The Keys of Solomon (33 page)

Two.

Kokabel's smile disappeared. “Tell Nathaniel to stop that, or we'll be forced to rescind our offer to let you live.”

Kiel chuckled. Nathan's new tally couldn't have come at a better time. “Oh, be serious! You know Nathan as well as any of the Brethren. Do you really think he'll listen to me at a time like this? I suggest you leave now, and live to hunt another day.”

Mulciber took a step forward, his eyes darting back and forth from Kiel to Orus. “Enough, Kokabel. Let's just kill this little fuck and be done. And Kiel, I really hope you try to stop me. I've been waiting to kill you for a long, long time.”

One.

“Damn you, Nathaniel!” yelled Kokabel.

That's what you get for bringing Heralds to do a Power's work. Sort of like bringing a knife to a swordfight. Idiot.

Kiel burst out laughing. He wanted to stop, he really did. Laughter would only infuriate Mulciber and that was never a good idea, but Kiel couldn't help himself. Nathan had eliminated two of the assassins in less than a couple of minutes. Now it was two against three. Still poor odds, especially considering Mulciber was one of the three. The fallen Domination was an extremely dangerous adversary. He also had a reputation for taking human servants—men, women, and children enthralled by supernatural means. Kiel's contempt for Mulciber bordered on pure hatred.

Kokabel and Mulciber exchanged glances, and Kiel knew the standoff was drawing to a close. It was time to spell out the situation in terms that even a berserker like Mulciber would understand.

“So, here we are and it comes to this. If either of you so much as twitches an eyelid, I will kill you, Kokabel. And make no mistake, I
will
kill you. Of course, that gives Mulciber or the coward in hiding a free shot at me. Which will give Nathan a free shot in return. Regardless, you won't be around to see the outcome. Leave now or I will be the last thing you ever see in this world.”

“Suits me, Kiel,” said Mulciber. “Kill him and let's get on with it. Hell, I never liked Kokabel, anyway, and I absolutely detest you. After you're both dead, I get to kill the traitor and Nathaniel. Or should I call him
Nathan
? He's even adopted the human version of his name. He has no pride. No shame! And neither do you, you little cocksucker, else you wouldn't be guarding a planet filled by fucking semiliterate monkeys!”

Kiel tensed for the coming attack. Kokabel was ready to cut his loses and run, but Mulciber's eyes were glazing over, and his face was flushed. He was working himself into a battle rage, succumbing to the blood lust. There was no turning back.

Kiel whispered an ancient prayer. “May God not weaken my hand.” As Kiel uttered the last syllable, the ground shuddered beneath his feet and he stumbled forward until he stood astraddle of the prostrate Orus.

Bewildered, he thought,
Earthquake? Here?

Nathan's voice, a rich, deep bass filled with triumph and jubilation, boomed across the glade. “And then there were none!”

Kiel smiled.

*   *   *

Nathan emerged from the northern tree line, covered in liquid gold, the life blood of angels. Much of the blood was his. All three of the fights had been in close quarters, chest to chest. Two of the assassins, a Herald and a Throne, had been badly overmatched and died quickly, felled by swift thrusts of Nathan's deadly onyx blade. The third assassin-in-hiding was far more formidable—a Dominion and seasoned warrior named Procell.

While Nathan was a warrior by design, created to protect humanity against the likes of Legion and the Fallen, Procell was a killer by choice. In the early years of exile, she had discovered the thrill of murder. She also realized she was very, very good at it. The Runner often used her to stalk and kill certain troublesome members of the Host. Procell seldom failed.

After finishing the Throne, Nathan crouched in the thick honeysuckle that lined the banks of the bayou and scanned the area with supernatural senses. It was a dangerous tactic, one that could lead an adversary directly to him. In fact, Nathan was counting on that very thing. The remaining assassin was skilled in stealth and hiding. While Nathan was a consummate warrior, his tracking skills weren't nearly as refined. His only option was to draw the Enemy to him.

It worked.

Homing in on Nathan's scan, Procell followed the signal back to him by assuming ethereal form. Now she stood scant feet away from the thicket, dressed in her customary outfit of black boots, slacks, and turtleneck. She held a curved kris knife in her left hand. Nathan recognized the weapon. Its blade was made of obsidian, green-and-black–banded glass, formed millions of years earlier when volcanic magma bled into some nameless sea. The knife glowed with a sickly yellow aura, concrete evidence that it had been imbued with the poisonous taint of the Fallen.

Taint was a physical manifestation of a fallen angel's spiritual corruption, vile and toxic in the extreme to the just and righteous. Only a handful of weapons in all of Creation could inflict mortal wounds upon the Host, regardless of the wielder. A blade imbued with the taint was just as deadly in the hands of a human child as it was when carried by one of the Fallen. Procell's tainted kris was such a weapon.

Few of the fallen angels ever attempted to create a tainted weapon, as the process involved surrendering a measure of their life essence, a portion that could never be regained. Procell had decided long ago that such an added advantage in battle was worth the sacrifice.

Nathan stood up and stepped out of the tangle of vines to Procell's right. He could have rushed her from behind and possibly scored a fatal blow, but that wasn't his style. He preferred that the Fallen know who it was that sent them to the Void. Especially this Fallen.

“Hello, Procell. You're looking very well today. Well, except for the cheap turtleneck. Although the color does match your teeth.”

Procell
tsk
ed and said, “Heh. And I thought petty insults were beneath the Host.”

The muscles in her jaws twitched as she self-consciously ran her tongue across her discolored teeth. Over vast eons, many angels had sampled debauchery and other human vices. Although angels were immune to the physical requirements of humans—food, water, sleep—they weren't above partaking in certain pleasurable experiences of the flesh. It was widely rumored that Procell had cultivated a taste for milk of the poppy in any form, but with a preference for raw opium and heroin.

Nathan smiled. In preparation for the duel, she had unconsciously dropped the illusion of physical perfection, and the manifestations of daily drug use were all too obvious. Procell was vain to an extreme, as were most of the Fallen. Yet her voracious appetite for opium had exacted a heavy toll on her appearance, and she knew it. Nathan's sophomoric joke about her teeth had scored.

Procell quickly recovered from the wound to her pride. “I'm glad to see your sense of humor is intact, Nathaniel, considering these will be your last few seconds among the living. Will you
reach
for assistance, or do you have the courage to duel me?”

Nathan smirked. He had no intention of
reaching
out to other members of the Host. For all he knew, an army of Fallen and Legion were waiting for a similar summons from Procell. Neither Nathan nor Kiel would risk the lives of the Host by summoning them to a potential ambush. Of course, Nathan would never admit such a fear to Procell or any of the Fallen.

“It doesn't require any courage to crush the life from a cockroach, Procell.”

“Very well. Any last words before you join the ranks of the unmade?”

“Go ahead, Procell. You won't be the first among the Fallen to die by my hand today, and you'll likely not be the last. You might, however, be the most inconsequential.”

The final goad was a lie. Nathan knew the unmaking of Procell would be a considerable victory for the Host. It was also one goad too many for the ill-tempered Procell. Snarling like some great feral cat, she launched herself across the narrow distance that separated the two. No foreplay. No testing of defenses or probing for weaknesses. Her tainted kris was poised for a killing strike.

Nathan was stronger than Procell by a wide margin, but she was quicker. He couldn't hope to fence with her and survive the duel. The air around Nathan shimmered as he slipped into ethereal form. Using the mind-gate, he moved several feet to his left and reappeared in physical form. All angels, the Host or otherwise, had the ability to mind-gate. However, as with all “gifts,” it came with a cost. The change from flesh to ethereal form and back again would drain some of his strength and speed for a short time. Nathan had once described the negative effects of mind-gating as “melting here and reforming there, all in the same instant.” The maneuver was always risky when performed in the heat of combat and this instance was no exception. The transformation had occurred at the speed of thought. Yet, however fast, Procell's agility proved its equal.

The moment Nathan reverted to his physical form, Procell's kris stabbed toward his eyes. He twisted his upper torso and felt the flat of the poisoned blade brush past his nose. Procell reversed the stroke, aiming for his throat, looking for a critical strike that would end the fight quickly. She nearly succeeded.

Nathan anticipated the move and ducked beneath the singing blade as it sliced through the air millimeters above his head. From a crouched position, he delivered a thunderous palm heel blow to her midsection with his free hand. The Kiv snaked forward, aimed at the point where the crown of Procell's head should be. The strike missed badly. Instead of folding over from the blow to her midsection and exposing her head for a swift, clean kill, the impact from Nathan's open palm lifted Procell from her feet. She landed several yards away, temporarily out of range of the Kiv.

Now the battle shifted from tactical to strategic. They circled each other warily, looking for minuscule openings in the opposing defenses. Nathan had won hundreds of duels by engaging enemies in battles of attrition, absorbing moderate damage in order to inflict critical blows in return. That tactic wouldn't work against Procell. While Nathan held an advantage in terms of strength and stamina, she neutralized those attributes with unparalleled agility. Nathan carried the Kiv, a weapon made of radioactive cosmic dust capable of shoring through granite. Procell used the tainted kris, a more than adequate equalizer. The poison within the blade could turn a scratch into a potentially mortal wound, festering and melting supernatural flesh from bone. Rarely did an angel survive an encounter with a tainted weapon. Today, the overall advantage went to Procell.

Procell made her move as Nathan shuffled to his right, catching him in midstep. She darted forward and jabbed the kris at Nathan's groin. Nathan shifted the Kiv to intercept and deflect her thrust, but the onyx blade found nothing but air. He realized his mistake too late.

Procell reversed the blade and delivered an arcing blow to Nathan's throat. He twisted away from the blade, bending his back into a near impossible position until his vertebrae threatened to snap. The kris sang as it sliced through the air. Nathan returned the stroke with one of his own, missing the intended mark by a wide margin. Procell was no longer in front of him. Now she stood across the small clearing. Smiling. Nathan thought he had never seen a more awful expression. And he knew what it meant.

Regaining his balance, he looked at the tainted blade in Procell's hand. One edge of the weapon glowed with liquid gold, the life's blood of angels. Nathan raised a hand to the side of his neck. When he drew his hand away, his fingers were slick with molten gold.

Procell wore a broad smile. “It's only a matter of time now. That hulking body will weaken rapidly. Your reflexes will diminish, then fail you completely. The legendary strength and stamina of Nathaniel will surrender without a whimper to the taint.

“You know, had you taken the wound on the arm or leg you might have survived another day, provided, of course, you lived through the duel. But now … well, I suppose it's all rather academic.” Procell shrugged. “I'd say you have a couple of hours, maybe less. Certainly no more. A couple of very painful hours, at that.”

Nathan took a step forward, but Procell sprang back, well out of his reach. She giggled and said, “Now, now. Reconcile yourself, Nathaniel. You lasted a good deal longer than most, but the duel is over. You've lost. Be a good sport, won't you? Tell you what. We both know how painful death by taint is for the Host. I mean, it hurts like a bitch!

“If you like, I'll grant you a clean, quick death. Oh, it'll still hurt like a bitch, but only for a moment. Think of it as my way of saying, ‘
Adios
, motherfucker, and thanks for the memories.'”

Nathan gave no appearance that he'd heard Procell's offer. He simply stared ahead, silent and unmoving, as if he was focused on something miles beyond the tiny clearing.

Procell frowned. “Final offer, Nathaniel. Just toss the Kiv over here at my feet and kneel, or I gate away and leave you to your unmaking.”

Nathan tilted his head as if listening to some faraway sound. He nodded slowly, mechanically, and looked at Procell as if again aware of her presence. “A long, painful unmaking, or a quick death. That's your offer.”

“Yeah, and it's the best offer you'll get from me. Hell, I couldn't stop the taint from coursing through your body if I wanted to. And I don't. Want to, that is. But the clock's ticking. You've got three seconds to surrender the Kiv and take your medicine. Otherwise, I'll come back tomorrow, after your body rots from the inside out.”

“You want the Kiv badly, don't you?”

“One…”

Nathan forced a weak grin. “I suppose it really doesn't matter anymore. I mean, what use will I have for a Kiv in the Void?”