Chapter 16
Decision made, Shadowman settled into a
defensive wait. The angels prepared to strike, but they could not
harm him. The gate would stand, no matter the cost.
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat:
So we’ll be friends, you and I.
Hardly.
Custo groaned, trouble pouring out of
him. The angels’ minds were open to each other. The boy had to know
their strategy.
“You need not betray them,” Shadowman
said. “I know how they will approach. I have presided over many
battles over the ages.”
“And you call me a mind reader,” Custo
said, the unease abating a fraction.
“I’d imagine emotion is often more
telling.”
The angels would attempt a divide and
conquer: a contingent to busy Custo, a larger one to busy him, and
a third to attack the gate. It would not work.
A long moment of silence, and then, as
if on silent cue, the host attacked.
Shadowman thrust a wall of pitch
between him and the gate, and the fast-approaching angels were
flung back, bodies skipping on the hard floor of the
cave.
Ballard lunged, wielding a blade,
Heavenly in origin, so it seared as it sliced, but Death reformed
just as quickly, unscathed. Ballard would have to do much better
than that. Shadowman hit him, heard the snap of his spine, felt the
shock of pain, as the angel flew back. At least the spine would
take longer to heal.
A jut of Shadow and the angel grabbing
for the hammer flew to the side, taking two more with him. Another
burn, quick to heal. A spin, a dart, a thrust of darkness and none
were near enough to touch him.
More would come.
Custo held off four of his own kind
with no weapon, though the wounds he took soaked his shirt. Sweat
and dirt streaked his face, but still he moved and struck with
grace and force.
Darkness whipped around the cave in a
frenzy. Shadowman cast his mind out once again to harness the storm
as it swirled around him.
But . . . the hurricane of pitch did
not obey.
He tried again and was instead barraged
by cave dust and wetness, singeing his skin. Always in the presence
of angels he felt a burn, but he hadn’t expected Shadow to go
astray.
Well, then.
With his fist he knocked an angel back
from the gate. A blow like that should have sent the angel to the
far depths of the cave, but he only fell a few paces. And rose to
try again.
Something was wrong.
Shadowman took position in front of
Hell. Kicked the angel back again. But the burn on Death’s skin had
grown to a maddening inferno, sending needles of fire deep into his
muscles and igniting his bones. Within him, he sensed the rush and
pull of Earth, relentless in its reckoning, rapturous in its
claim.
His mind was ablaze. His vision blurred
with echoes of movement. The pain brought him to his knees, and he
screamed his agony, the sound reverberating through the
cave.
“The wrath of God is upon Death!”
Ballard cried. He darted forward with his silver blade to
strike.
Shadowman reeled as Ballard slashed
through the air. Felt a strange sizzle. Glanced down. Marveled as
blood dripped from a slice across his chest.
Blood.
How? Death could not
bleed.
Ballard whirled, kicking Death back
against the gate. Shadowman heard a skull crack, but it took a
moment for him to realize that it was his head that made the sound.
A sharp taste was in his mouth, and the smell and texture told him
it was blood. Again.
His blood.
Shadow made no effort to restore him.
It lifted away like a blanket of mist, leaving him naked and so
cold on the silt of the cave floor.
Ballard leaped into the air, the dagger
poised to plunge into Death’s heart.
Shadowman raised a defensive arm and
wondered again at the flesh of his body. He didn’t fear the dagger,
couldn’t in his utter confusion. He knew in the abstract that the
dagger meant death, but he was Death, so it made no
sense.
And then Ballard was knocked out of the
air by a boot to his gut and dropped like a stone.
“Look at him!” Custo
yelled.
Look at whom?
Shadowman shook with chill and dampness. Put fingers to the red on
his chest. Lifted his hand to his eyes, as if he’d never seen
spilled blood before.
“He’s mortal!” Custo
announced.
“Who is mortal?”
Custo glanced over, pity in his eyes.
“Oh, fucking hell. You are.”
Shadowman used the gate to climb to
standing. His knees buckled and he slid right back down again. This
must be gravity. Earth’s breast smelled mineral sweet.
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat:
Open me quick before they cut you down. They will use your weakness
to destroy Layla.
“But he’s fae,” Ballard argued,
standing.
“I am fae,” Death agreed. For once
Ballard was right. Most other times the angel was too much of a
zealot to think through what came out of his mouth. Passion alone
should not put a man in a position of authority.
Ballard lowered his weapon, a look of
consternation on his face.
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat:
Time is running out.
“Yes,” Custo said. “Can’t we take a
moment to think?”
Shadowman squinted as Ballard pointed
an accusing finger in his direction, but he could not get a sense
of Ballard’s emotion. Dozens of mortals were in this cavern, yet it
felt empty.
“This changes nothing,” Ballard
said.
“Death, a fae, is now a man,” Custo
returned. “This changes everything.”
A man. The word
made Death’s heart beat faster, a breathless marvel in
itself.
He couldn’t wait to show Layla. She
would mock him mercilessly, and they both would enjoy every moment
of it.
Ballard shook his head. “There is still
a gate to Hell right there.”
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat:
Here they come.
Of all times, Shadowman needed strength
now, yet he was as naked and clumsy as a newborn foal. Next to him
on the ground was the hammer. He reached for it with little hope
and was incredulous as his hand closed easily, so very easily,
around its shaft. He tried again to stand. Braced his legs
apart.
No one would get near the gate while he
lived.
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat:
Hurry! They will rip us both apart.
“Perhaps he was delivered to us in the
flesh so that he might be killed,” Ballard said.
The gathered host murmured, considering
this suggestion.
“At the very least, this bears new
discussion, Ballard,” one of the host said. “He can’t even
stand.”
Shadowman had thought the cave was
moving, but he guessed it must be him.
“Look at his chest,” said
another.
Shadowman glanced down at the long
slice of his wound. The blood had gone tacky, crusting at the
edges. He touched the parted skin, which, yes, did not seem as raw
as it had a moment ago.
“Holy shit. He’s healing,” Custo said.
“Does that make him one of us?”
“No,” Ballard said, his eyes
narrowing.
“But he just fell to Earth. That
has to mean—”
Shadowman startled at a noise in the
mouth of the cavern. All heads turned toward the opening. A
scrabble of dirt. A knock of a fallen rock. An unfamiliar man
descended, but Shadowman couldn’t tell anymore if the person was
angel or human.
“Keep it together,” Custo said to him,
pitched low for warning.
The newcomer had to be an angel, then,
and conversing telepathically with the others.
“What? What’s happened?” Shadowman
questioned.
“Apparently, Adam’s been trying to get
us a message.”
Shadowman shivered under a wash of cold
sweat. “Tell me.”
“Do you know Abigail?”
“The oracle?”
Custo blinked. “Okay, whatever.
Apparently Shadow overcame Segue to claim her.”
“Her talent was great.” So great it had
ruined her youth and aged her body prematurely. Her sister had been
holding on to her with everything she had, to no avail. If Abigail
wouldn’t pass into Shadow, then yes, Shadow would come to claim
such a one as her. He was glad Layla wasn’t filled with Shadow, or
she, too, would eventually be overtaken.
“Well, Shadow got her sister, Zoe, a
few members of the Segue staff, and . . .”
Shadowman closed his eyes to stop the
name from dropping from Custo’s lips.
It dropped anyway. “. . . and Layla,
too.”
Layla went reeling into a tree as
Scissor Lady released her grasp. The wood gashed her lip, and she
held on to the harsh throb to keep her mind sharp. It was too easy
to lose it here. The endlessness of the forest, the whispers of
magic, all of it conspired to confuse and mislead.
“I don’t believe you,” Layla said.
Shadowman couldn’t be gone. Death was eternal. He was a constant in
the great scheme of existence. Necessary. That was the whole reason
why she’d been born a second time, to convince him to do his job or
the three worlds and everyone within them would be in jeopardy. For
that great purpose she’d given up both him and Talia. A family. Her
life. Shadowman couldn’t be gone.
And yet she’d seen Zoe change in front
of her eyes. Handle Death’s scythe when she couldn’t. Where was Zoe
now? Was she still fighting off opportunistic fae? Hell, all fae
were opportunistic.
“It doesn’t matter if you believe me,
does it?” Scissor Lady gave a sparkling smile.
Layla threw back her shoulders. She’d
faced a devil. She’d faced a ghost. She could handle one measly
fae.
“So much temper,” Scissor Lady said.
“No wonder Death liked you. I like you, too.”
The feeling wasn’t mutual.
“You know, many have tried to thwart
Fate through the ages. But like Death, Fate always catches up with
you.”
She must be talking about the
doomed-to-die thing. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“You’ve reached the end. I think you
know that.”
The end, yes. Her mission was at an
end, and so was this life. Twenty-eight years of loneliness, and
then Shadowman and Talia. Was it worth it? Yes, a hundred times
over. Was it worth this final capture by some vain fae? Yes, though
she’d bet good money the worst was yet to come.
Layla sought deep inside for the core
of her will: the endurance of Kathleen. She’d need that now where
she’d mocked it before. It was rooted in her connection to Talia
and Shadowman, wherever he was. They were everything she’d ever
needed and so much more.
The only thing left to do was fight,
though she had no hope whatsoever of survival.
“I cut the thread of your life myself.”
Scissor Lady raised a brow, as if to coax Layla to some kind of
realization.
“You cut . . .” Layla looked at the
scissors again.
Oh, crap. This was bad.
Out of Scissor Lady’s body, another
woman stepped with engorged, exposed breasts leaking milk. She held
a spindle in her hands, shining threads wound about her like
spider’s silk. “Layla Mathews née Kathleen Marie O’Brien. I spun
your life.”
And this was where bad met
worse.
“I measured the twenty-eight years of
your life.” A third woman, an old woman, leaned out the other side,
a rod in her hand. Her hair was a soft patchwork of cobwebs.
Wrinkled and bowed, her hands gnarled with age, she seemed the
weakest of the three. Until Layla got a load of the Shadow in her
eyes.
Maid, mother, crone. And of the three,
Scissor Lady was the leader.
This wasn’t any old fae Layla faced.
This was the bitch of them all. “You’re Fate.” What had Shadowman
called her? “Moira.”
“When I say your life is over,” Scissor
Lady said, “then your life is over. Shall I show you the ragged
end?”
“No.” Layla didn’t want to see
it.
“Or would you like to crawl under my
skirt?” Scissor Lady swept up the material. “You can bide here as
long as you like.”
It did look inviting. A dark, close
space where she could hide.
The three women circled around her like
witchy forest nymphs. At first their feet kicked up tree leaves,
the colors dream bright, even in bits. Then they kicked up gray
ash.
Smell went utterly dead. The air,
cold.
Layla trembled but slowly lifted her
gaze and found the treescape transformed into the black-and-white
emptiness of Death’s heart. The skeleton trees branched like great,
ominous cracks in the universe. The ground was a snow of dust. Even
the fae women paled, the color contrasts broadening, delineating
into the nulls of dark and light.
This was a vast sepulcher for the soul,
once Shadowman’s, now hers.
“You want Shadowman?” Scissor Lady
asked. “Well, here he is.”
No, this was the part of himself he’d
wanted to cast away. With him gone—dead?—this was all that was left.
The brightness filled her eyes and
parched her skin like sunburn. She could feel the place leaching
from her the memory of color, the stuff of her dreams.
The Fates circled, buzzards awaiting
the break of her mind.
Not going to happen.
Layla charged Moira, feet digging into
the powder and lifting great billows into the air.
Bring the bitch down like a wraith.
Grab for the scissors. Stab.
Her footfalls lifted huge clouds of
lazy ash, obscuring the way. And when they thinned, the witch was
suddenly on the other side of her, never changing the pace of her
stride around her prey.
Layla coughed, choking on the
powder.
A wasted effort. Blind violence would
accomplish nothing. They were playing with her.
Layla shielded her eyes from the glare
of the white. If she could just have a little darkness, maybe she
could puzzle this out. A little warmth and her blood might
reenergize her nerve.
“It’s dark here under my skirt,” Moira
called. “Warm, too.”
No, thanks. Layla pulled her hands away
from her face and lifted her chin. Last thing she wanted was to
find herself under there.
“You might last a little
longer.”
Lie.
“You’re fading already.” The three
laughed.
“No. I’m still here.” She pushed her
shoulders back to prove it.
Moira tilted her head in pity. “You
don’t even know your name.”
Layla blinked stupidly. Wracked her
brain. Her heart stalled.
Moira was right. She had no
idea.
Shadowman sat in the passenger side of
a vehicle, a “Hummer” some angel had called it. The driver said he
was going as fast as he could, but Shadowman could still count
every tree, dried leaf, and scrag of grass, or so it
seemed.
This was powerlessness. Acute,
miserable, an agony of utter dependence.
Climbing out of the cave had been a
blur of hitching breath and clumsy, bleeding feet. At the mouth,
clothes were waiting, though he didn’t care if he went naked. He
needed to get to Segue. He should have been there already, but
Shadow would not obey him.
Mortal? Inconceivable.
He growled his impatience, but it did
nothing to hurry their progress down the road.
He’d had to rely on Custo to hunt
through Twilight for Layla. Custo. An angel. With his fae blood, he
might do better than others of The Order, might be able to use his
hunter’s nose to scent her, but Shadowman had little hope. Twilight
was trees upon dark trees unto Forever, and then still more. Not
even he had covered all that ground, because it had no
end.
Layla must be mad by now, her mind
trapped in nightmare. He could only hope—and what a weak power it
was—that no fae had discovered her. If so, finding her would be
impossible. Even the lowliest of the fae were cunning
deceivers.
“Hang tight, we’re there,” the driver
said, slowing to a stop in front of the white sweep of Segue’s main
entrance.
Shadowman fought the door to get it
open, ended up smacking it with his forearm to blow the thing clear
off the vehicle. He cast his gaze around the edifice seeking
Shadow, and finding none, he tripped going up the stairs for his
lack of care. As far as he could see, the only Shadows on the
building were the pale, stretched blotches of the coming break of
day.
The door burst open and Adam jogged
down to greet him. Shadowman watched Adam’s gaze travel the length
of his new human body. His expression was stressed with
concern.
“It’s true, then. You’re
mortal.”
“Where’s Layla?” Shadowman scarcely
knew his own voice. Everything an effort, the littlest combination
of breath and throat and tongue delayed his finding
her.
“I’m so sorry,” Adam said. If Adam felt
sorry, Shadowman couldn’t sense it, and so the claim felt empty.
“When the Shadow came over Segue, she went to help Zoe with
Abigail.”
The heat of anger that rolled over
Shadowman’s skin made him sway. “You said you’d protect
her.”
“I had to get Talia and the children
out,” Adam explained. “Layla said you’d come for her. How could I
have known you’d become mortal? I didn’t even know such a thing was
possible.”
Shadowman pushed Adam aside and
continued up the stairs. The boy was useless. “Where is my
daughter? Where is Talia?”
“She’s in an outbuilding. This place is
too dangerous for her.”
“Get her, then. And you watch the children.”
“Don’t talk to him that way,” Talia
said from above them, a babe on each hip. She looked to her
husband, shrugging. “I came in the back. I think the worst is
over.”
“Be still your tongue!” If the worst
were over, then Layla was lost. And the bitter, bitter irony was
he’d do anything right now to grip his scythe. To hear its keen and
answer it with a roar of his own. He’d bear the endless millennia
as Death to see her safely through Shadow to the gates of Heaven.
Becoming the Reaper again would be such a small price to pay to
preserve her spirit. He should have listened to her when he had the
chance. Now they were both lost.
Talia pressed her lips together for a
moment. “What do you need?”
Shadowman reached the top of the
stairs. “I need a wraith and then I need you to scream like you
have never screamed before.”
They congregated again below the earth
in the prison Adam had dedicated to the wraiths, where Death had
revealed himself to Layla, and she had known the purpose to her
second life on Earth. The angels they left aboveground, so as not
to compete with Talia’s call to Shadow. Talia’s children were below
as well, in a stroller for convenience. That Talia and Adam would
permit them in this stinking grave spoke of their own concern for
Layla. If this didn’t work . . . If he couldn’t cross . .
.
At least, for all the devil’s games,
she had not set the wraiths free.
Two guards and some sort of mechanical
arm conveyed a wraith to a movable slab. Binding metal bands
restrained each of its limbs and a doubled cage crossed its torso.
The creature writhed until blood dripped down the silver, so it
must have known its death was coming.
“Scream,” commanded Shadowman, looking
over at his daughter.
He could tell Talia’s thoughts were
turned inward, focused on Layla no doubt, and summoning the
required intensity of feeling for the task before her. Please, child, draw deep. She took a long breath and
then shredded the veil with a shriek, a command, a misery, her arms
lifting to her sides, fingers splayed with effort. The sound was a
wail of her own pain, a lifetime of loss in the making, a hope
found, then demolished. The feeling battered the room with its
intensity and set the wraith shrieking with her.
And indeed, darkness swirled in a
vortex of magic, a storm of great reckoning to call upon Death. The
sound shook his mortal body, atom upon atom quailing, which didn’t
bode well.
Shadowman dived into the terrible
center. Flung himself across the divide between the worlds. But
only ended up a few paces from where he’d stood a moment
before.
The wraith made muffled sounds of
laughter, then cut off suddenly, its eyes wide with
fear.
From the depths, the moon scythe
gleamed. And soon a figure emerged, a girl, Zoe. The sister to the
great one. Her gaze now had the black depth of Shadow, her skin the
queer shine of the fae. She gripped his weapon, and when she took
in the scene, her face contorted.
“Oh, fuck no,” she said, eyeing Talia,
whose scream ended abruptly. “Ain’t no way I’m coming when
she calls.”
“Give me the scythe.” Shadowman held
out his hand.
“Finders keepers.” But true to her
nature, Zoe said one thing and did the opposite, handing over the
weapon with a bored jerk.
He took the scythe and rolled the wood
of the staff between his palms. Its texture and heft had always
been second nature to him, yet it felt unfamiliar now. Too slim and
light, the magic absent in his hands. A weak sensation pooled in
his belly, dread, and stole what little strength he
had.
He closed his eyes to be surrounded
with his familiar dark. “Can you give me the power to wield it as
well?”
“And how do you propose I do that?” The
girl, the new Death, dripped sarcasm.
Shadowman opened his eyes again and
handed the scythe back. His head pounded with the simple action.
He’d denied the blade too long. It had cried for him from Twilight,
begging to be lifted, and now when he needed it most, the thing had
abandoned him.
“Do you know what happened to Layla?”
Asking this chit for news of such import tightened his skin
unbearably. He’d have shrugged out of his new flesh if he could
have, but it clung to him, gloved him.
“She tried to help us,” Zoe said, her
tone barbed. “She thought you would come. She screamed for you, but
obviously you weren’t listening.”
Layla had called his name. She’d needed
him.
“What happened?” he
snapped.
Zoe’s expression finally mellowed to
pity. “There were three fae. The one with the scissors dragged her
away.”
“Moira.” Shadowman staggered. His
mortal legs would not hold him.
“Who?” Adam asked, reaching out an arm
to steady him.
“Fate,” Shadowman clarified. “Fate has
her claws in Layla.”
The worst had
happened.
Adam turned to Zoe. “Seems you’ve got
his power now. Look for her, will you? Custo is already there. The
Order may send more angels as well, but they won’t value her soul
over any other’s, so they may not be much help.”
No help at all.
“Layla will be under Moira’s skirt,”
Shadowman said. As if Zoe would ever be able to locate Fate, much
less bid the witch to lift her dress. “And she will be gone to
madness, her soul light dimming.”
He’d brought this upon her. Cursed her
and trapped himself in mortal impotence. This was why she had come
back to life, to prevent this very thing from happening. He’d been
a fool, vain in his power.
“Layla will be under Fate’s skirt,” Zoe
repeated, as if the combination of words made no sense to her. Then
with false brightness, “Alrighty.”
Death’s scythe swung out, and the
wraith’s head was severed, its body sagging into gore.
As Zoe evaporated into the void,
Talia’s black-eyed child reached a chubby hand after young
Death.
“I’m getting them out of here,” Talia
said and wheeled the stroller down the hallway toward the
elevator.
Shadowman made to follow, his mind
rapidly sorting all the places on Earth where the veil might be
thin. Kathleen’s paintings would not work, if this attempt at
Shadow hadn’t. But, water had always been a medium of transfer.
Fire, too. Emersion or immolation. Or . . .
Adam fell into step next to him.
“Listen, I know you’ve got no love for the angels, but they’re an
undeniable power that is at least somewhat accessible to us. I
suggest you go to their headquarters, where information is more
readily available. Maybe they can figure out what happened to you
and give you some idea of how to reverse it.”
“They will not treat with me,”
Shadowman said, boarding the elevator that would raise them to the
surface. The angels had defied him at every turn, and as a mortal,
he lacked the power now to force their compliance. They might even
cut him down, if Ballard had his way. Shadowman had to try
something else. A Diné ceremonial
sandpainting, perhaps. Though that, too, would take so much
time.
“I bet they will,” Adam returned. “Word
is you might just be one of them.”
There was no way he was a mortal angel.
The idea was preposterous.
“Try Luca, Custo’s uncle. He’s a little
more reasonable. I’m sure he’ll help in whatever way he can. And,
they have their own access to Shadow.”
Shadow.
“How do I get there?” New York City,
the nearest locus of The Order’s power, was miles away. “The last
vehicle went so slow.”
Adam pulled half a smile. “I think I
can move you quite a bit faster than that Hummer.”
“Oh, no,” Talia said, as they stepped
out into the sunlight. “Here he goes.”
Adam put a phone to his ear. “Kev, I’m
going to need the Sikorsky five minutes ago.” He paused, then
answered, “Make him as comfortable as you can. I’ll be there to
speak with him shortly.”
Talia rounded on her husband. “What
now?”
“One Mr. Mickey Petty just arrived at
the compound.” Adam turned to Shadowman. “Don’t worry about the
devil. I’ll draw Rose out with her husband and end one bit of this
nightmare. That bitch took out fifteen of my men. I mean to see her
put down.”
Layla would want the devil dealt with,
Talia and the family safe.
Shadowman gave a tight nod of assent.
He should have stamped the devil out when he had the chance.
Another mistake.
At least . . . and how strange . . . he
wasn’t alone in this. Adam must experience the same weakness and
humility of the flesh, and yet, he fought even harder. Talia, just
as strong, defended her children. The mean tip to her eyes said she
was prepared for more.
What about Layla? Solitary. Forsaken.
Facing the worst of the threats upon this family.
A racket sounded in the distance, and
suddenly a helicopter burst over the trees. The white body was
long, slim, like a dolphin, with twin-mounted rotors up top instead
of one. It lowered a short distance away, and Talia used her body
to shield the babies from the cold winter gusts it kicked up. Yes,
this would go much faster than the box that had delivered him to
Segue.
This morning he’d been on the verge of
war with the angels. Now he would throw himself on their
mercy.