Sinners & Sorcerers: Four Urban Fantasy Thrillers (76 page)

“Moloch!” Laila shouted. “Come out and meet me.”

She saw his fortress ahead. The gates were flooded, but the towers emerged from the water, flickering with torchlight. She knew the place at once. It was there that the demons brought her at age fifteen. It was there that Moloch stared down upon her sizzling body, his pale lips snarling. The memory pounded through her. She could feel the pain of hellfire again, the claws of demons, and most vivid of all, she remembered Moloch’s eyes, dead and cruel as they watched her burn.

Blade held high, dripping demon blood, Laila swooped toward the fortress. Her halo crackled, and flames rose in her wake, a trail of fire.
Remember what Michael taught you. You can do this.

Moloch’s fortress was close now, rising from the blackened water, carved of polished jet. Three archdemons took flight from its battlements, shooting up to meet her. They were each like a fireball, demons of claws and fangs. Each was thrice her size, staring with eyes that dripped lava. Laila’s blade flew, and the head of one archdemon crashed into the water. The other two surrounded her, and Laila shot up toward the ceiling. She clutched her blade in her mouth, pulled out her handguns, and fired down, a gun in each hand. The bullets slammed into the archdemons, blinding them, and they howled. Before they could recover, Laila swooped down, blade flashing left and right, and two more archdemon heads flew, tumbling through the air before they crashed into the water.

A hundred shades mobbed Laila, but two grenades scattered them, and Laila crashed through a stained glass window of the fort, tumbling inside with shards of light, guns blazing. Her bullets knocked aside a dozen shades, and when another archdemon leapt her way, her blade cut him down. For a moment, Laila found respite from battle, and she knelt on the bloody floor, panting, covered in demon blood.

Looking around, she saw a chamber of black marble, torches in the walls. Demon chanting, fires crackling, and blades ringing rose in a cacophony outside the window, and from deeper in the fortress, Laila heard demons hissing and scuttling. With a wince, Laila examined her arm, where she had crashed into the pot of tar. Welts rose across her skin, and demon claws ran along her thigh, bleeding. She couldn’t even remember when a demon had cut her; her adrenaline drowned the pain.

Still catching her breath, heart pounding, Laila reloaded her handguns, shook blood off her blade, and pulled bandages from her pockets. She bound her wounds, wiped blood off her brow, and snarled. No sooner did she rise to her feet than a dozen shades burst into the chamber. Once she had cut them down, Laila stepped out the door into the hallway, halo crackling.

“Thought you could kill Moloch without me?” came a voice behind, and Laila turned to see Nathaniel following her into the hallway. A bandage covered his brow, bloody. Demon blood dripped down his spear.

“Now how did you even get here without wings?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Two shades flew down the hallway, and Nathaniel speared them and tossed the bodies aside. “I leapt from the tunnel, fell through the sky for a while, then caught a ride on the back of some demon. When you hold a knife to a demon’s throat, he’ll fly you wherever you like.”

Laila shook her head with a sigh. “You’re crazy, aren’t you?”

“I’d have to be, to come and join you. Remember what I said. I’m watching your back.”

Laila gestured with her head down the hallway. “Let’s go then. I hate to keep Moloch waiting.”

The two moved down the hallway, Laila’s guns firing, Nathaniel’s spear flying. They left a trail of dead shades as they walked, their boots squelching through blood. Outside the windows, they glimpsed bodies of angels and demons raining, crashing into the water. They climbed staircases, moving higher and higher up the fortress. Endless demons flowed outside, emerging from every crack and tower, and Laila winced.
I’m going to run out of angels before they run out of demons.
Thousands of angel bodies floated in the water, and hundreds more rained dead as she watched. Archdemons flowed between her battalions, knocking angels aside like so many rag dolls.

For a moment, doubt—cold and painful—shot through Laila. She bit her lip.
Can I really do this? Can I really take Limbo, or will this go down as the most spectacular failure in military history?
The idea of conquering Limbo seemed so preposterous to her then, that she wanted to flee, to run to her forests and dunes, to hide and never more emerge from exile. Then Laila saw a statue she recognized, a jet bust of Moloch set into the wall, its eyes made of rubies, and memories pounded through her. She had been fifteen, skin red and blistering, hair aflame. The demons had carried her by this statue, and its ruby eyes seemed to mock her, and she wanted to smash it, to let it fall upon her and kill her, ending her pain. Walking up the staircase, bloody blade dripping, Laila clenched her jaw, still feeling the pain of hellfire.
Moloch wanted to let me burn away. He would have too, had Beelzebub not stopped him. I’m going to kill you now, Moloch.

As she moved across the fort, the memories filled her, running through her veins like lava. She knew this place. She had seen it a million times in her nightmares. Soon she found the doorways that led to Moloch’s hall, towering doorways of stone, encrusted with gems.

“He’s in there,” she whispered to Nathaniel. “Be careful. He’s a mean one.”

Nathaniel nodded, spear in hand, the bandage across his brow soaked with sweat and blood. Demon blood covered his spear and chain mail. He spat, then reached out his hand for Laila to shake. She shook it; it was rough and strong.

“Nice fighting with you, girl,” the angel said. “If we don’t talk again, good luck with the whole usurping Beelzebub thing.”

She nodded. “Ready?”

He nodded too, and they kicked the doors open and burst into the hall of Moloch, lord of Limbo.

+ + +

The demons were fleeing or dying over Jerusalem. With Beelzebub gone, their ranks crumbled, and the angels were retaking their positions, securing the city, healing the wounded, dragging the dead into communal graves. There was no cheering over this victory, only stern faces, tears. Some angels wept on their knees, armor splashed with blood, tears drawing lines down ashy, bloody cheeks. Crows circled over the ruins, pecking at bodies.

Michael moved through the city as a ghost, seeing nobody, eyes dead. Blood covered his armor, his wings, his hair, thick with dust. None dared approach him as he moved, and for the first time, angels saw him without his lance. He had tossed the weapon aside, the first time he had abandoned it since Lucifer raised the kingdom of Hell. Michael no longer cared for this war. He had won this battle, but to him, the war was over, and he had lost it.

When he found the body of Raphael, a handful of corporals and privates were already there, standing shocked before it, not daring to approach. When they saw Michael, they stepped aside, saluting, eyes haunted. Michael did not bother returning the salute. He walked toward the body of his youngest brother and stood above it, gazing down.

Raphael lay in blood, his white robes now red. His hair spread out around him, and his eyes were open, glassy, sad even in death. His flask was open, and its spirits mixed with the blood. His staff was shattered, and Beelzebub’s claws had torn into his neck.

“What have you done, Beelzebub?” Michael whispered, and then shouted at the sky in rage. The city trembled. He tore off his breastplate and tossed it aside, rent his tunic, and fell to his knees by his brother.

“You never wanted a part in this war,” Michael said to his brother, embracing the body. “You were never a soldier, only a healer.”
Yet now you lie dead here, while I, the soldier, live on.

He turned to the angels who stood at the mouth of the alley, armor and hair dusty and bloody. “Get me a litter,” Michael said to them, staring from under his brows. “We’re going to take him out of here.”

They buried Raphael that day outside the city. Michael chose a hill where several olive trees still stood, and one could see the sunset and ruins. Michael allowed no weapons at the funeral, no armor, no cannons. This would not be a military funeral. He buried his brother quickly, simply—shades mustered in these hills for new attacks—and placed a boulder upon the grave, where he carved Raphael’s name.

“You always said God was in everything,” he spoke over the grave, lines of angels covering the hill. “In flowers, trees, clouds above, waves in the sea. Become part of God, brother. Become part of the grass that grows here, of the breeze that rustles the trees, of the waves that whisper.” He had no flowers, but he placed pebbles upon the grave, like humans in this land would do before Armageddon.

That night, Michael sat in his tent, alone with his grief.
Why do they all betray us? Is God such a tyrant, and Heaven such a horror, that they leave?
Once Michael had believed that goodness still remained in Beelzebub, but he had become a demon worse than Lucifer, a killer of his own blood.

And now, Bat El, you strive against me too. You too have fallen from grace.
As the wind howled through the night outside, Michael lowered his head in despair.

+ + +

As soon as she stormed into the room, Laila fired one of her guns, her sword drawn in the other hand. Moloch stood there, as she had expected. The bullets slammed into him, then fell to the ground, shattered. The fallen angel examined the holes the bullets had punched into his black, scaled armor, then raised his eyes and stared at Laila.

For a moment Laila froze, blade drawn, fangs bared. Moloch’s eyes sent ice into her chest. She had never seen such cold eyes, a gray like death. His black hair hung around his pale face, slick. He wore a black cape encrusted with rubies, his stone, and carried a blade on his belt. His armor was made of steel scales, like the scales of an archdemon. The hall was wide, the floor black marble with red veins. Between stone columns, Laila could see the landscapes of Limbo, alight with war.

“My, my. Little Laila—all grown up,” Moloch said, his icy eyes belying the hint of amusement in his voice. He unfurled his wings to their full span, ten feet across, their tips glinting with claws. Laila couldn’t help but remember the stories she had heard of him. Thousands of years ago, Moloch would demand the humans sacrifice their children to him. They would place the child in a bronze statue of Moloch, and burn fires below it, so that the metal heated and cooked the child within. How many children had this fallen god burned?
However many it was, it won’t happen again,
Laila told herself.

“So you remember me,” she said. “I must have left an impression. I’m grown up now, it’s true. And I brought a friend.” She raised her blade.

Moloch raised an eyebrow. “A friend? You mean this wingless angel?” So swiftly she barely saw him move, Moloch drew his sword, leapt over Laila, and shoved his blade through Nathaniel’s armor into his heart. Before he collapsed, the wingless angel managed to slam his spear into Moloch’s chest; the spear shattered against the demon, doing him no harm. Moloch stared down at Nathaniel’s body in disgust. “So much for friends.”

Laila bit her lip, curbing the sudden horror that filled her. She pointed her blade at Moloch. “Actually, I mean this sword. Do you recognize the steel, Moloch? It is Heaven steel, forged with one purpose: to kill demons.”

Moloch laughed, a sound like crackling ice. His face became monstrous as he laughed, his fangs glinting like the rubies strewn through his clothes. “So you have joined Heaven, little Laila, though demon blood flows through you.” He took a goblet of bloodwine from a table and drank, staining his fangs and lips with red. “Of course, godlight would still burn you. Michael is using you, Laila of Hell. Any kingdom of Heaven he builds on Earth would burn your demon blood.”

Laila shook her head, trying to ignore Nathaniel’s blood which pooled around her boots. “I don’t care about Earth. I am Lucifer’s daughter, and Hell is my domain. Your reign here ends today, Moloch. I’ve killed two fallen angels before, and Moloch... three is my lucky number.”

With a snarl, he rushed toward her, blade flashing. Laila ducked, raising her sword in parry. The blades raised sparks across the hall, and Laila growled, her arm aching with the strength of his blow. Moloch was strong. When his blade came down again, parrying seemed almost to dislocate Laila’s arm. She bit her lip, ignoring the fear.
Remember what Michael taught you. You have Heaven blood in you, Laila; that gives you strength that can defeat him. I am Laila, of the night, of sins and piety. I can do this.

The blades rang across the hall, sparks flying. They moved as in a dance, just her and Moloch. The entire world seemed to disappear around Laila. She barely saw the hall, barely saw the angels and demons who watched from the windows, barely saw Moloch. She was back on Earth, in the dust of Caesarea’s Roman amphitheatre, dueling with Michael. Haloflame was as a part of her, checking Moloch’s blows.

When his first blow passed her defense, etching a red line along her shoulder, she grunted. She kept parrying, but Moloch was relentless in his attack, his blade shooting toward her like endless vipers, so fast she barely saw him move. Laila had no chance to attack. She snarled, her halo burning, and flapped her wings. She swooped toward him, but he blocked her blow and struck again. His blade etched a line across her cheek, she tasted blood on her lips, and she flew back. He came after her, blade whirring, and she barely checked the blow.

“Is this all you’ve got, girl?” Moloch asked, laughing. “You came all this way just to die here now, didn’t you?”

He lashed another attack, and Laila barely parried.
Damn.
Moloch was good.
Did I bite off more than I can chew?
His blade kept lashing, her blood trickled, and Laila let rage overpower her fear.
I am Laila, of the night, of hellfire and godlight. I won’t die today.
She had to move from defense to attack. When his next blow lashed, Laila didn’t bother parrying, but leapt forward, blade flashing down. Moloch’s sword dug into her shoulder, and she screamed, bringing down her sword.