Flaming Dove (12 page)

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.

Chapter Eight

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.

* * * * *

Standing in the chamber with his picnic basket, Beelzebub took Bat El's hand. She tried to pull her hand back, but he held her fast, and she finally capitulated and let him hold her hand, even squeezed back.
She likes that I took her hand,
he thought, surprised at how good her skin felt. Zarel's hand felt like scales and fire; Bat El's was soft and warm.

They leapt out the window and spread their wings, holding hands. Bat El's wings were like a swan's, wide and white, brilliant. His wings were leathery, black, bat wings. They flew down to the beach and landed in fluffy sand. Beelzebub let go of Bat El's hand and let her take two steps away from him. The wind blew her hair back from her face, and she stared at him with a mixture of uncertainty, hatred, and hunger.
She still wants that picnic.

"Before you try to escape," he said, "let's have our picnic. I can see you're hungry."

"I'm not planning to escape you," she said, and Beelzebub knew she was lying. After millennia in Hell, he could always tell a lie.

He removed his armor and placed it in the sand, remaining in his tunic. Bat El still wore her night gown—a flowing piece of white cotton—and no armor. He removed the blanket from the basket and placed it on the sand, then set out eggs, breads, a jar of jam, and fruit salad. He poured mugs of coffee, and they sat down to eat, the sand soft, the waves whispering. Beads of light danced on the turquoise sea.

"Ah, a romantic picnic!" he said. "What a lovely first date for us."

Bat El wiped egg off her mouth. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm here for the food, not the company."

"Oh, sure. Play hard to get. It only encourages me, baby."

Bat El sighed and sipped her coffee. Gradually color was returning to her cheeks, and she even struggled at passing her fingers through her hair, untangling it. "You're not a typical overlord of Hell, are you? I never knew the devil could make a decent cup of coffee."

"Oh, the devil makes the
best
coffee. Now I'm thinking that instead of omelets, I should have made deviled eggs."

"Leave the puns to the angels. You stick to cooking."

"Fair enough." He sipped his own coffee. "So tell me, Bat El, what are you doing here? You're Gabriel's daughter. You had a cozy job up in Heaven and more nepotism than anybody but Jesus. Why come down to this hell hole?"

She spread jam on her bread. "To fight the likes of you."

"Ouch. Now I'm insulted. I'm thinking I won't let you have any dessert."

She stared at the waves, bread in hand. "Lucifer was nothing like you. I never heard of Lucifer making anybody breakfast. You're more like... well, you remind me of your brother, almost. You do look like him."

"Aside from the swan wings, the halo, and the godlight, you mean." He leaned over and punched her arm. "Come on, Bat El. You don't think I'm all that bad. Admit it."

"Maybe," she said, not looking at him. "When you're not locking me up in a dungeon full of demons."

"Hey, I'll take a 'maybe'. That's more than I'd get from most angels." He lowered his voice. "And you're not like most angels, no more than I'm like most demons."

Finally she looked at him. She bit into her bread. "And how is that, oh mighty Beelzebub, great King of Hell? How am I unlike most angels?"

"You're good at heart."

"All angels are good. That's why we're not demons."

He nodded and bit his own bread. "That's what they teach you in Heaven. You must have been a good student."

"Straight A's, wouldn't you believe it?"

"Maybe I can teach you a few more things." He reached over to touch her hand. "Are you willing to learn? I can teach you a lot about both Hell and Heaven."

She leaned over with a smile, as if to kiss him. "Oh, I'm sure you can," she said... then punched him in the face.

He blinked, pain filling him, when her swan wings flapped, and she flew into the air.

With a curse, Beelzebub leapt up and flew after her, wings flapping. She flew fast, shooting into the clouds above the beach. He followed, eyes narrowed, face still tingling from her punch. Bat El flew like a bullet, clouds flurrying around her, but she was not fast enough. Not as fast as a five-thousand-year-old fallen angel who happened to be the ruler of Hell. He caught her leg among the clouds, and she kicked, but he would not let go.

She screamed and struggled, punching him. He pulled her toward him, wrapping his arms around her. She fought against him, and he refused to let go. He folded his wings against him, and dived down with her in his arms, falling through clouds until they crashed into the sea.

The waves flowed over them, and for a moment they held their breath underwater. Then their heads burst onto the surface, and they took deep breaths.

"Leave me alone!" Bat El said, but Beelzebub refused to let go until she ceased struggling, going limp in his arms. "Damn you," she whispered, tears in her eyes, and let her head fall against his shoulder. The water rose to their necks.

He looked at her, still in his arms, and his grip turned into an embrace. At a whim, he touched her hair, then kissed her forehead as she cried, and without knowing how it happened, he found himself kissing her. She kissed him back, deeply, her hands in his hair, his hands around her waist. For long moments they kissed in the water, the sun twinkling around them, rising and falling in the waves. Her lips tasted like strawberry jam, the softest lips he could remember kissing, and Beelzebub had kissed many girls in his long life.