Flaming Dove (2 page)

The two angels left the main hall, stepped down a corridor, and entered a small chamber. Out the window, Michael saw several angels drilling with spears. He drew the curtains and closed the door behind him.

"Michael," Bat El gushed, eyes sparkling, "the stories are true. I saw her myself, downtown Jerusalem. At least, I'm fairly sure it was her. The bar was shadowy, and I dared not approach her." She paused for breath, chest rising and falling.

"Sit down, Bat El," Michael said, sitting himself in a wooden chair by a heavy oak desk. Bat El took the chair across from him. Michael reached for the decanter of brandy on the desk. He poured them drinks and sipped his slowly, savoring the flavor. Bat El did not touch hers.

"Not as good as heaven's wines," Michael said, leaning back in his seat, "but some Earth drinks do come close. Won't you try a sip?"

Bat El shook her head. "I haven't had a drink since leaving Heaven, sir. I'm here on duty, to serve God, not for pleasure."

Michael sipped his brandy, smiling softly. He had spoken similar words twenty-seven years ago when landing in the Holy Land for the battle of Armageddon. Then again, he had never expected to stay long. They should have
won
Armageddon, regardless of which prophet you asked.
Twenty-seven years,
he thought.
God, I hate this place.

"Very well," he said. "Laila and I will do the drinking. She was drunk when you saw her, I assume."

Bat El nodded and smoothed her white dress as if the smell of dingy pub still clung to it. "There were a number of empty bottles at her table, yes. I didn't see her face. Shadowed in a hood, she kept it. But I saw her wolf." Bat El shuddered. "Its eyes gleamed golden in the shadows. It was like a shadow itself, great and black. And once, when Laila looked up, I saw her own eyes. They also gleamed—red, like a demon's eyes." Bat El shivered again and eyed her glass of untouched brandy, perhaps feeling that she needed a drink after all.

"Then it was her," Michael said and rose to his feet. He faced the eastern wall, where hung a parchment map of Jerusalem. He placed his hand against the map, leaned against the wall, and lowered his head. "How is your father?" he asked softly. "How is Gabriel?"

Bat El shifted uneasily in her seat. "He is... often quiet. Busy. I don't see much of him anymore. He would join you on Earth, but...."

"Yes," Michael said, passing his hand over the mapped roads, "someone still needs to govern Heaven. None better for it than your father. He's a great follower of God, Bat El. He's proud of you."

Bat El lowered her head. "Thank you, sir."

Michael shut his eyes. Twenty-seven years ago, both Heaven and Hell were sure they were headed to clear, quick victory, he remembered. His younger brother Beelzebub—once an angel, now an outcast demon—had been Hell's field commander, younger and brasher then, full of brimstone and flame.

And me, what of me, what of the great Michael?
He had descended to Earth clad in light, surrounded by the song of angels, cherubic, his lance alight.
Look at us now,
Michael thought, shaking his head.
Two brothers. Two old, tired warriors still slugging it out in the muck. We can't do this anymore. Not without her, without Laila.

"Bat El, I want you to find her again," he said, opening his eyes. "We need her if we're to win this world. She must finally join us."

Bat El rose to her feet, eyes alarmed. "Sir! We've spent years pursuing her, begging her to join us. Do you forget Azriel? She killed him when he tried to drag her back. And the corporal Yaram, just a few nights ago...."

Michael, still leaning against the wall, turned to look at the younger angel. She gazed back, eyes bright blue, pink lips open as she breathed heavily.
Beautiful even among angels,
Michael thought.
She looks much like her mother, the mother Laila shares.

"This time your half-sister will join us," he spoke softly. "When she learns who her father was, Laila will join Heaven."

Finally Bat El drank her brandy, downing the glass with one gulp. Michael shut his eyes again. He hated hurting Bat El, but some truths could not remain unspoken, not forever.

"Yes," Bat El whispered, voice shaking. "Lucifer kidnapped my mother and raped her, placing Laila in her womb. I know the story. I was glad when Beelzebub killed Lucifer and took over Hell. As horrible as your brother is, I was glad. My mother would be too, if she were alive to know it."

She trembled. Michael took her hand and patted it. "But Laila does not know," he said gently. "We never told her who her father was. She knows her dad was a demon, of course, but not
which
demon. We've been careful to hide the truth while Lucifer lived for fear that she'd join him."

Bat El poured herself a second glass, hands still trembling. She spilled half the glass and drank the rest. "So why tell her now?" she said, voice weak.

Michael looked at the parchment, going over the roads and courtyards of Jerusalem, the holy city. He spoke softly. "Because when she learns that Beelzebub killed her father... that she is rightful heir to Hell... then your sister will fight against my brother. She'll help us conquer this world and kill Beelzebub; in return, we'll place her on the throne of Hell."

* * * * *

Weeds filled Jerusalem's ruins, pushing through cobblestones, covering crumbled walls, coating rooftops and shattered columns. The trees had all burned away in the war, as had most of the humans, yet the weeds lingered and grew.
I haven't seen a flower since leaving Heaven,
Bat El thought,
yet not even Armageddon can kill weeds. Now what does that say about this world?

She walked down the ruined and silent street, gazing around warily, expecting demons to leap out any moment. She had taken The Wrecking Balls with her, a platoon from Heavenfire Division which garrisoned at the seaside fort. The burly angels surrounded her, armed with spears and clad in armor, but still Bat El worried. She reminded herself that Heaven had claimed this neighborhood a year ago, and demons did not enter it since. She gazed past the alley walls and saw, upon a hill under grumbling sky, a blackened church.
That's where Beelzebub lives,
she thought with a shudder. She could imagine the fallen angel, Michael's younger brother, watching her from the belfry. She shivered again and clutched her sword. Now where was that bar again?

Demon prints covered the cobbled street, she noticed—slimy, smoking, hoofed. Bat El paused and stared at them.

"Lieutenant," she said to Nathaniel, the tall, dour commander of The Wrecking Balls. "I thought this was Heaven's neighborhood. Why do I see demon tracks?"

Nathaniel was busy grumbling something about dirty jobs, and how wingless angels always got them. At the sound of her voice, he shut his mouth, adjusted his eyepatch, and stared at the prints with his good eye.

"All this city is disputed territory, Captain," he said, voice like gravel. He creaked his shoulder blades as if to shrug wings, those wings which had gone missing with his left eye, good manners, and sobriety. "Demons come, demons go. Most who enter these streets die."

Bat El clutched the hilt of her golden sword.
This sword can fire godlight a mile away and cut steel,
she reminded herself, yet still she shivered.
Why would Laila ever return to this city, if she could hide in the hills with that wolf of hers?

"How old are those tracks?" she asked Nathaniel, struggling to keep her voice stern. She was Gabriel's daughter and a Captain in the ancient, fabled Heavenfire Division; she must never show fear.

"Fresh," the wingless angel grunted. He pointed behind a toppled wall. "The bodies are fresh too."

Bat El looked past the pile of rubble and covered her mouth, struggling not to gag. Two demon bodies lay there, rotting, seared with blasts of godlight. The demon's bloated tongues hung from their maws.

"God," she whispered.

Nathaniel spat. "As I said. Demons come, demons go. Demons don't last long." He hefted his spear.

Glancing around, expecting more demons to emerge any instant, Bat El led her squad through brick alleys, past a toppled fort, across a stone square with burned trees, and finally into an alley in the shade of two hills. She saw it there, nestled between abandoned buildings, ash staining its tan bricks—the Silver Candle bar.

"That's where I saw her," she said to Nathaniel.

The wingless angel stared at the bar with one grim eye. He hefted his spear again. "I'll go in first," he said with a grunt. "If that wolf causes trouble, I'll spear the dog."

And if you do,
Bat El thought,
Laila will kill you in a flash.
There were few whom Satan's daughter could not kill, Bat El knew—not even a battle-hardened angel with no wings and more grit than a toppled church.

"No," Bat El said. "I go in—alone. I don't want to startle her. If she sees a group of burly, armed angels walk in, blood will spill in the Silver Candle."

Nathaniel gave her a shrug that seemed to say,
Do whatever the hell you want, girl, but don't come crying to me later.

"Very well, Captain," the one-eyed lieutenant said and slammed the butt of his spear against the cobbled road. "We wait here." He pulled out a cigarette and began to puff.
Earth habits,
Bat El thought with distaste.
They do say angels become like humans once they lose their wings.

Leaving The Wrecking Balls, Bat El stepped toward the dingy bar, trying to keep her sandals silent against the cobbles. The bar's iron sign hung crookedly, creaking as she approached. Bat El had little doubt that Laila would still be here, drinking, even in early afternoon. This was one of the few buildings in Jerusalem still standing; where else would a half-angel, half-demon spend her time? Bat El pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the shadows.

For a moment she stood, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. The glow from her hair and skin brought scarce light to this chamber of spirits and survivors. Bat El discerned several humans seated at the bar, hunched over their drinks—homemade spirits made by fermenting anything the humans could still find and grow. The barkeep raised rheumy eyes, blinked at her, and spat.

"I told you last time," he said. "We don't want no angels here."

"And I told
you
last time," she said, tossing him a golden coin, "angels are all that keep the demons off this street."

The barkeep pocketed the coin. He barked a laugh. "
She
is what keeps demons off this street," he said, gesturing with his head toward the darkest corner of the pub. "Angels would keep away too, if they were smart."

He retreated into the kitchen, grumbling. The gold would silence him for a while, Bat El knew. Gold was valueless these days, of course—she could as well have tossed him a pebble—but gold's gleam was still worth some memories, some hope.

She looked at the shadows at the back, where the barkeep had gestured, and swallowed. Her glow, the godlight of angels, did not pierce those shadows. If Laila preferred the darkness, Bat El knew, in darkness the half-demon would remain.

Bat El forced her hand off the hilt of her sword. She mustn't look threatening. But as she stepped into the shadows, she kept hand and hilt close.

A growl came from ahead, and the wolf's eyes and fangs glistened. Instinctively, Bat El took a step back, heart racing.

"Don't be afraid," came a soft voice from the shadows. "Volkfair won't hurt you. Whether
I
hurt you remains to be seen. Come forward, half-sister. Sit at my table."

Removing her hand from her sword—she had clutched and half-drawn it without noticing—Bat El stepped forward and saw a table and an empty seat. Laila sat across the table, hidden in a black cloak and hood, her wolf at her side. In the shadows, Bat El could only make out the red flame of Laila's eyes, burning like coals in her shadowy hood. Uneasily, Bat El sat at the table across from Laila.

Bat El stared at her younger sister, this girl conceived when Lucifer raped her mother. Pity filled Bat El.
You've spent your life running,
she thought, gazing at those flaming eyes.
When we brought you to Heaven, the godlight burned your skin.

Memories of their childhood flowed into Bat El, fragments of a young angel, only just blossoming into womanhood among the meadows of Heaven, and a demonic baby sister, a twisted being of flame and shrieks. Yet despite her fear—after all, everyone feared Laila the half-demon—Bat El had always loved Laila. She hadn't seen her sister in years, but that love remained.

"Hello, Laila," she said softly. "Welcome back." She did not know what more to say. She had spent all morning rehearsing words, but they all fled her mind at the sight of her poor, wretched, outcast sister.

"The small talk first," Laila spoke in the shadows, voice smooth and dangerous as poison. "How is Heaven? How is Gabriel? How are you liking Earth?" With a dainty, clawed hand, Laila pulled a glass of spirits into the shadows of her hood.
Strange that one of such power should have such small hands,
Bat El reflected. A moment later, Laila placed the empty glass back on the table. "And now that we've got the small talk out of the way—why are you here?" She placed her clawed hand in the shaggy black fur of her wolf, patting it.

"You know why I came," Bat El said softly, wondering how long it would take Nathaniel and his angels to burst into the bar if she screamed, or if she'd even have a chance to scream should that wolf leap at her.

Laila pulled back her hood, and for the first time in years, Bat El looked upon her half-sister. Laila did not look like an angel, Bat El thought; her skin did not glow, her black hair did not shine, and no swan wings grew from her back. Nor did she look like a demon; she had no tail, no horns, no scales. In the darkness, she could almost be mistaken for a human, if not for her fangs, her bat wings, and the fire in her eyes.

"You're wasting your time here, Bat El," Laila said. "Or should I call you Captain now? I hear Michael enlisted you, gave you some nice, lofty rank as befits a child of Gabriel." Laila's voice mocked her, but her eyes remained fiery and humorless.