Sinners & Sorcerers: Four Urban Fantasy Thrillers (83 page)

Pain exploded. Shrapnel drove through Laila’s armor, sizzling against her flesh. Her hand fell, limp, numb, useless. She slammed her other hand forward, driving her claws into Zarel’s eyes.

Zarel screamed, face bloody, blinded. Laila slammed into her, driving her into a wall. Ancient bricks tumbled, crashing against Zarel, and Laila kept clawing, biting, tearing off Zarel’s scales, digging into the soft demon flesh beneath. Zarel screamed, writhing, clawing uselessly, and Laila kept slashing until the Demon Queen lay still.

The bloodlust pulsing through her, Laila dug into Zarel’s chest and found her demon heart. She ripped it out, stood up, and held the heart aloft, blood covering her, flames wreathing her.

“I am Laila!” she shouted at the top of her lungs, voice hoarse. The armies of demons and angels swirled around her, blurry. “I am Laila, of the night. I am Laila, of the shadows. I have walked through godlight and through darkness. I am the slayer of Moloch, defeater of Angor, killer of Zarel.” Her voice echoed across the desert. “I am Laila, of sins and of piety, of flame and of light. I am fallen. I rise again.”

Her voice died, and she stood panting, flaming.

Silence.

Silence filled the world.

Laila stood upon the mountain, Zarel’s heart in her good hand, her other hand shredded, her armor broken. A wind blew. The desert rolled beneath the mountain. Laila passed her eyes over the frozen crowd, over Michael, Bat El, Volkfair who lay bleeding beneath a wall, blinking weakly.

Be strong, Volkfair. Soon I’ll come to you. There is something I must do first—for you, for me, for all us outcasts and lone wolves.

She let her gaze rest upon Beelzebub.

Beelzebub. King of Hell. Usurper of Lucifer. Fallen angel. Her former lover.

She took a step toward him. At once, demons rushed forward to stand between them, but Laila flashed them murderous looks, fangs bared. “Stand back,” she hissed. Beelzebub nodded, and the demons retreated.

Laila took another step toward Beelzebub. “Beelzebub,” she said, and suddenly her voice cracked. A bloody tear ran down her cheek. “Beelzebub,” she said again, voice like a sob.

He stepped toward her. Demons and angels rushed to come between them, and Laila screamed, “Stand back!” She waved her good arm in a circle, and a canopy of fire burst around her and Beelzebub, shielding them inside a flaming dome. She and Beelzebub stood alone, two feet apart, ringed in flame.

“Come, Laila,” Beelzebub said softly. “You’re hurt. We’ll get you help.” He looked pale, his eyes haunted, sunken. Laila had never seen him look like this—confused, grieving.

“Wait,” she said, dropping Zarel’s heart into the dust. “I love you, Beelzebub. Please, whatever happens now, I want you to know that. You’re the only man whose known me, the only man I’ve loved. I’m so sorry, Beelzebub. I’m sorry for running from you ten years ago, for all that’s happened since, for today. I love you.”

He embraced her, and she lay her head on his breastplate, the fire burning around them, shielding them from the world. Beelzebub’s hand smoothed her hair. “Why do you do this to yourself, Laila?” he whispered. “Why do you keep fighting, hurting? You broke my heart, Laila, when you ran from me. You broke my heart. I wanted you for my wife, my queen, my love. I never wanted any of this, none of what happened. How can I make things right, Laila? How can I heal a half-demon, a world on fire, these stupid games we play with one another—your sister, my brother, you, me. We could have been husband and wife, Laila... not what we are now.”

She trembled against him. She was bleeding, she was weak. Tears ran down her cheeks, and every breath hurt. She shook her head. “Sweet Beelzebub, do you still not know? Do you really not see?” She put her hand in his raven curls and gently kissed his lips, smearing him with blood. “I would have been a prisoner in your palace, confined to iced rooms where no hellfire could burn me, my angel blood forever sizzling from the devilry surrounding me. Don’t you see, Beelzebub? Are you truly blind to me? Lucifer was my father. I’m so sorry, Beelzebub.” She ran her hands through his hair and kissed him again. “I love you so much.”

He opened his lips to answer, but only a gasp left them. His eyes widened. Blood flowed from his neck, where Laila had thrust her claws.

He fell to his knees before her, Laila’s claws still buried in his throat. He stared up at her, unable to breathe, unable to move, his blood washing Laila’s hand. She leaned down and kissed his head. The fires blazed around them.

“I’m taking Hell from you, Beelzebub,” she said, tears on her cheeks, “like you took it from my father, like you took my love from me. I’m going to make my home there, without hellfire or godlight to burn me. Goodbye, sweet fallen angel. I’ll—”

Pain burst in her.

She gasped.

Beelzebub’s claws had pierced her chest, driving through her breastplate into her flesh, without her seeing him move. As he knelt before her, gazing up with glassy eyes, his claws stayed in her chest, her blood flowing down his arm. Laila couldn’t breathe, and she only stood still, eyes wide in shock.

Over a field of grass we ran, endless....

Beelzebub fell to his side, his claws leaving her chest, her own claws leaving his throat, gushing with blood. Beelzebub hit the ground and lay upon ancient cobblestones, blood pooling, the shell of fire burning around them.

We ran, Volkfair and I, a great hunt...

She fell to her knees, then to her side, her head upon the bloody cobblestones, blood pouring from her chest. Beelzebub lay by her, gazing toward her, eyes glassy, perhaps dead already. Trembling, Laila reached her hand toward him, touched his hair.

I love you, Volkfair. I love you, Bat El. I am Laila, a girl, alone.

“Beelzebub,” she whispered. She moved toward him, lay her head upon his chest, her arm around him. She curled up against him, trembling, as she would all those years ago, when they were lovers. She gave him a bloody kiss. “Thank you, Beelzebub,” she whispered, crying. “I’m going on a hunt now, to run through fields where sunlight won’t hurt me, where evil won’t fill me. Thank you. I love you. Thank you.”

Above her, Laila could already see a clear sky, and the sun did not burn her. Beelzebub touched her hair, and she thought he smiled, and then his hand fell back. Her head on his chest, her hand in his hand, Laila the half-demon closed her eyes.

+ + +

“Put out the fire!” Bat El shouted, tears on her cheeks. “Put it out!”

She began tossing sand onto the flames that shielded Beelzebub and Laila. Her angel troops helped, but could do little to stifle those flames. Horror burned inside Bat El, for she knew now that Laila had not come here for Zarel. It was not the Demon Queen she had emerged to face.
Why couldn’t you run, Laila? Why couldn’t you just flee to the forest?
She kept tossing sand into the fire.

With a crackle and burst of smoke, the fires suddenly guttered, flickered, and died. Bat El blinked, the smoke and heat blinding her. When she could see again, she froze, unable to move. The crowds too froze, gasped, and stood staring. Beelzebub, King of Hell, and Laila, daughter of Lucifer, lay in a pool of blood. Beelzebub lay on his back, eyes staring toward the sky, unblinking, lifeless. Laila lay against him, as if they were lovers in sleep, embraced. Blood flowed from Laila’s chest.

A sob fled Bat El’s lips. For a moment it seemed that Laila too was dead, but then Bat El saw the half-breed’s lips moving, whispering. Her halo of fire guttered like a dying candle.
She’s still alive.

The angels and demons stared from a distance, not daring to approach. Bat El alone rushed to Laila’s side. She knelt by her half-sister, weeping. Blood covered Laila’s breast, soaking her clothes. More blood stained her pale, ashy face, and her black hair clung to her brow with sweat.

“Laila,” Bat El said, “I’m here.”

Laila tried to whisper, but her words were silent. Bat El placed her arm under Laila and cradled her, holding cloth against her wounds. The cloth turned red.

“My baby sister,” she said, “you’re going to be okay. I’m going to heal you.”

Laila lay in Bat El’s arms, her skin so pale, her eyes unfocused, her hair damp with sweat and blood. The half-demon blinked weakly and struggled to raise her hand, to place it in Bat El’s palm. She opened her lips and tried to talk, but no sound came out. She coughed, then managed to whisper. “Is Volkfair okay?”

Bat El turned her head and looked. The great black wolf was dead, pierced with shrapnel and demon claws, burned with fire. She nodded. “Volkfair is fine,” she said to Laila. “We healed him.”

“But you cannot heal me,” Laila said, skin white, lips colorless, eyes glassy. “I am banished from Heaven. Demon blood flows through my veins and out of my wounds. Forever has God’s grace passed over me, and forever would the healing godlight be forbidden to me.”

Bat El wept. She could say nothing. Bat El had always been able to heal her brethren, to wash away the wounds of this war with godlight and piousness, but Laila spoke truth. Here lay one whom God’s love would not heal. She kept her hands pressed against Laila’s wounds, the blood trickling between her fingers, mingling with her tears.

Laila turned her head weakly, staring toward Michael with blurred eyes. “Michael,” she whispered. “Come to me, please.”

The archangel stood between the ancient ruins, arms crossed, gazing upon the scene. He hesitated a moment, then stepped forward and knelt by Laila, the fire of her guttering halo reflecting in his armor. He clasped Laila’s hand. Her clawed, pale hand seemed so small in his large, calloused one.

“Laila,” he said softly.

She licked her lips. “Take Earth,” she said to him. “I give it to you. Make it a good place for Volkfair to live. Give him a forest, where he can run and hunt and be as a king. Michael—”

But Laila said no more. Her breath died, her eyes stilled, and it seemed to Bat El that, for the first time, peace flowed over her sister.

Bat El let her chin fall to her chest, and she wept, her hair covering her face, Laila in her arms.

Upon the Mount of Olives they stood, rows of angels, thousands of them, the sunlight glinting against their iron armor and spearheads. Around them flowed the ruins of Jerusalem, biblical ruins kindled with sunlight, weedy, fluttering with birds. The city was quiet today, and even the birds seemed subdued, as if they too knew to grieve. For thousands of years had the living buried the dead upon this hill, from ancient days when olive trees grew here, to this war of Heaven and Hell.
We bury this war here today too,
Bat El thought,
among the countless bodies.

They carried Laila’s body upon a wooden litter, wrapped in white shrouds. A soldier’s funeral. Dressed in unadorned white, her hair hidden in a cowl, Bat El carried one end of the litter, staring forward blankly, feet silent upon the pebbly path that led to the grave. Michael carried the other end of the litter, dressed in his ancient armor, a white rose pinned to his breast, Heaven’s flower of mourning. They bore the litter between the rows of angels, the sunlight on them.

They reached the grave, dug by an olive sprig. Once olive trees had covered these hills, burned away in war.
They will grow again,
Bat El thought. She and Michael lifted Laila to place her underground, by the body of her wolf. She felt so light in Bat El’s arms. As they tossed soil into the grave, Bat El stared down with dry eyes, watching the earth cover Laila’s shroud. She had no tears left.

“Let a soul torn in half, outcast among the living, rest now in the silence of peace,” she whispered. “May angel wings and godlight, forbidden in your life, carry you to your endless sleep. Goodbye, Laila, princess of the night.”

A tear then did run down her cheek, and Bat El lowered her head and closed her eyes.
You won’t feel torn anymore, Laila. You’ll never feel pain or fear again.

Bat El walked alone that afternoon through the silent, still streets of Jerusalem. No more demons filled this city, and no more ash covered the sky. Flowers grew between cracked cobblestones, birds sang, and weeds grew from the walls. She had the city to herself, and Bat El wandered the ancient streets, the biblical walls, these old hills. She remembered her first days in this city, seeking Laila through streets where demons roamed, troops of angels at her sides. Most of those angels were dead now. Nathaniel was gone, so was Raphael. The demons had taken Beelzebub underground, to bury him in Hell.

So many gone.

Bat El lowered her head. “Goodbye, Beelzebub,” she whispered. “Goodbye, Laila.” The two loves of her life, taken from her in one day. Bat El sat down on a fallen wall, looking up at the sunlight, the birds who flew from ruins to ruins, pecking for seeds.

That night, she stood with Michael on the wall of the Crusader fort, staring to the sea. The demons were gone from the fort, but to Bat El, it would forever be the place where Beelzebub imprisoned her, then loved her. The waves rolled against the beach, whispering in the darkness. The wind from the sea blew salt against Bat El’s lips, brought a chill to her bones, and ruffled her hair. She wrapped her wings around her for warmth. Michael stood by her, for once not wearing his armor, his lance gone. The flames had washed away from the world. The forces of Hell had retreated into their pits to mourn their master. Heaven had won its war, but to Bat El, the world seemed more horrible than ever, more frightening and cold. For a long time, she stood silently by Michael, watching the waves.