tree, even with the water gone?
I’ll block Angor’s tunnel once we’re done,
Laila decided,
and let rainwater refill the lake. When this war ends, and I hand the world over to Michael, I might never be able to visit here again, but I’d like Kayleigh to keep her lake.
The girl was like her, like Volkfair, a lone wolf. Laila would look after her.

The army surrounded the emptied lake, an endless flock of swan wings. They polished their blades, drank wine for fortification, and banged spears against shields. Laila flapped her wings and rose into the sky, wreathed in flame, tendrils of fire licking her feet.

“We take Limbo today!” she shouted, so loud the whole army could hear. Her halo crackled and she snarled. “Today we kill Moloch.”

Puddles, aquatic plants, sunken boats, and bodies of fish covered the muddy lakebed. The last of the water soon disappeared, flowing down a tunnel in the center of the bowl, flowing into Hell. Laila swooped, encased in fire, and shot into the tunnel. With a cry that shook the world, her army took flight, swooped down, and flowed into the tunnel behind her.

The tunnel was dark, muddy, stinking of demon. Laila saw the marks of Angor’s claws, like great drills, etched into the walls. The tunnel was unsteady, Laila knew. It could collapse any moment, trapping her here between Earth and Hell, ending her quest, destroying Heaven’s army and probably letting Hell win this war.
If that happens, so be it. It’s not a bad place to die, here underground. No one would have to worry about burying me, and no jackals would tug at my bones.

Yet as Laila moved down the tunnel, her army snaking behind, the walls stood. Angor was good at what he did. The archdemon lived to dig, and he had made them a worthy passage to Limbo. The tunnel coiled down like a screw, muddy, fish flapping across its floor. Water weeds tangled around Laila’s boots.

“Cozy down here,” spoke a voice behind her, and Laila looked over her shoulder to see Nathaniel. The light of her halo reflected in his chain mail.

“Stinks of fish,” she said.

“Limbo’s gonna stink worse.” Nathaniel fingered the blade of his spear. “Gonna stink of demon blood and guts.”

And some of angels too,
Laila thought, remembering her time in Limbo twelve years ago. She would recognize Moloch’s fortress when she saw it again, she knew, and she had never forgotten Moloch’s face. She caressed her own blade.
Remember what Michael taught you. You can use this blade. Michael forged it in Heaven to kill demons. You are strong, Laila. Soon Moloch will know this too.

Laila lost track of time as she led her army down the tunnel. In the darkness, her thoughts found no distraction to banish them, and she wondered about Bat El. Laila’s parents were dead, and Bat El was her only family. If she died here underground, Laila would only regret not seeing Bat El again. That realization made her snort.
Are you getting soft, Laila?
she asked herself.
Why are you suddenly loving your sister? You grew up on Earth, Laila. Bat El grew up in Heaven. You barely know her.

Laila sighed. Things were different since she returned from exile. Bat El no longer lived pampered in Heaven, but was captive to Beelzebub.
Is it jealousy I feel?
Laila wondered.
Do I still love Beelzebub?
No, that was not it, at least not the sum of it. Laila lowered her head.
Bat El used to care for me when I was a child, sending me letters from Heaven, toys I never played with, clothes she sewed for me, her younger, freakish sister. You’ve always looked out for me, Bat El, loved me when nobody else would. I’m going to look after you now. I’m going to save you from Beelzebub.
That is, she thought, if Bat El even wanted to be saved. Beelzebub could be the charmer. Laila knew that all too well.

So lost in her thoughts was Laila, she barely noticed that the tunnel had become hotter, the air steamy. Soon the steam curled around her boots and matted her hair against her brow. “We’re close,” she said to Nathaniel. The wingless lieutenant nodded, spear in hand.

As she kept walking, a distant ruckus came from below. Laila focused her hearing. She thought she made out hammers, demon shouts, chanting. Hell. The sound grew louder, and soon all her troops heard. “Get to the tar!” came a high-pitched scream from below. “Light the fire, I don’t care how wet you are, scum.”
Boom. Crackle. Thud.
“Demons, man your posts! Where’s my fire, damn it?” The shrieks were loud and shrill enough to shatter glass, and Laila fought the urge to cover her ears.

She drew her blade. Haloflame glimmered red in the light of her flaming halo. She looked over her shoulder, fangs bared. “Angels!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. “We go to Hell!”

They shouted back, and Laila ran down the tunnel, sword drawn, eyes aflame, screaming. She burst out of the tunnel into Hell, wreathed in flame and light.

+ + +

Bat El paced the fort’s main hall, demons surrounding her. The shades had orders not to harm her, but they gave her hungry stares, maws drooling, lusting after her. Whether they fantasized of raping her or eating her, Bat El did not know. Perhaps both. She tried to ignore them.
Beelzebub will be back soon.

Or would he? Bat El had seen Michael fight and knew that the archangel could harm Beelzebub, perhaps the only one who could, aside from Laila.
Why am I so worried about Beelzebub? I should want Michael to kill the devil. We came to this world to kill the devil, after all.

Bat El sighed. She did not know. So many things were different now than when this war began. Twenty-seven years ago, when the armies of Heaven and Hell first met on the mountain of Megido, Bat El had been just a girl. Things had been so simple then. God was good, Lucifer was bad. Angels were righteous, demons—monstrous. Yet it was Beelzebub now who ruled Hell, not Lucifer, and Laila—her younger sister whom she loved—was filled with demon blood. Bat El was older now. She had talked to angels who destroyed sinners, who burned the world, who cursed and drank and whored the way only demons should.
I wish I could be a girl again. I wish I never met Beelzebub.
Only she did not truly mean that, and it filled her with guilt.

A growl tore through her thoughts. A great black wolf burst through the windows, and Bat El screamed.

Volkfair!