Let not thy enemies vex thee. Send unto me the measure of their sins and I shall cast down among them my wrath.
No sooner had he gotten in the car than a small buzz in the glove box caught his attention. There was a message waiting for Uriel on his cell phone. Starting the car, he retrieved the small silver annoyance and flipped it open. The name and number on its tiny display actually made him pause.
Sitting in the alley, the engine in his Concept S growling away, he hesitated for just a moment before pushing redial. Of all the calls he knew he would be getting, this was the one he'd been hoping to put off.
"You have to stop. Now."
Uriel almost smiled. No hello, no pleasantries. Exactly what he'd expected.
"And a good day to you too."
The voice on the other end was completely unamused. "There is nothing good about today. You have to stop. That is an order."
Alright. Right to business, then. "Sorry to disappoint you but I don't take orders from On High. Remember?" Uriel tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, considering whether or not to start to driving. He had a feeling this conversation was going to require more attention than he could spare on his way to the next safehouse.
"Fine. Then consider it an order from me."
That made him wince. Only slightly, but the reaction was there. "You are going to get involved?"
"You've ensured I have to."
That... posed a complication. "I don't recommend that."
"Yes, well, I don't take recommendations from Down Below."
Uriel narrowed his eyes, staring down at the phone for a moment before answering. "You know damn well I haven't fallen."
"Perhaps but you certainly aren't on the side of the angels either."
Uriel steadied his breathing. He knew what was going on. Rattle your enemy, make him upset. Make him make mistakes. Make him defeat himself before the battle even begins. Clever...
...but two could play that game.
"That entirely depends on which angels we are talking about."
There was a long pause. Uriel knew that meant he'd scored a hit. The Holy Schism was still a sore point with the Old Guard, a chink in their exalted armor. It was a cheap shot, to be sure, but he had to take what he could get.
"Last warning, Uriel. Leave the Order alone."
"Or what? You'll dispatch more errand boys like Tanarael for me to break and send home hurting?"
Another long pause. "Tanarael's not hurting, Uriel. He's dead."
That stopped Uriel cold. Dead? He sighed inwardly. That, he supposed, had been the risk of using an entropic, especially one carrying a paragon demon in his soul. His "partner" certainly had the power to actually kill a celestial but Uriel had believed that power to still be dormant.
Damn. This complicated things too.
"Perhaps you shouldn't be putting the Host in harm's way, then." It was a blank response, no emotion behind it. It was just something for him to say while he tried to figure out how to handle this latest development in the game.
"Don't worry. I won't be."
"Well that's good. If you'll excuse me then..."
"Attack the Order again, Uriel, and you'll have to have to deal with me."
He blinked at the phone. "You're serious? You'll actually come down here?"
"I'm already here."
Those words didn't come from Uriel's cell phone; they were spoken aloud. There, at the end of the alley, standing right in front of the opening into the busy street beyond, was a figure of muscle and presence.
Dark hair spilled out over both the man's shoulders, one side caught in a bright silver clasp shaped like folded wings. His strong jaw was set in a seemingly permanent scowl beneath a pair of mirrored aviator glasses. Handsome yet terrifying to behold, the man wore his ankle length trenchcoat and half-calf leather boots like a suit of black armor.
"I know where you are headed, Uriel. Don't go there. Don't make me end you."
A bus drove past behind him, its brights flaring the alley for a moment. Uriel glanced away from the painful light and when he looked back, the figure was gone. All that remained was a single falling feather the color of a raven and, in the distance, a large black bird disappearing into the city beyond.
Uriel sighed deeply, folding his phone and putting it away.
"Yeah. Nice talking to you too, Michael..."
Monday, October 15, 2007
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Exit Strategy
He started on the fourth floor but by the time Matt brought Zephyr to a stop again, he was at the bottom of the ground floor stairwell. Five seconds after that, his teeth stopped vibrating.
"There has got to be an easier way to do this," he groans, trying to keep the contents of his stomach where they were. He felt dizzy and ill but at least all his bones were intact. Driving down eight landings worth of concrete stairs will do that to a body.
"Seriously, can't you like... fly... or something?"
His motorcycle just roared at him in frustration. The engine wound up and eased down, the spiritual equivalent of, "Whatever."
"No, seriously. You are supposed to be the soul of a griffon, right? So why is it I only ever see you fly when I'm not on you?"
The bike dropped into a low, irritated growl. Matt got the distinct feeling this was something he needed to not push any farther. He was getting tired of reaching these little impasses but right now Zephyr was his ride home. Best not to antagonize living vehicle, especially when one is not carrying cab fare.
"Fine. Let's just get back to Casa de Mercy. Okay?" With that, Matt sent a quick pulse of entropy at the fire door between the stairs and the building's wide open lobby. The black, hissing magic left his hand, convulsed through the air and settled into the metal beyond. The door shuddered, a shadow passed over it and the air grew cold enough for Matt to see his breath.
A moment later, the fire door disappeared in a fall of ferrous powder, rusting away to nothingness in an instant. A thousand years of erosion in the blink of an arcane eye.
Matt grinned to himself. No matter how many times he did, it never got old.
He guided his bike through the ruddy mist of the former door, hopping the jamb and turning sideways onto the lobby tile. From here is was just a half-throttle ride through the main hall to the front doors, both of which were most likely in smouldering pieces all over the foyer. At least, that's how they were when he came into the building. That's what tended to happen when high security met high explosives.
Matt opened up the bike's choke and let Zephyr run a bit. The back columns of the lobby zipped past in a blur. He was doing 40 miles an hour inside an office building. This was so much fun, it should have been illegal.
Oh yeah... it was illegal.
Of course, so was breaking and entering, a couple dozen counts of discharging a firearm in city limits, assault, battery and however many miscellaneous felonies he had performed on the premises thought. In the balance of things, a little reckless driving was the least of his infractions.
Up ahead, approaching very quickly, his last turn before getting out appeared. He reached out, grabbed the corner rail and spun Zephyr in a perfect right angle turn, locking her brakes and downthrotlling to kill his momentum. The end result was him stopped at the opening to the foyer, just forty feet of marble tile between him and the exit.
Forty feet of marble tile and a single figure standing between the ruined doors. Matt stared at the man, trying to make out his features in the darkness of the hall.
Long white hair, streaked through with dove grey, framed a downcast face, the man's features obscured by shadows. He was wearing a floor length coat and tall boots with small silver plates across both toe and heel. Riding gloves covered each hand, disappearing into the long cuffs of his pale shirt. Silver buttons walked the length of his chest, appearing wherever the coat lay open all the down to the argent plate at the front of his polished black leather belt.
"Hey!" Matt called out, gunning his bike and holding down the brake so his wheels spun but he stayed still. "I'm coming through! You might want to get out of the way!"
The man looked up, his eyes hidden behind narrow, almost sagely-looking sunglasses. He stared forward, presumably at Matthew, and slowly shook his head. The man moved to settle his feet in a sentry's stance, arms at his sides. He clearly had no intention of stepping aside.
"Look!" Matt growls slightly, idling Zephyr forward a few feet. "I have had a long night and I intend to go home!" Then, a little quieter but no less exasperated, "I am leaving. NOW. Get out of the way."
Again, there was nothing but a shake of the head from the long white haired figure at the threshold.
"Suit yourself!" Matt took his hand off the brake and let Zephyr rocket forward at full speed. Her back tire squealed, sending a cloud of noise and burned rubber into the air as he raced toward freedom and the front doors. Just before his bike made contact with the fool blocking the exit, there was a sea of white and then motion and sudden pain.
It took a moment for Matt to remember what had happened. Until that clarity returned, he simply laid at the base of one of the lobby pillars, his body protesting the pain of impact and the sheer speed of the man's attack.
Wings. It had been wings. Just as Zephyr was about to made contact between her front wheel and the black coated figure's chest, he had turned sideways and manifested a massive pair of snowy feathered wings. One had caught Matt's motorcycle broadsides and sent her across the room to wreak into a cut stone wall. The other had done much the same to Matthew, slinging him bodily into a column.
Shaking it off as best he could, Matt leaped to his feet, fighting off the wave of vertigo that accompanied the move. He reached into his coat, pulling both pistols from their holsters with a hiss of well-oiled leather. If he was fighting what he thought he was fighting, there would be no time to waste or to aim. He would have to shoot fast, try and take the bastard down before...
...and Matt looked at the front doors to find no one. The man was gone. Matt sighed, correcting himself. Not a man.
And as the shadow from above gave him only a split-second's warning to dodge before a glowing blade of deadly light transected where he was standing, Matt finished the thought. This was not a man at all.
It was an angel.
Matt dodged to the side, avoiding the sword stroke but failing to evade the burst of broken tiles that resulted from the forceful strike and the landing angel hitting the floor where he'd been. Several of them darted around him, one catching his cheek and gouging him deeply. "Ahhh!"
There was no time to dwell on the pain. The celestial assailant was not slowing down and not taking even a moment to recover. From the moment it landed, it was spinning into another attack. Matt barely sidestepped a lunge and ducked a head stroke from the man, distracted by the almost sinuous way his opponent was moving. This was almost a dance for the angel, almost too graceful and ceaseless to be real.
But the painful cut on his face and the sudden sting of the angel's sword tip drawing across his right arm was enough to bring Matt back to reality. As hypnotic as the unearthly figure was, the winged white-haired killer was exactly that - one of Heaven's executioners. He could never let himself forget that. Angels were divine slaughter hounds, the winged pack of the Christian Wild Hunt.
At this distance, which wasn't much, his guns would be useless. He tested that theory by firing off a couple of rounds from each. The ease with which the angel avoided the point blank barrage was almost laughable. Matt tossed the guns and stepped back for a moments breathing room.
Room and space to draw a more appropriate weapon. Closing his hand around empty air, Matthew willed his own angelic sword to appear. Its edge manifested just in time, catching an incoming swing from what was now his very surprised looking foe.
"You have no right to that weapon." The angel's voice was calm and clear, an audible perfection to match his outward one. Unfortunately, the winged warrior wasn't saying anything Matt really wanted to hear. Not again, anyway.
"That's too bad, since I'm keeping it." Now that he had the option to parry, he was back in this fight. Matt intercepted the next attack, catching the angel's sideswing and then deflecting the riposte that followed. The angel was good. Damn good. Good enough to wound him twice more in the next minute. Matt was defending himself adequately but he couldn't keep this up for long.
He parried aside the next head stroke, managing a clumsy attack of his own and getting counterslashed for his trouble. At this rate, he would have to buy a new shirt; the one he was wearing was rapidly becoming tatters and blood stains.
If he was going to walk out of here alive, he was going to have to cheat.
Fortunately, he didn't mind that thought at all. There was a time and a place for nobility. This was life and death; anything was fair game.
Unfortunately, most of his tricks would not work here. Angels were immune to his magic and aside from his sword and fallen guns, he possessed no way to hurt them. He needed a way to get past the angel's guard, though. His opponent was just too damn good. If he couldn't get the celestial to drop his guard, eventually Matt knew he'd make a mistake and get skewered.
Ending his life as another mark on an angel's kill list was not appealing. He considered how to avoid that fate as he and the angel continued to do battle. Their weapons were glowing fiercely, flaring into angry flames every time they met. The fight ranged from the middle of the hall to the far corner of the room past the new-destroyed elevator and back again.
Unfortunately, Matthew's arms were getting tired fast. He'd managed to ward off the seemingly indefatigable angel with only a few scratches and shallow cuts to show for it. However, each minor slash was a bit deeper than the last. If this kept up...
Then the angel got lucky and drove his sword point into Matthew's shoulder. There was a wave of raw, holy agony, a power that had him screaming in pain and nearly unconscious. It was all Matt could do not to look his blade in the sheer agony. He had to get away, had to get this weapon out of him...
...but then his awareness kicked in and he knew instinctively what to do. Instead of pulling the blade out, he decided to keep the blessed thing in him. It hurt like Hell, pun intended, but it also immobilized the angel for a moment.
All Matt needed was that moment. With the angel's sword pinned in his own body, there was a single window of attack open to him. Throwing everything he had into this last strike, Matt turned his blade from a defensive motion to a killing blow. If it missed, there would be no stopping the angel's next attack. He had to make this one count!
The stroke came up between the two of them and connected with the angel's upper chest in a draw cut. Long coat and white shirt both parted under its edge, pale flesh cleaving right behind it. Matt was suddenly awash in an angel's blood, caught for a moment in a spray of blood.
There was enough demon active within Matt now that the touch of an angel's blood was like acid! Matt cursed, howled in pain and whirled away before he could complete the strike. "Damn it!" he spat, turning around as soon as the sudden red pain was gone. His sword was steaming and his warding coat was nearly spent from saving his life...
...and his target was gone. There was a glowing sword of light impaled through his upper shoulder, a trail of blood leading out of the building and a mass of feathers - some of which were fluttering to the ground as he watched.
"Bastard got away..."
Paranoid and gasping from pain, Matt managed to pull the blade out of his body, drag his way to his damaged but not destroyed bike and get out of the accursed building. He was hurt. Badly. He needed a doctor but no hospital would admit him without I.D., especially when the interns started asking awkward questions; some of which had no good answer. He had no I.D., no insurance and his injuries were obviously violence-related. The police would have to get involved and from there things would just get ugly.
Forcing himself not to pass out, Matthew kept his motorcycle on the road and managed to stay conscious... mostly. Right now he needed the only comfort or care he knew of...
Right now he needed Mercy.
"There has got to be an easier way to do this," he groans, trying to keep the contents of his stomach where they were. He felt dizzy and ill but at least all his bones were intact. Driving down eight landings worth of concrete stairs will do that to a body.
"Seriously, can't you like... fly... or something?"
His motorcycle just roared at him in frustration. The engine wound up and eased down, the spiritual equivalent of, "Whatever."
"No, seriously. You are supposed to be the soul of a griffon, right? So why is it I only ever see you fly when I'm not on you?"
The bike dropped into a low, irritated growl. Matt got the distinct feeling this was something he needed to not push any farther. He was getting tired of reaching these little impasses but right now Zephyr was his ride home. Best not to antagonize living vehicle, especially when one is not carrying cab fare.
"Fine. Let's just get back to Casa de Mercy. Okay?" With that, Matt sent a quick pulse of entropy at the fire door between the stairs and the building's wide open lobby. The black, hissing magic left his hand, convulsed through the air and settled into the metal beyond. The door shuddered, a shadow passed over it and the air grew cold enough for Matt to see his breath.
A moment later, the fire door disappeared in a fall of ferrous powder, rusting away to nothingness in an instant. A thousand years of erosion in the blink of an arcane eye.
Matt grinned to himself. No matter how many times he did, it never got old.
He guided his bike through the ruddy mist of the former door, hopping the jamb and turning sideways onto the lobby tile. From here is was just a half-throttle ride through the main hall to the front doors, both of which were most likely in smouldering pieces all over the foyer. At least, that's how they were when he came into the building. That's what tended to happen when high security met high explosives.
Matt opened up the bike's choke and let Zephyr run a bit. The back columns of the lobby zipped past in a blur. He was doing 40 miles an hour inside an office building. This was so much fun, it should have been illegal.
Oh yeah... it was illegal.
Of course, so was breaking and entering, a couple dozen counts of discharging a firearm in city limits, assault, battery and however many miscellaneous felonies he had performed on the premises thought. In the balance of things, a little reckless driving was the least of his infractions.
Up ahead, approaching very quickly, his last turn before getting out appeared. He reached out, grabbed the corner rail and spun Zephyr in a perfect right angle turn, locking her brakes and downthrotlling to kill his momentum. The end result was him stopped at the opening to the foyer, just forty feet of marble tile between him and the exit.
Forty feet of marble tile and a single figure standing between the ruined doors. Matt stared at the man, trying to make out his features in the darkness of the hall.
Long white hair, streaked through with dove grey, framed a downcast face, the man's features obscured by shadows. He was wearing a floor length coat and tall boots with small silver plates across both toe and heel. Riding gloves covered each hand, disappearing into the long cuffs of his pale shirt. Silver buttons walked the length of his chest, appearing wherever the coat lay open all the down to the argent plate at the front of his polished black leather belt.
"Hey!" Matt called out, gunning his bike and holding down the brake so his wheels spun but he stayed still. "I'm coming through! You might want to get out of the way!"
The man looked up, his eyes hidden behind narrow, almost sagely-looking sunglasses. He stared forward, presumably at Matthew, and slowly shook his head. The man moved to settle his feet in a sentry's stance, arms at his sides. He clearly had no intention of stepping aside.
"Look!" Matt growls slightly, idling Zephyr forward a few feet. "I have had a long night and I intend to go home!" Then, a little quieter but no less exasperated, "I am leaving. NOW. Get out of the way."
Again, there was nothing but a shake of the head from the long white haired figure at the threshold.
"Suit yourself!" Matt took his hand off the brake and let Zephyr rocket forward at full speed. Her back tire squealed, sending a cloud of noise and burned rubber into the air as he raced toward freedom and the front doors. Just before his bike made contact with the fool blocking the exit, there was a sea of white and then motion and sudden pain.
It took a moment for Matt to remember what had happened. Until that clarity returned, he simply laid at the base of one of the lobby pillars, his body protesting the pain of impact and the sheer speed of the man's attack.
Wings. It had been wings. Just as Zephyr was about to made contact between her front wheel and the black coated figure's chest, he had turned sideways and manifested a massive pair of snowy feathered wings. One had caught Matt's motorcycle broadsides and sent her across the room to wreak into a cut stone wall. The other had done much the same to Matthew, slinging him bodily into a column.
Shaking it off as best he could, Matt leaped to his feet, fighting off the wave of vertigo that accompanied the move. He reached into his coat, pulling both pistols from their holsters with a hiss of well-oiled leather. If he was fighting what he thought he was fighting, there would be no time to waste or to aim. He would have to shoot fast, try and take the bastard down before...
...and Matt looked at the front doors to find no one. The man was gone. Matt sighed, correcting himself. Not a man.
And as the shadow from above gave him only a split-second's warning to dodge before a glowing blade of deadly light transected where he was standing, Matt finished the thought. This was not a man at all.
It was an angel.
Matt dodged to the side, avoiding the sword stroke but failing to evade the burst of broken tiles that resulted from the forceful strike and the landing angel hitting the floor where he'd been. Several of them darted around him, one catching his cheek and gouging him deeply. "Ahhh!"
There was no time to dwell on the pain. The celestial assailant was not slowing down and not taking even a moment to recover. From the moment it landed, it was spinning into another attack. Matt barely sidestepped a lunge and ducked a head stroke from the man, distracted by the almost sinuous way his opponent was moving. This was almost a dance for the angel, almost too graceful and ceaseless to be real.
But the painful cut on his face and the sudden sting of the angel's sword tip drawing across his right arm was enough to bring Matt back to reality. As hypnotic as the unearthly figure was, the winged white-haired killer was exactly that - one of Heaven's executioners. He could never let himself forget that. Angels were divine slaughter hounds, the winged pack of the Christian Wild Hunt.
At this distance, which wasn't much, his guns would be useless. He tested that theory by firing off a couple of rounds from each. The ease with which the angel avoided the point blank barrage was almost laughable. Matt tossed the guns and stepped back for a moments breathing room.
Room and space to draw a more appropriate weapon. Closing his hand around empty air, Matthew willed his own angelic sword to appear. Its edge manifested just in time, catching an incoming swing from what was now his very surprised looking foe.
"You have no right to that weapon." The angel's voice was calm and clear, an audible perfection to match his outward one. Unfortunately, the winged warrior wasn't saying anything Matt really wanted to hear. Not again, anyway.
"That's too bad, since I'm keeping it." Now that he had the option to parry, he was back in this fight. Matt intercepted the next attack, catching the angel's sideswing and then deflecting the riposte that followed. The angel was good. Damn good. Good enough to wound him twice more in the next minute. Matt was defending himself adequately but he couldn't keep this up for long.
He parried aside the next head stroke, managing a clumsy attack of his own and getting counterslashed for his trouble. At this rate, he would have to buy a new shirt; the one he was wearing was rapidly becoming tatters and blood stains.
If he was going to walk out of here alive, he was going to have to cheat.
Fortunately, he didn't mind that thought at all. There was a time and a place for nobility. This was life and death; anything was fair game.
Unfortunately, most of his tricks would not work here. Angels were immune to his magic and aside from his sword and fallen guns, he possessed no way to hurt them. He needed a way to get past the angel's guard, though. His opponent was just too damn good. If he couldn't get the celestial to drop his guard, eventually Matt knew he'd make a mistake and get skewered.
Ending his life as another mark on an angel's kill list was not appealing. He considered how to avoid that fate as he and the angel continued to do battle. Their weapons were glowing fiercely, flaring into angry flames every time they met. The fight ranged from the middle of the hall to the far corner of the room past the new-destroyed elevator and back again.
Unfortunately, Matthew's arms were getting tired fast. He'd managed to ward off the seemingly indefatigable angel with only a few scratches and shallow cuts to show for it. However, each minor slash was a bit deeper than the last. If this kept up...
Then the angel got lucky and drove his sword point into Matthew's shoulder. There was a wave of raw, holy agony, a power that had him screaming in pain and nearly unconscious. It was all Matt could do not to look his blade in the sheer agony. He had to get away, had to get this weapon out of him...
...but then his awareness kicked in and he knew instinctively what to do. Instead of pulling the blade out, he decided to keep the blessed thing in him. It hurt like Hell, pun intended, but it also immobilized the angel for a moment.
All Matt needed was that moment. With the angel's sword pinned in his own body, there was a single window of attack open to him. Throwing everything he had into this last strike, Matt turned his blade from a defensive motion to a killing blow. If it missed, there would be no stopping the angel's next attack. He had to make this one count!
The stroke came up between the two of them and connected with the angel's upper chest in a draw cut. Long coat and white shirt both parted under its edge, pale flesh cleaving right behind it. Matt was suddenly awash in an angel's blood, caught for a moment in a spray of blood.
There was enough demon active within Matt now that the touch of an angel's blood was like acid! Matt cursed, howled in pain and whirled away before he could complete the strike. "Damn it!" he spat, turning around as soon as the sudden red pain was gone. His sword was steaming and his warding coat was nearly spent from saving his life...
...and his target was gone. There was a glowing sword of light impaled through his upper shoulder, a trail of blood leading out of the building and a mass of feathers - some of which were fluttering to the ground as he watched.
"Bastard got away..."
Paranoid and gasping from pain, Matt managed to pull the blade out of his body, drag his way to his damaged but not destroyed bike and get out of the accursed building. He was hurt. Badly. He needed a doctor but no hospital would admit him without I.D., especially when the interns started asking awkward questions; some of which had no good answer. He had no I.D., no insurance and his injuries were obviously violence-related. The police would have to get involved and from there things would just get ugly.
Forcing himself not to pass out, Matthew kept his motorcycle on the road and managed to stay conscious... mostly. Right now he needed the only comfort or care he knew of...
Right now he needed Mercy.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Housekeeping
The door was locked. Seven warding spells protected it from being broken, burned, unlocked, affected by magic, touched by living flesh or seen by mortal eyes. It had kept the sanctum to which it served as the only entrance safe for decades. Nothing had successfully penetrated its demesne; it was a testament to the protective powers of true cabalistic High Magic. Behind its complete and total defense, those kept inside were in one of the safest places in North America.
In fact, they were so safe that it took both a wave of raw entropy weakening the rune-inlaid metal around the door and the impact of Matt's motorcycle moving at more than 90 miles an hour down the long hallway leading up to it to tear the invulnerable door from its nigh-invulnerable frame and send it smashing through the far wall.
For the guardian knight standing directly behind the door, life was brief. His wet testament adorned most of the back of the room by the time Matt pulled Zephyr sideways and body-checked the other guard with the animated bike's muffler cowling.
Before the unfortunate man's shins had even finished breaking, Matt was up off Zephyr's seat, somersaulting through the air with his pistols drawn. One shot through the back of the guard's head ended the pain of his ruined legs. Matt considered it a kindness.
The cabalist priest crouching behind the room's massive desk obviously disagreed. "You murdering blasphemer! Burn in the lowest pits of Hell!"
He'd heard that before. Many times. "Thank you for the stock dialogue." Matt hit the ottoman with both feet, using it to spring back into the air and avoid another predictable fate. For a group priding themselves on their mastery of 'holy magic', it was funny how many of them carried guns. Or, in this case, a shotgun.
The cone of fire and steel shards tore through the air under him, right where he would have been standing had he landed and stayed still. The buckshot ripped apart the recliner and wall behind it, sending a cloud of sheet rock powder into the air.
Matt dove behind the calcite fog, using it to mask his landing and keep from getting shot again. The Order of Saint Michael Archangel usually armed their priest-mages with Benelli Novas, sturdy shotguns capable of chambering both slugs and shot in the same feed. Nice guns which, Matt counted his blessings, were almost always carrying pellets to make up for the poor marksmanship of most of the 'blessed ones' carrying them.
If the gun had been full of slugs, the shots the priest was now firing into the recliner would be ripping straight through both the chair and the Matthew. He was not all right with that last part. As it was, the pellet shards were making an unholy mess of the chair but not achieving nearly enough penetration to reach him.
Silently, Matt counted each round. Three... Four... Five...
This was where it got interesting. A few of the priests in the Order were knowledgeable enough about their guns to request an extended capacity. If they didn't, the Nova Pump would be dry in five shots. That meant Matt could pop up and end this now.
If this priest had added the option to his issued weapon, the barrel could still conceivably have two rounds left. Popping up would be a bad choice if that was the case.
Matt decided to take the chance and rolled out from behind his cover, his silver-plated pistol whipping up to draw line of sight on the manic Father. To his dismay, the man of the cloth pulled his weapon around just as fast, an cold smile as he pulled the shotgun's trigger.
Click.
The smile traded faces and Matt pulled his trigger a split-second later.
His handgun didn't click. It made a nice, earth-shattering kaboom. The puff of fire and smoke bursting from its barrel surrounded a magically created bullet forged of pure force and blessed by an act of, if the Order was to be believed, Pope Urban II. Every pistol carried by the highest agents of the Order of Saint Michael Archangel, including the two Matt had liberated, carried a relic in their handled. These relics, arrowheads from the first Crusade, allowed the weapons to strike through magical protections and the foul defenses of demons and other heretics.
Matt had become amusedly aware that for all their attunement against 'evil', the guns managed to do nicely violent things to members of the Order as well. Was that a divine commentary about these soldiers of the church? He didn't know and he really didn't care.
All that mattered was the result, that being the passage of the glittering clear projectile through the air between his weapon and the priest's left shoulder. It hit, pierced the protection spell on the holy man's vestments and went straight through the man's shoulder. The hole going in was considerably smaller than the one coming out. The wall went red and the priest went down.
Matt took a second shot before he stopped rolling. This one did ouchful things to the man's right arm, sending the Nova Pump flying across the room in a sanguine shower. Then he was up and taking aim with both guns. No more body shots; the pistols were aimed straight for the High Father's head. He wanted to fire, the darkest corner of his soul was screaming for him to end this man. The thought of shooting until there was only pastor paste on the beige carpet was so appealing. So deliciously violent...
No! He wasn't here to kill. He was here to deliver a message.
"Get out. Get your people and get the fuck out of Tennessee. Go thump your bibles in another state." As he spoke, Matt thumbed back the bolts on both his guns. It had taken him days to perfect that little bit of legerdemain but it looked really cool. "You're not welcome here any more. Get it?"
The priest looked up at his from the floor. Though both shots had been non-fatal, they were still serious. The shoulder wound was just going to bleed until it was stitched shut and the arm... well... quick enough medical attention might save it. Might. "You are a monster. The Order of Saint Michael Archangel takes no orders from the spawn of the Devil."
"I am trying to save your lives, old man. You don't want to know what's coming next." He wasn't lying. This priest had no idea why Matt was here. if he had, the poor man might nibble the barrel of his own shotgun.
Instead, the older priest, going a touch pale from blood loss, spat at him. Literally spat, as the bubbling droplets on Matt's face could attest. "Let me guess," the man said in an Italian-accented snarl of derision. "Hell rides behind you? So arrogant. So typical..."
BLAM.
The man's head lolled backwards, pitched forwards without a face and slumped to the ground. Matt lowered his guns, cussing and looking to the doorway. There, a smoking pistol rested in the flawless grasp of a white gloved hand. "Heaven... actually."
"Damn it!" Matt hissed. "I thought you said we were here to warn the Order."
The angel pushed his mirrored sunglasses back up to the bridge of his nose with his free hand. His suit, which should have been covered in little crimson dots form the spray of the dead priest's ruptured skull, was immaculate. As always.
"You did warn the Order."
Matt sighed and holstered his guns. "Yeah, sure, and now they are all dead. What good is a warning if everyone who heard it is dead?"
Uriel returned the sigh, kicking a guard's corpse out of his way as he crossed the room to the dead priest. He knelt, his white clothing completely uncorrupted by the wholesale death he waded through without hesitation. "Two things. Pay attention."
"I have a choice?"
The angel shook his head. "If you don't want me to kill you, no."
Matt glared but knew that was no idle threat. "Okay, fine. I'm listening."
"That's better. The first thing is that messages are not always meant for the people who first receive them." As he spoke, Uriel tore open the man's cassock and pulled a gold crucifix off his red-drenched neck.
Matt looked away. He was in no way squeamish about death but this didn't look like anything he needed to watch. Whatever the crazy angel was doing, he didn't feel like providing an audience. Instead, he pulled his motorcycle around and walked it back to the doorway of the ruined office. "And the second thing?"
"The second thing," Uriel said as his gloved fingers dropped the small cross into his inner jacket pocket. "Not all messages can be given directly. The people who find this mess, the people who will be sent to clean this up? They'll get the message loud and clear."
Matthew stopped at the door just as he was climbing astride Zephyr. "Wait a minute."
Uriel looked up, rising to his full six foot height over the bodies of the fallen. For a moment, the shadows of the room included a full spread of wings folding to settle against his back. In the next instant, the dark image was gone and in its place a soft white feather fluttered to the ground. Its silken fletching touched the edge of a pool of blood, staining half of it in a matter of moments.
"Yes?"
"You said we were going to get rid of the Order in Tennessee, not attract even more of the bastards here. You lied to me. This isn't what I signed on for."
The angel looked down at the floor, regarding his lost feather with a strange, unreadable expression before raising his eyes to meet Matt's. Disturbingly, Matt could feel the celestial's gaze though all he could see was his own reflection in Uriel's sunglasses.
"I did not lie. This will ultimately result in the dismantling of the Order."
"By starting a war?"
Uriel nodded, tugging his gloves tight at each wrist. "Indeed."
Matt turned away, unable to bear the intensity in the angel's attention. "You son of a bitch."
"Correction. Technically I was never born."
Matt's only reply, at least at first, was the growl of his bike's massive engine as he revved her to life. Then, without looking back, he murmured, "Don't you care about the people who might get caught up in this?" He didn't bother to speak up; the inhuman creature would hear him anyway.
"No."
Then, just as Matt started driving away down the fourth floor hallway, Uriel said to the empty air, "But apparently you do."
"Interesting..."
In fact, they were so safe that it took both a wave of raw entropy weakening the rune-inlaid metal around the door and the impact of Matt's motorcycle moving at more than 90 miles an hour down the long hallway leading up to it to tear the invulnerable door from its nigh-invulnerable frame and send it smashing through the far wall.
For the guardian knight standing directly behind the door, life was brief. His wet testament adorned most of the back of the room by the time Matt pulled Zephyr sideways and body-checked the other guard with the animated bike's muffler cowling.
Before the unfortunate man's shins had even finished breaking, Matt was up off Zephyr's seat, somersaulting through the air with his pistols drawn. One shot through the back of the guard's head ended the pain of his ruined legs. Matt considered it a kindness.
The cabalist priest crouching behind the room's massive desk obviously disagreed. "You murdering blasphemer! Burn in the lowest pits of Hell!"
He'd heard that before. Many times. "Thank you for the stock dialogue." Matt hit the ottoman with both feet, using it to spring back into the air and avoid another predictable fate. For a group priding themselves on their mastery of 'holy magic', it was funny how many of them carried guns. Or, in this case, a shotgun.
The cone of fire and steel shards tore through the air under him, right where he would have been standing had he landed and stayed still. The buckshot ripped apart the recliner and wall behind it, sending a cloud of sheet rock powder into the air.
Matt dove behind the calcite fog, using it to mask his landing and keep from getting shot again. The Order of Saint Michael Archangel usually armed their priest-mages with Benelli Novas, sturdy shotguns capable of chambering both slugs and shot in the same feed. Nice guns which, Matt counted his blessings, were almost always carrying pellets to make up for the poor marksmanship of most of the 'blessed ones' carrying them.
If the gun had been full of slugs, the shots the priest was now firing into the recliner would be ripping straight through both the chair and the Matthew. He was not all right with that last part. As it was, the pellet shards were making an unholy mess of the chair but not achieving nearly enough penetration to reach him.
Silently, Matt counted each round. Three... Four... Five...
This was where it got interesting. A few of the priests in the Order were knowledgeable enough about their guns to request an extended capacity. If they didn't, the Nova Pump would be dry in five shots. That meant Matt could pop up and end this now.
If this priest had added the option to his issued weapon, the barrel could still conceivably have two rounds left. Popping up would be a bad choice if that was the case.
Matt decided to take the chance and rolled out from behind his cover, his silver-plated pistol whipping up to draw line of sight on the manic Father. To his dismay, the man of the cloth pulled his weapon around just as fast, an cold smile as he pulled the shotgun's trigger.
Click.
The smile traded faces and Matt pulled his trigger a split-second later.
His handgun didn't click. It made a nice, earth-shattering kaboom. The puff of fire and smoke bursting from its barrel surrounded a magically created bullet forged of pure force and blessed by an act of, if the Order was to be believed, Pope Urban II. Every pistol carried by the highest agents of the Order of Saint Michael Archangel, including the two Matt had liberated, carried a relic in their handled. These relics, arrowheads from the first Crusade, allowed the weapons to strike through magical protections and the foul defenses of demons and other heretics.
Matt had become amusedly aware that for all their attunement against 'evil', the guns managed to do nicely violent things to members of the Order as well. Was that a divine commentary about these soldiers of the church? He didn't know and he really didn't care.
All that mattered was the result, that being the passage of the glittering clear projectile through the air between his weapon and the priest's left shoulder. It hit, pierced the protection spell on the holy man's vestments and went straight through the man's shoulder. The hole going in was considerably smaller than the one coming out. The wall went red and the priest went down.
Matt took a second shot before he stopped rolling. This one did ouchful things to the man's right arm, sending the Nova Pump flying across the room in a sanguine shower. Then he was up and taking aim with both guns. No more body shots; the pistols were aimed straight for the High Father's head. He wanted to fire, the darkest corner of his soul was screaming for him to end this man. The thought of shooting until there was only pastor paste on the beige carpet was so appealing. So deliciously violent...
No! He wasn't here to kill. He was here to deliver a message.
"Get out. Get your people and get the fuck out of Tennessee. Go thump your bibles in another state." As he spoke, Matt thumbed back the bolts on both his guns. It had taken him days to perfect that little bit of legerdemain but it looked really cool. "You're not welcome here any more. Get it?"
The priest looked up at his from the floor. Though both shots had been non-fatal, they were still serious. The shoulder wound was just going to bleed until it was stitched shut and the arm... well... quick enough medical attention might save it. Might. "You are a monster. The Order of Saint Michael Archangel takes no orders from the spawn of the Devil."
"I am trying to save your lives, old man. You don't want to know what's coming next." He wasn't lying. This priest had no idea why Matt was here. if he had, the poor man might nibble the barrel of his own shotgun.
Instead, the older priest, going a touch pale from blood loss, spat at him. Literally spat, as the bubbling droplets on Matt's face could attest. "Let me guess," the man said in an Italian-accented snarl of derision. "Hell rides behind you? So arrogant. So typical..."
BLAM.
The man's head lolled backwards, pitched forwards without a face and slumped to the ground. Matt lowered his guns, cussing and looking to the doorway. There, a smoking pistol rested in the flawless grasp of a white gloved hand. "Heaven... actually."
"Damn it!" Matt hissed. "I thought you said we were here to warn the Order."
The angel pushed his mirrored sunglasses back up to the bridge of his nose with his free hand. His suit, which should have been covered in little crimson dots form the spray of the dead priest's ruptured skull, was immaculate. As always.
"You did warn the Order."
Matt sighed and holstered his guns. "Yeah, sure, and now they are all dead. What good is a warning if everyone who heard it is dead?"
Uriel returned the sigh, kicking a guard's corpse out of his way as he crossed the room to the dead priest. He knelt, his white clothing completely uncorrupted by the wholesale death he waded through without hesitation. "Two things. Pay attention."
"I have a choice?"
The angel shook his head. "If you don't want me to kill you, no."
Matt glared but knew that was no idle threat. "Okay, fine. I'm listening."
"That's better. The first thing is that messages are not always meant for the people who first receive them." As he spoke, Uriel tore open the man's cassock and pulled a gold crucifix off his red-drenched neck.
Matt looked away. He was in no way squeamish about death but this didn't look like anything he needed to watch. Whatever the crazy angel was doing, he didn't feel like providing an audience. Instead, he pulled his motorcycle around and walked it back to the doorway of the ruined office. "And the second thing?"
"The second thing," Uriel said as his gloved fingers dropped the small cross into his inner jacket pocket. "Not all messages can be given directly. The people who find this mess, the people who will be sent to clean this up? They'll get the message loud and clear."
Matthew stopped at the door just as he was climbing astride Zephyr. "Wait a minute."
Uriel looked up, rising to his full six foot height over the bodies of the fallen. For a moment, the shadows of the room included a full spread of wings folding to settle against his back. In the next instant, the dark image was gone and in its place a soft white feather fluttered to the ground. Its silken fletching touched the edge of a pool of blood, staining half of it in a matter of moments.
"Yes?"
"You said we were going to get rid of the Order in Tennessee, not attract even more of the bastards here. You lied to me. This isn't what I signed on for."
The angel looked down at the floor, regarding his lost feather with a strange, unreadable expression before raising his eyes to meet Matt's. Disturbingly, Matt could feel the celestial's gaze though all he could see was his own reflection in Uriel's sunglasses.
"I did not lie. This will ultimately result in the dismantling of the Order."
"By starting a war?"
Uriel nodded, tugging his gloves tight at each wrist. "Indeed."
Matt turned away, unable to bear the intensity in the angel's attention. "You son of a bitch."
"Correction. Technically I was never born."
Matt's only reply, at least at first, was the growl of his bike's massive engine as he revved her to life. Then, without looking back, he murmured, "Don't you care about the people who might get caught up in this?" He didn't bother to speak up; the inhuman creature would hear him anyway.
"No."
Then, just as Matt started driving away down the fourth floor hallway, Uriel said to the empty air, "But apparently you do."
"Interesting..."
Friday, September 28, 2007
Captive Audience
Stay waited for the imagined murmurs and comments to die down among her stuffed animals.
"Thank you all for coming."
It had taken more than an hour to find boxes, pots, junk mail and anything else not nailed down in the house to serve as chairs for her plushies. Every other night or so, Matt would come home with a new one and leave it beside her in bed. It was cute, she guessed, but there were an awful lot of them now. Besides, she was running out of names for them all.
"Mister Flailie, can you get the lights?"
She was addressing the day-glo green octopus next to the attic loft light switch. Then she pretended he'd reached up with a fuzzy tentacle and turned them off. Taking a second to go do that herself, she returned to her place in front of the assembly.
"Thank you. Now, as you all know, I have been working for some time on this composition and now, finally, I am ready to unveil the first part. I call this work in progress..."
She picked up the little key chain remote used to operate he home studio projector from the living room downstairs. She'd managed to get it all the way up the stairs all by herself and only dropped it twice! A few of the silly bits here were supposed to be carrying it for her but the Teddy Brigade had been no help at all.
With the projector attached to Archie's laptop, which she was absolutely sure he wouldn't mind her borrowing, and Powerpoint running, she pushed the forward button and projected the first "slide" onto the wall. It almost fit in the blue sorta-square she'd drawn there. Oh well. Close enough!
The image was just letters but they were big and in a great font. Bally-Hoo. They looked like circus letters and that made them funny. Like elephants. But not like clowns. Real Clowns were creepy. Reading along with the screen, she said:
"A Studee in Sharpies."
She paused, imagining lots of applause. "Thank you, thank you. Too kind."
Once the non-existent uproar died down, she pushed the button again and revealed a picture of herself holding her prized possession - the 61 pack of permanent markers Matt got her from the Office Depot. It had been a 64 park but all her blacks were gone. Those had been some pretty amazing zebras though.
"Here we see the artist and her tools. You will note the markers arranged by color group. Warm colors on the left, cool colors on the right and really awesome colors in my pockets."
Button press. The wall was painted suddenly with an image of Stay hiding behind the couch. The angle made it clear she was taking the picture herself at arms' length.
"Art requires timing and patience."
The next button press was the same scene but with a black granular mess all over Stay's face.
"And Oreos!"
Button press. This picture of Stay had her holding the camera in one hand and an uncapped bright orange Sharpie in the other, all while standing over a deeply unconscious Archie.
"This is one of my favorite canvases. Notice the tosselded hair and the drooliness. I use that for blending effects, like so..."
Button press.
"And so..."
Button press.
"And so. Notice how the red transitionates right into the lime green near his ear. That's the merging power of spit."
Button presses came pretty quickly after that, showing scene after scene of people with all manner of things written and drawn on their bodies. The first ten were all Archie, the poor Council mage whose poor choice in love interests had landed him in a house owned by Mercy with a little girl devoid of any.
Each image of Archie was progressively messier, with the 'masterpiece' being his hair dyed by orange and blue markers, a completely red nose, a big fake smilie face and flowers on his cheeks in a tasteful mix of lavender, brown and aqua.
Real clowns were creepy. But Archie Clowns were awesome!
"I seem to have mislaid my Mercy flashdrive but when I find it, I'll host another party. Thank you all for being here but before you go, I have a pest da resistance. A real magnet opiss if you will." She let the silence, which in her mind was the buzz of sudden interest, fade before she reached for the button to reveal the last slide.
"Ladies, gentlemen and whatever you teletubbies are, I give you..."
Button press.
"Kitty Matt!"
The response to her art was so loud, she could almost have sworn she even heard Matt's voice among her throng of stuffed fans. It honestly looked like he was even at the top of the stairs, face covered in lots of jungle colors, a cute little triangle making his nose look like a kitten nuzzle.
"Stay..."
That was so lifelike. It was almost like he was really... ummm... here... Oh. Poop.
"Run."
"Thank you all for coming."
It had taken more than an hour to find boxes, pots, junk mail and anything else not nailed down in the house to serve as chairs for her plushies. Every other night or so, Matt would come home with a new one and leave it beside her in bed. It was cute, she guessed, but there were an awful lot of them now. Besides, she was running out of names for them all.
"Mister Flailie, can you get the lights?"
She was addressing the day-glo green octopus next to the attic loft light switch. Then she pretended he'd reached up with a fuzzy tentacle and turned them off. Taking a second to go do that herself, she returned to her place in front of the assembly.
"Thank you. Now, as you all know, I have been working for some time on this composition and now, finally, I am ready to unveil the first part. I call this work in progress..."
She picked up the little key chain remote used to operate he home studio projector from the living room downstairs. She'd managed to get it all the way up the stairs all by herself and only dropped it twice! A few of the silly bits here were supposed to be carrying it for her but the Teddy Brigade had been no help at all.
With the projector attached to Archie's laptop, which she was absolutely sure he wouldn't mind her borrowing, and Powerpoint running, she pushed the forward button and projected the first "slide" onto the wall. It almost fit in the blue sorta-square she'd drawn there. Oh well. Close enough!
The image was just letters but they were big and in a great font. Bally-Hoo. They looked like circus letters and that made them funny. Like elephants. But not like clowns. Real Clowns were creepy. Reading along with the screen, she said:
"A Studee in Sharpies."
She paused, imagining lots of applause. "Thank you, thank you. Too kind."
Once the non-existent uproar died down, she pushed the button again and revealed a picture of herself holding her prized possession - the 61 pack of permanent markers Matt got her from the Office Depot. It had been a 64 park but all her blacks were gone. Those had been some pretty amazing zebras though.
"Here we see the artist and her tools. You will note the markers arranged by color group. Warm colors on the left, cool colors on the right and really awesome colors in my pockets."
Button press. The wall was painted suddenly with an image of Stay hiding behind the couch. The angle made it clear she was taking the picture herself at arms' length.
"Art requires timing and patience."
The next button press was the same scene but with a black granular mess all over Stay's face.
"And Oreos!"
Button press. This picture of Stay had her holding the camera in one hand and an uncapped bright orange Sharpie in the other, all while standing over a deeply unconscious Archie.
"This is one of my favorite canvases. Notice the tosselded hair and the drooliness. I use that for blending effects, like so..."
Button press.
"And so..."
Button press.
"And so. Notice how the red transitionates right into the lime green near his ear. That's the merging power of spit."
Button presses came pretty quickly after that, showing scene after scene of people with all manner of things written and drawn on their bodies. The first ten were all Archie, the poor Council mage whose poor choice in love interests had landed him in a house owned by Mercy with a little girl devoid of any.
Each image of Archie was progressively messier, with the 'masterpiece' being his hair dyed by orange and blue markers, a completely red nose, a big fake smilie face and flowers on his cheeks in a tasteful mix of lavender, brown and aqua.
Real clowns were creepy. But Archie Clowns were awesome!
"I seem to have mislaid my Mercy flashdrive but when I find it, I'll host another party. Thank you all for being here but before you go, I have a pest da resistance. A real magnet opiss if you will." She let the silence, which in her mind was the buzz of sudden interest, fade before she reached for the button to reveal the last slide.
"Ladies, gentlemen and whatever you teletubbies are, I give you..."
Button press.
"Kitty Matt!"
The response to her art was so loud, she could almost have sworn she even heard Matt's voice among her throng of stuffed fans. It honestly looked like he was even at the top of the stairs, face covered in lots of jungle colors, a cute little triangle making his nose look like a kitten nuzzle.
"Stay..."
That was so lifelike. It was almost like he was really... ummm... here... Oh. Poop.
"Run."
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Guest Services
"Have you seen my kitchen!?!"
Matt cringed, dropping a bag containing Stay's disastrous breakfast attempt into the can outside. He'd seen Mercy head inside a few minutes ago but had hoped she would just go upstairs to Archie and avoid the rest of the house. That was her usual habit after work, mostly because Arch loved to be woken up by the lovely redhead in her Hooter's outfit.
Tonight, of all nights, she just had to go into the kitchen, didn't she? Matt sighed, resisting the urge to look up into the sky and asking God if the Almighty really hated him this much. It was a pointless question; the last year had pretty much answered that one.
"Yes, I have. I'm sorry, Mercy..." There wasn't anything else to say. The little blond moppet was a one-girl war zone in pigtails. He'd pretty much given up on staying in hotels after the "Zebra Incident" and he was running out of excuses for her. When Stay got bored, the world suffered for it. And sadly? She got bored way a lot.
"There's a burn mark through the stove top!" Mercy was closer, about halfway between the front door and the curb where he was standing. She was closer but her voice wasn't any quieter.
"Yeah. It looks better if you don't move the dish towel." That had been Stay's excuse to him. It hadn't worked when she said it and he doubted it would work now.
It didn't. "What was she doing? Smelting gold?!?"
"Worse." He sighed and hung his head. "She was watching the Food Network."
"Oh Gods." She was right behind him now. "It's a wonder I have a house left at all. Did you see what she did to Archie?"
Matt nodded. "I'm sorry, Mercy. I really am. I can't control her at all. I tell her to behave and every night I leave thinking she means it when she says she will. Some nights she's an angel and others..." He closed his eyes, not used to feeling so helpless.
Her tone softened as he felt her hand slip over his shoulder. "You know why she's doing this, don't you?"
He shook his head, feeling his loose, long hair flow across his shoulders. His shirt hadn't survived the evening and his jacket was draped across the seat of his bike. Mercy leaned in close, her chest pressing softly against his back.
"You know, sugar, I keep forgetting how young you really are. You don't know kids at all."
He shuddered as she kissed the back of his neck. It always hurt for him to admit a weakness, even a slight one like this. He hated not being an expert, not being able to handle something on his own. Still, lying to this woman had never been easy. She was so much like him, after all. "I really don't, Mercy. I'm not old enough to take care of a child."
She hugged him tight, pulling him against her ample chest and squeezing tight. She was being incredibly gentle, which meant she was watching her strength. Mercy had been possessed by a demon once. She was free of it... mostly... but it had left its mark. Some of the mark was good, some was bad. And some was what made her just like him in a way. Her demon was the same kind that he was still wrestling with inside. And it made her want the same thing.
Sex.
Constant, unforgiving, raw sex.
Even now, worried about Stay and upset, the touch of a woman was making him hungry. He could feel she was thinking the same thing; her body was about as subtle as his when desire started overwhelming reason.
And like him, reason rarely put up much of a fight...
"Talk later?" His voice was a starving whisper.
"Shut up and kiss me."
----------------
Later, much later, they were laying beside each other against the side of a burbling hot tub. Mercy leaned across him delightfully, pouring them both another glass of wine. He just watched her peacefully, all his energy drained and quiet for a while.
"Think the neighbors saw?" he asked with a soft laugh.
She sat back up, handing him one of the goblets. "I hope so. It was quite a show, sugar."
He chuckled and sipped at the red. "That it was. Sorry about the mailbox."
She shrugged, a lovely gesture with her wet curls plastered to her shoulders and his naked form obscured by only the slightest of bubbling foam. "Bah. I was gonna replace it anyway, sweet. Besides, I'm more worried about that dog."
Matt laughed, nodding. "I think he's scarred for life."
"Well, if the neighborhood bitches start turning up with broken tails and no fur on their necks, we'll know he learned something." She giggled into her wine.
For a while, they just soaked and enjoyed the comfort of quiet contact. When the bottle of wine was gone and the last of the nibbles were history, Mercy leaned over and kissed him again. "Mmmm... thanks for the ride, sugar. I needed that."
"Me too." Truer words were never spoken. There was something about Mercy that kept him coming back and it wasn't just free room and board.
"Who'd have thunk you'd be staying here with me when we met, huh?" She was laughing again, running a finger down his chest with a calm yet playful look in her eyes. The woman was voracious and her recovery speed matched his own. Aside from him, only Archie could match her and with that poor fool being run ragged by the Mages Council these days, he wasn't always around to keep Mercy "fed".
Well, that was a chore Matt didn't mind helping the tired wizard out with. Not at all.
"Certainly not me," he answered honestly. They'd met a couple of months ago in a back alley near the waterfront. Mercy had thought he was a demon and, since she was a demon hunter, that hadn't gone well. They'd fought, beat the crud out of each other and spent the next five hours breaking almost every public decency law on the books.
This was Tennessee, though. There weren't many of those laws to start with. And the few they hadn't shattered into a million little obscene pieces, they'd managed to fracture tonight. That poor, sad little mailbox...
"About Stay," he started to say.
She shushed him with a kiss. "It's all right, sugar. She's a little girl and she doesn't have anyone but you to watch after her. She's gonna act up now and then, just 'til she finds the high water mark."
He tilted his head, nibbling the edge of her ear as Mercy's hands found something to hold other than stemware. "What... mmmm.... what do you mean?"
"She needs to know what's right and wrong. She's ten years old, Matt. You're her friend and her caretaker but she needs a father too. She needs to know the rules and you haven't set any, darlin'." Then Mercy got very, very distracted.
The tub was definitely getting hotter by the moment. Fighting to concentrate, Matt bumped her head with his to get her attention. "But what are the rules?" he managed to say.
She looked up at him before going underwater again. "That's for you to decide, sugar, but if you'd do me the kindness of taking away her cooking privileges, I'd be real grateful."
He grinned down at her, only barely thinking about... anything. "Oh? How grateful?"
She showed him.
By the time he got inside and found Stay asleep in the living room on top of every pillow and seat cushion in the entire house, Matt was too tired to care, too happy to be upset and too warm to do anything more than fall down on the pile and go to sleep with a silly, well-worn smile on his stubbly face.
Eventually, Stay woke up, looked over at Matt and cuddled up next to him. She was so glad he was home. Everything was boring without him here. She knew he was mad about the stove... and the wall... and the Archie but she was really sorry. She really meant it this time. She'd be good. Super good so he'd never get all growly again.
He just seemed so happy now.
And sound asleepy.
And...
And...
"MARKER TIME!"
Matt cringed, dropping a bag containing Stay's disastrous breakfast attempt into the can outside. He'd seen Mercy head inside a few minutes ago but had hoped she would just go upstairs to Archie and avoid the rest of the house. That was her usual habit after work, mostly because Arch loved to be woken up by the lovely redhead in her Hooter's outfit.
Tonight, of all nights, she just had to go into the kitchen, didn't she? Matt sighed, resisting the urge to look up into the sky and asking God if the Almighty really hated him this much. It was a pointless question; the last year had pretty much answered that one.
"Yes, I have. I'm sorry, Mercy..." There wasn't anything else to say. The little blond moppet was a one-girl war zone in pigtails. He'd pretty much given up on staying in hotels after the "Zebra Incident" and he was running out of excuses for her. When Stay got bored, the world suffered for it. And sadly? She got bored way a lot.
"There's a burn mark through the stove top!" Mercy was closer, about halfway between the front door and the curb where he was standing. She was closer but her voice wasn't any quieter.
"Yeah. It looks better if you don't move the dish towel." That had been Stay's excuse to him. It hadn't worked when she said it and he doubted it would work now.
It didn't. "What was she doing? Smelting gold?!?"
"Worse." He sighed and hung his head. "She was watching the Food Network."
"Oh Gods." She was right behind him now. "It's a wonder I have a house left at all. Did you see what she did to Archie?"
Matt nodded. "I'm sorry, Mercy. I really am. I can't control her at all. I tell her to behave and every night I leave thinking she means it when she says she will. Some nights she's an angel and others..." He closed his eyes, not used to feeling so helpless.
Her tone softened as he felt her hand slip over his shoulder. "You know why she's doing this, don't you?"
He shook his head, feeling his loose, long hair flow across his shoulders. His shirt hadn't survived the evening and his jacket was draped across the seat of his bike. Mercy leaned in close, her chest pressing softly against his back.
"You know, sugar, I keep forgetting how young you really are. You don't know kids at all."
He shuddered as she kissed the back of his neck. It always hurt for him to admit a weakness, even a slight one like this. He hated not being an expert, not being able to handle something on his own. Still, lying to this woman had never been easy. She was so much like him, after all. "I really don't, Mercy. I'm not old enough to take care of a child."
She hugged him tight, pulling him against her ample chest and squeezing tight. She was being incredibly gentle, which meant she was watching her strength. Mercy had been possessed by a demon once. She was free of it... mostly... but it had left its mark. Some of the mark was good, some was bad. And some was what made her just like him in a way. Her demon was the same kind that he was still wrestling with inside. And it made her want the same thing.
Sex.
Constant, unforgiving, raw sex.
Even now, worried about Stay and upset, the touch of a woman was making him hungry. He could feel she was thinking the same thing; her body was about as subtle as his when desire started overwhelming reason.
And like him, reason rarely put up much of a fight...
"Talk later?" His voice was a starving whisper.
"Shut up and kiss me."
----------------
Later, much later, they were laying beside each other against the side of a burbling hot tub. Mercy leaned across him delightfully, pouring them both another glass of wine. He just watched her peacefully, all his energy drained and quiet for a while.
"Think the neighbors saw?" he asked with a soft laugh.
She sat back up, handing him one of the goblets. "I hope so. It was quite a show, sugar."
He chuckled and sipped at the red. "That it was. Sorry about the mailbox."
She shrugged, a lovely gesture with her wet curls plastered to her shoulders and his naked form obscured by only the slightest of bubbling foam. "Bah. I was gonna replace it anyway, sweet. Besides, I'm more worried about that dog."
Matt laughed, nodding. "I think he's scarred for life."
"Well, if the neighborhood bitches start turning up with broken tails and no fur on their necks, we'll know he learned something." She giggled into her wine.
For a while, they just soaked and enjoyed the comfort of quiet contact. When the bottle of wine was gone and the last of the nibbles were history, Mercy leaned over and kissed him again. "Mmmm... thanks for the ride, sugar. I needed that."
"Me too." Truer words were never spoken. There was something about Mercy that kept him coming back and it wasn't just free room and board.
"Who'd have thunk you'd be staying here with me when we met, huh?" She was laughing again, running a finger down his chest with a calm yet playful look in her eyes. The woman was voracious and her recovery speed matched his own. Aside from him, only Archie could match her and with that poor fool being run ragged by the Mages Council these days, he wasn't always around to keep Mercy "fed".
Well, that was a chore Matt didn't mind helping the tired wizard out with. Not at all.
"Certainly not me," he answered honestly. They'd met a couple of months ago in a back alley near the waterfront. Mercy had thought he was a demon and, since she was a demon hunter, that hadn't gone well. They'd fought, beat the crud out of each other and spent the next five hours breaking almost every public decency law on the books.
This was Tennessee, though. There weren't many of those laws to start with. And the few they hadn't shattered into a million little obscene pieces, they'd managed to fracture tonight. That poor, sad little mailbox...
"About Stay," he started to say.
She shushed him with a kiss. "It's all right, sugar. She's a little girl and she doesn't have anyone but you to watch after her. She's gonna act up now and then, just 'til she finds the high water mark."
He tilted his head, nibbling the edge of her ear as Mercy's hands found something to hold other than stemware. "What... mmmm.... what do you mean?"
"She needs to know what's right and wrong. She's ten years old, Matt. You're her friend and her caretaker but she needs a father too. She needs to know the rules and you haven't set any, darlin'." Then Mercy got very, very distracted.
The tub was definitely getting hotter by the moment. Fighting to concentrate, Matt bumped her head with his to get her attention. "But what are the rules?" he managed to say.
She looked up at him before going underwater again. "That's for you to decide, sugar, but if you'd do me the kindness of taking away her cooking privileges, I'd be real grateful."
He grinned down at her, only barely thinking about... anything. "Oh? How grateful?"
She showed him.
By the time he got inside and found Stay asleep in the living room on top of every pillow and seat cushion in the entire house, Matt was too tired to care, too happy to be upset and too warm to do anything more than fall down on the pile and go to sleep with a silly, well-worn smile on his stubbly face.
Eventually, Stay woke up, looked over at Matt and cuddled up next to him. She was so glad he was home. Everything was boring without him here. She knew he was mad about the stove... and the wall... and the Archie but she was really sorry. She really meant it this time. She'd be good. Super good so he'd never get all growly again.
He just seemed so happy now.
And sound asleepy.
And...
And...
"MARKER TIME!"
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Stay... Up All Night...
To understand why Matt was sitting at the front door, head covered in a bucket, wet, cold glop dripping down over his face into his lap, one has to look four hours into the past...
---------------
"Bored now."
Stay sighed deeply, her little face scrunched up as she sat on the couch, surfing through the channels on Mercy's widescreen plasma. It was a huge television but there wasn't anything on but an old Robin Hood movie and the Food network. There wasn't really much of a choice, so he punched in the channel button and leaned back to watch someone goofy-looking make an omelet.
That was a mistake. "Hungry now."
The show made it look easy so she hopped down off the couch and turned off the TV. "Mmmm... eggies." She padded into the kitchen, not wanting to disturb Archie if he was up making a late night snack. He wasn't, which meant he was still passed out on the couch. That was all right; she'd just double everything and make him something too...
Stupid smoke alarm.
Stay made sure there was no evidence of "Battle: Omelet." The stove was cleaned up, the pan was outside in the dumpster and the fire damage to the stove... well, as long as Mercy didn't move the dish towel, no one would ever have to know!
Still, the alarm had been really loud until she'd smashed it with a rolling pin. Archie should have woken up. She was grateful he hadn't, but still. Maybe he was hurt or something. She should go check up on him. Grabbing some cookies from the jar she could reach... now that it was in pieces on the floor... Stay stalked in to the living room.
The poor man was still in his suit and trench coat, passed out on the couch with one foot on the armrest and his hat perched on the end of the other one. He was fast asleep, pale in that way that meant he'd used way too much magic. Matt looked like that a lot; Stay knew the signs.
Archie was a nice man; Stay was really glad to see he'd be okay. He was just sleeping like the dead. That means he'd be out for hours still.
And that meant it was Marker Time!!!
Half an hour later, Stay stepped back away from Archie's stubbly face. It wasn't her best work but he did look a lot like a leopard now. Well, a leopard clown. She didn't have any black left after drawing zebras on the motel walls the other day, so she's had to use her other colors. There probably wasn't a orange and purple big kitty out there in the real world but Stay thought there should be. It was cute!
She was careful to put all the caps back on her markers. She liked Sharpies. She liked them a lot.
But now what to do? Stay had a feeling the Food Network was only going to get her in more trouble and black and white movies were boring. That meant nothing for at least another hour until someone got home. She knew better than to try vacuuming again.
Poor kitty.
So if she couldn't watch TV and she couldn't do chores, what was she going to do?
"Bored now."
"Again."
Then she remembered the Big Book of Fun upstairs in the loft. That was the room she was supposed to be using as hers but she liked it better sleeping in random places so Matt and Mercy would have to hunt for her. That was a fun game. The dish cabinet hadn't been too comfy but it was a LOT better than the dryer. Ouch. She wouldn't do that one again.
Of course, it had been quieter than that time she'd tried to sleep under Mercy's bed. Such strange sounds... And all the bumping. So weird. She hadn't known Archie was so religious.
Oh well. The Big Book of Fun would help! It was an activity book with crafts and puzzles and games that Matt had bought her at Wal-Mart. Well, "buy" wasn't really true. Stay had gotten bored and pushed their cart out of the store while Matt was in the office with all three of the store's cashiers.
They'd been really religious too. Weirdos.
She wasn't going to complain though; she'd gotten a whole lot of Yu-gi-oh cards that night!
But now it was time for the Big Book. Like she always did when she was this strapped for something to do, she turned to a random page and found....
"Paper Mache."
What the heck was paper mache?
She read the whole page. Twice. It really just looked like a messy way to do something she could accomplish with a small ton of play dough. That wouldn't be any fun at all. Why would she do something like this for fun? A big bucket....
...of water....
...and sticky flour....
Stay started smiling. And giggling.
This was going to be GREAT!
--------------
Matt stood up slowly, pulling the bucket off his head, his face covered in clumps of grey and his left eye stuck together. Greeting him was a cherubic little blond girl with a digital camera and an innocent little grin.
"Hi hi! Welcome home!"
He glowered. His one open eye started to darken. "Stay?"
She took another picture. "Yes, sir?"
"Run."
---------------
"Bored now."
Stay sighed deeply, her little face scrunched up as she sat on the couch, surfing through the channels on Mercy's widescreen plasma. It was a huge television but there wasn't anything on but an old Robin Hood movie and the Food network. There wasn't really much of a choice, so he punched in the channel button and leaned back to watch someone goofy-looking make an omelet.
That was a mistake. "Hungry now."
The show made it look easy so she hopped down off the couch and turned off the TV. "Mmmm... eggies." She padded into the kitchen, not wanting to disturb Archie if he was up making a late night snack. He wasn't, which meant he was still passed out on the couch. That was all right; she'd just double everything and make him something too...
Stupid smoke alarm.
Stay made sure there was no evidence of "Battle: Omelet." The stove was cleaned up, the pan was outside in the dumpster and the fire damage to the stove... well, as long as Mercy didn't move the dish towel, no one would ever have to know!
Still, the alarm had been really loud until she'd smashed it with a rolling pin. Archie should have woken up. She was grateful he hadn't, but still. Maybe he was hurt or something. She should go check up on him. Grabbing some cookies from the jar she could reach... now that it was in pieces on the floor... Stay stalked in to the living room.
The poor man was still in his suit and trench coat, passed out on the couch with one foot on the armrest and his hat perched on the end of the other one. He was fast asleep, pale in that way that meant he'd used way too much magic. Matt looked like that a lot; Stay knew the signs.
Archie was a nice man; Stay was really glad to see he'd be okay. He was just sleeping like the dead. That means he'd be out for hours still.
And that meant it was Marker Time!!!
Half an hour later, Stay stepped back away from Archie's stubbly face. It wasn't her best work but he did look a lot like a leopard now. Well, a leopard clown. She didn't have any black left after drawing zebras on the motel walls the other day, so she's had to use her other colors. There probably wasn't a orange and purple big kitty out there in the real world but Stay thought there should be. It was cute!
She was careful to put all the caps back on her markers. She liked Sharpies. She liked them a lot.
But now what to do? Stay had a feeling the Food Network was only going to get her in more trouble and black and white movies were boring. That meant nothing for at least another hour until someone got home. She knew better than to try vacuuming again.
Poor kitty.
So if she couldn't watch TV and she couldn't do chores, what was she going to do?
"Bored now."
"Again."
Then she remembered the Big Book of Fun upstairs in the loft. That was the room she was supposed to be using as hers but she liked it better sleeping in random places so Matt and Mercy would have to hunt for her. That was a fun game. The dish cabinet hadn't been too comfy but it was a LOT better than the dryer. Ouch. She wouldn't do that one again.
Of course, it had been quieter than that time she'd tried to sleep under Mercy's bed. Such strange sounds... And all the bumping. So weird. She hadn't known Archie was so religious.
Oh well. The Big Book of Fun would help! It was an activity book with crafts and puzzles and games that Matt had bought her at Wal-Mart. Well, "buy" wasn't really true. Stay had gotten bored and pushed their cart out of the store while Matt was in the office with all three of the store's cashiers.
They'd been really religious too. Weirdos.
She wasn't going to complain though; she'd gotten a whole lot of Yu-gi-oh cards that night!
But now it was time for the Big Book. Like she always did when she was this strapped for something to do, she turned to a random page and found....
"Paper Mache."
What the heck was paper mache?
She read the whole page. Twice. It really just looked like a messy way to do something she could accomplish with a small ton of play dough. That wouldn't be any fun at all. Why would she do something like this for fun? A big bucket....
...of water....
...and sticky flour....
Stay started smiling. And giggling.
This was going to be GREAT!
--------------
Matt stood up slowly, pulling the bucket off his head, his face covered in clumps of grey and his left eye stuck together. Greeting him was a cherubic little blond girl with a digital camera and an innocent little grin.
"Hi hi! Welcome home!"
He glowered. His one open eye started to darken. "Stay?"
She took another picture. "Yes, sir?"
"Run."
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Curses
"Why do you like to hurt people?"
The hardest questions in Matt's life had always been asked over french toast.
He wasn't sure why but it really seemed to be true. His mother had asked him how fast he could pack when he was nine. They had to move out of Phoenix because the police were looking for his father and they'd gotten close again.
He's been asked to give up his lunch money or get a broken arm when he was eleven. That hadn't ended well; he'd actually gotten a broken arm, a broken leg, and a cracked rib for his answer. That was the day he decided that being quiet and staying out of sight was the best way to live his life.
At fourteen he'd been asked by his best friend if he could ever think of a boy in a sexual manner. Said friend was male and, not that Matt knew it at the time, both homosexual and mentally unstable. He found out the first part after answering, "No." Two days later, Matt found out the second part for basically the same reason. His New Year's Resolution that year had been to never appear in anyone's suicide note again.
A year later, his dad asked him at breakfast to help him bury someone. The body had been a state trooper, someone who'd tracked his father across half the country and ignored protocol by busting into the house with a drawn weapon and no warrant. They'd had to move again over that ugliness.
It had been three years since he'd had french toast, long enough that he'd forgotten its apparent curse. Now he was sitting in a Denny's, cooked bread in his mouth, listening to Stay ask a painful question while tasting maple syrup. If his mouth had been empty, he'd have said something vulgar.
As it was, he took a bite, chewed it up and swallowed it with a long drink of orange juice. Stay's bright eyes let him know that she wasn't going to let it drop. She was sitting there, breakfast plate already cleaned off, waiting for him to answer. Damn it.
"Why do you think I enjoy it?"
It was a cop out answer and damn the little cherub, she obviously knew it. The look she gave him was one of 'Not fair!' as he answered her with a question. And a lame one at that.
"Because you laugh sometimes when you do it."
That stopped him. He'd been reaching for his milk but now all thought of food stopped. "I what?"
She nodded, earnest eyes still bright. She didn't seem at all upset talking about death and killing. She just seemed to want to know why he enjoyed it, something he never really thought about, especially in such blunt terms.
"I do not laugh." he sighed and looked down at his plate. Nothing there looked appetizing any more. "Stay, I don't enjoy killing. I wish I didn't have to do it any more. But there are people out there who want to kill me. Should I just let them do it?"
She shook her head. "No. Of course not. I wasn't saying you were doing bad. I just wanted to know if it was fun. I have a gun and I was thinking maybe I should help you next time."
"NO!"
Everyone in the Denny looked their way, even the chef through the little dungeon window to the hell called a fast food kitchen.
Matt looked down and stayed quiet until people started minding their own business again. It took a while but eventually the average American attention span worked in Matt's favor. Within a minute, no one was paying him or Stay any more attention. After they were alone again, he said in a much softer voice, "Stay, you can't hurt people. It's not right."
She wasn't buying it, not that he could sell it very well even if he believed it. He'd left too many corpses in his wake since leaving New Jersey to really believe what he'd just said.
"Okay, okay... there are times when you'll have to, but don't try to find reasons. I don't want you to ever have to use that thing."
She looked confused now, but was self-aware enough to reach across the table and steal a piece of bacon. Munching on it idly, she glanced back up into his eyes and asked, "Why not?"
What was he supposed to say? How could he put it into words? He didn't want her to lose her innocence the way he did at her age? He didn't want blood on her hands? He didn't want to be responsible for turning a little girl into a sidecar killer?
Eventually, he went with another conversational surrender. "I just don't, okay?"
She shrugged and went back to coloring the waffles on her place mat. In the typical fashion of a child, she'd gotten all the answers she was going to get and was bright enough to realize it. As such, she turned her attention elsewhere - namely, blue and yellow crayons.
Matt took a drink of milk, breathed a slow sigh of relief and went back to eating his french toast.
"Oh, Uncle Matt?"
He made a curious sound, his mouth stuffed full. "Whaa?"
"Why do you screw so many hot girls?"
The geyser of egg-soaked breakfast bread was epic....
The hardest questions in Matt's life had always been asked over french toast.
He wasn't sure why but it really seemed to be true. His mother had asked him how fast he could pack when he was nine. They had to move out of Phoenix because the police were looking for his father and they'd gotten close again.
He's been asked to give up his lunch money or get a broken arm when he was eleven. That hadn't ended well; he'd actually gotten a broken arm, a broken leg, and a cracked rib for his answer. That was the day he decided that being quiet and staying out of sight was the best way to live his life.
At fourteen he'd been asked by his best friend if he could ever think of a boy in a sexual manner. Said friend was male and, not that Matt knew it at the time, both homosexual and mentally unstable. He found out the first part after answering, "No." Two days later, Matt found out the second part for basically the same reason. His New Year's Resolution that year had been to never appear in anyone's suicide note again.
A year later, his dad asked him at breakfast to help him bury someone. The body had been a state trooper, someone who'd tracked his father across half the country and ignored protocol by busting into the house with a drawn weapon and no warrant. They'd had to move again over that ugliness.
It had been three years since he'd had french toast, long enough that he'd forgotten its apparent curse. Now he was sitting in a Denny's, cooked bread in his mouth, listening to Stay ask a painful question while tasting maple syrup. If his mouth had been empty, he'd have said something vulgar.
As it was, he took a bite, chewed it up and swallowed it with a long drink of orange juice. Stay's bright eyes let him know that she wasn't going to let it drop. She was sitting there, breakfast plate already cleaned off, waiting for him to answer. Damn it.
"Why do you think I enjoy it?"
It was a cop out answer and damn the little cherub, she obviously knew it. The look she gave him was one of 'Not fair!' as he answered her with a question. And a lame one at that.
"Because you laugh sometimes when you do it."
That stopped him. He'd been reaching for his milk but now all thought of food stopped. "I what?"
She nodded, earnest eyes still bright. She didn't seem at all upset talking about death and killing. She just seemed to want to know why he enjoyed it, something he never really thought about, especially in such blunt terms.
"I do not laugh." he sighed and looked down at his plate. Nothing there looked appetizing any more. "Stay, I don't enjoy killing. I wish I didn't have to do it any more. But there are people out there who want to kill me. Should I just let them do it?"
She shook her head. "No. Of course not. I wasn't saying you were doing bad. I just wanted to know if it was fun. I have a gun and I was thinking maybe I should help you next time."
"NO!"
Everyone in the Denny looked their way, even the chef through the little dungeon window to the hell called a fast food kitchen.
Matt looked down and stayed quiet until people started minding their own business again. It took a while but eventually the average American attention span worked in Matt's favor. Within a minute, no one was paying him or Stay any more attention. After they were alone again, he said in a much softer voice, "Stay, you can't hurt people. It's not right."
She wasn't buying it, not that he could sell it very well even if he believed it. He'd left too many corpses in his wake since leaving New Jersey to really believe what he'd just said.
"Okay, okay... there are times when you'll have to, but don't try to find reasons. I don't want you to ever have to use that thing."
She looked confused now, but was self-aware enough to reach across the table and steal a piece of bacon. Munching on it idly, she glanced back up into his eyes and asked, "Why not?"
What was he supposed to say? How could he put it into words? He didn't want her to lose her innocence the way he did at her age? He didn't want blood on her hands? He didn't want to be responsible for turning a little girl into a sidecar killer?
Eventually, he went with another conversational surrender. "I just don't, okay?"
She shrugged and went back to coloring the waffles on her place mat. In the typical fashion of a child, she'd gotten all the answers she was going to get and was bright enough to realize it. As such, she turned her attention elsewhere - namely, blue and yellow crayons.
Matt took a drink of milk, breathed a slow sigh of relief and went back to eating his french toast.
"Oh, Uncle Matt?"
He made a curious sound, his mouth stuffed full. "Whaa?"
"Why do you screw so many hot girls?"
The geyser of egg-soaked breakfast bread was epic....
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