Alaskan Fury (15 page)

Father Vega watched her over his
cup.  “How so, Sister?”

Imelda tried to think of a gentle
way to tell him that she had been at the epicenter of the Chinook that had
mysteriously touched down outside Skwentna before spreading to the rest of the
Mat-Su Valley, but finally just blurted out, “I saw an angel, Father.  She came
to me as I was putting a bullet to a demon’s head.  She called me her ‘sister
of vengeance,’ and she ignited the winds that even now thrash the Valley.” 

Father Vega cocked his head
slightly.  “A demon, you say?  It was a particularly loathsome creature, then? 
A murderer of innocents?”

Imelda grimaced.  Her head was
still
pounding over that particular enigma.  “This one was quiet.  There were no
reports of deaths by her hands.  In fact, aside from the fact that she was
there
when we came for the phoenix, there were no reports of her at all.  She
seems to carry a djinni with her, though I’ve never gotten close enough to get
more than a few seconds’ look.  It is a mountain of a thing, with skin the
blackest ebony and command of the fires of Hell itself.”  Then, remembering the
pendant, she tugged it from her breast pocket and handed it to him.  “The wolf
had this on her body.  It grew hot enough to burn, while the visage of our
Lord’s messenger was before me.”

Father Vega took the symbol
gingerly, frowning at it.  “I’ve seen this symbol before.”

“So have I,” Imelda muttered. 
“We thought that it was the talisman that she was using to control the djinni,
but when I tried to summon it, nothing happened.

Her Padre frowned up at her, his
soft brown eyes anxious in his weathered face.  “You say it
burned
in
the presence of an angel, Sister?”

“Possibly a reaction of the evil
within?” Imelda suggested, then shrugged.  “I have no idea what it is.  I’ve
studied every book on symbology I could find in the library and nothing
matches.”

“Whatever it is, it’s old.”  Her
Padre flipped it several times in his hands, examining the object front to
back.  “Do you mind if I hold onto it for awhile?  I do have a knack for
research.”

Imelda made a dismissive
gesture.  “Do as you will.  I’ve already had it tested.  It carries no link to
a djinni, and seems to have no magic emanating from it, so it is safe.”

Father Vega nodded and laid it
aside upon the coffee-table near his elbow.  “Now this angel you saw.  It spoke
to you?”

“It said, ‘Our sister of
vengeance,’” Imelda told him.  “And before you ask, I can find no saint known
by that title.  The phrase itself had not a single result in Google.”

Father Vega frowned, looking down
at his coffee mug in contemplation.  “Have you done anything out of the
ordinary lately, Sister?”

Imelda laughed.  “You mean
aside
from capture a phoenix and chase a djinni through the woods on infrared?  Two
creatures that are supposedly long-extinct?”

Her Padre turned to give her a
considering look.  “Did you catch the djinni?”

She made a disgusted sound.  “His
kind can slip Realms like Zenaida changes clothes.”

Father Vega tisked and made a
commiserating sound.  “She is still bothering you, isn’t she?”

“She’s a
bitch
,” Imelda
cried.  “She
tortures
those beasts we catch, instead of simply killing
them, as our mission dictates.”  Even now, Zenaida was probably in the basement
of the compound, working her ‘talents’ on the latest of their acquisitions. 
Imelda hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the woman since returning to Eklutna. 
Then, gaining control of herself, she bowed her head and rubbed her finger
around the lip of her coffee mug.  “Forgive me, Father.  The woman…vexes…me.”

“As she should,” Father Vega said
gently.  “It is not our Lord’s wish that our Order torture innocents in His
name.”

Imelda gave him a sharp look,
having felt the same way for many years, but never having heard another say it
aloud.  “Yet the Order allows it.”

Father Vega lowered his head in
obvious pain.  “It has the…precedent…of history, my dear.”

“A precedent that I’m supposed to
change,” Imelda said blatantly, the first time she had so outwardly spoken of
his visions.

Father Vega glanced at her, his
eyes sad.  “My dear, not even the Holy Matron can rescind an order of the
Pope.”

Imelda made a face, but looked
out the window, watching the trees bow and sway in the mountain valley below. 
“It is wrong.  Their screaming keeps me up at night.  The walls are supposed to
be soundproof, but I swear I hear it anyway.”

Father Vega listened in silence.

“Half the time,” Imelda
confessed, “as I’m lying in my bed, listening to the sounds from below, I have
an urge to go down there and kill them all.  Put them out of their misery. 
That
is
what we’re supposed to be doing, isn’t it?  Removing the evil
from the lands?  Before I took my Vows, I never dreamed the depth of what we
do.  Certain aspects of it, I find repulsive.”

“Which is why,” Father Vega said
softly, “you take the field in the service of our Lord, while Inquisitor
Zenaida sits in her dungeon surrounded by her toys, happily reaping magic from
the doomed in the name of God.”

It was one of the closest things
to blasphemy that Imelda had heard from her Padre’s lips, but she did not
care.  Instead, she swiveled on him, slamming her cup against the coffee
table.  “Why does the Order allow it?  A witch in our midst.  It’s obscene!”

Too late, she realized that
Father Vega himself could be labeled a witch, if the truth were known.  In his
humble way, he said softly, “Sometimes, Imelda, a soul must be judged by its
actions, and not its nature.”

“I’m sorry,” Imelda said
quickly.  “I never meant…”

“And I wasn’t talking of myself,”
Father Vega said, lifting his hand.  “It is a code to live by, not a statement
of my own innocence.  Just consider that, when you look at Zenaida and her
position in the Order.  There are those who would say she’s necessary, that her
‘endowments’ allow the Order to better complete its mission, that her cause is
just and therefore pardons her spirit of its ‘poor birth.’  There are others,
like you and I, who look at her ‘endowments’ and then see the depraved creature
beneath.  It is not her nature that you should find repulsive, Imelda.  It is
her actions.”

Imelda frowned at her Padre,
wondering if all the time alone to reminisce had treated him poorly.  “Father,”
she said softly, “surely you realize the blasphemy of what you just said.”

Father Vega shrugged.  “It is
what it is.  It took me many years, but I learned it is best not to judge a
soul by its skin.”

Imelda cocked her head at him,
half unsure she understood what he meant.  “Half of what I hunt is based off of
its skin, Padre.”

He gave her an amused look.  “So
it is.”

Imelda stared at him.  Father
Vega had spent fifty successful years doing as she now did, hunting those beasts
and demons that had invaded the sanctity of their Lord’s realm.  That he would
question the directives of the Order left her stunned.  That he would say as
much to an Inquisitor left her utterly staggered…and with the humbling
realization he trusted her implicitly.

After all, with a single word,
she could have him join the beasts on the rack.  Even
without
her
knowledge of his ability to See.

“I trust you, Imelda,” her Padre
said, confirming her assumption with a warm smile.  “There are no secrets between
us.  And yes, I believe that the Order has been rotting from the inside.”

Clearing her throat
uncomfortably, she turned to once again face the window.  “Dare I ask how long
it has been deteriorating thus?”

“Since its conception.”

Imelda flinched and gave him
another hard look.  “And I am to enact changes?  You’ve Seen it?”

“Oh yes,” Father Vega chuckled. 
“Yes you will, my dear.”

Imelda thought of her stardancer
flashlight, of the feylord-powered helicopters, of the faestone goblets and
elemental-fueled campstoves…  Immediately, the glassy tendrils creeping through
her brain started to lance her vision again, and she winced.  It would not be
easy.  To remove the demon-powered artifacts from the Order would draw great
opposition, but those of the truly faithful, like Jacquot, would drop to their
knees in relief.  “One of the first things I’ll do,” she said softly, still
looking out the window, “is stop the torture.  Zenaida and her like can find
other things to do than ‘interrogate’ those who have nothing left to say.”  She
had
seen
the hopelessness on their faces, the utter defeat.  It was why
she no longer visited the basement, aside to deliver a new detainee—she
couldn’t stand the misery.

“You walk a dangerous path,
Sister,” Father Vega told her.  “There are those who would not see you enact
those changes.”

Imelda snorted.  “Once I am the
Holy Matron, they will not be able to argue.”

He gave her a wan smile. 
“Perhaps.”  He sighed and set his coffee mug aside.  “It is certainly not a
task I would choose for myself.”  Then his easy, peaceful grin was once more in
place and he said, “However we poor humans stumble in our attempts to serve our
Lord, the Fates will right it in the end.”

“The Fates.”  Imelda snorted and
shook her head.  “You spent too much time studying your history and not your
Bible, Father.”

Her Padre only smiled at her.  “Ah,
but in the annals of history lie the keys to the future.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. 
“Then that is the source of your Sight?  You read the past to guess the future?”

“Not guess,” Father Vega said
gently.  Then, before she could pry deeper, he changed the subject by taking
her mug.  “More coffee?”

“Please,” she said, watching him
get up to refill her glass.  Then, as he poured, “Would it be a mark against my
soul if I were to go into the basement tonight and kill them all, before
Zenaida has a chance at them?”

Father Vega hesitated at the pot,
the carafe hovering over the mug.  Instead of finishing to pour the coffee, he
set the carafe down and looked up at her, his soft eyes troubled.  “If I were
given the choice, Imelda, I would never kill again.”

“And you won’t,” Imelda said,
“that’s why you retired.”

He stared down at the carafe on
the counter.  “I retired for many reasons,” he said softly.  “Most of which
have already come up this evening.”  Seeming to shake himself, he once again
picked up the carafe and continued pouring.  “So tell me of this angel that
visited you.  Do you think it was a Sign?”

“It was an
angel
, Father.”

Her Padre looked up at her with a
sad smile.  “And again you judge a soul by its skin.”

The rest of her visit with her
Padre left Imelda discomfited, and by the time she returned to the SUV where
Jacquot waited in the driver’s seat, blaring French rock over the speaker
system, she was troubled.  Either her Padre was going senile—which, at seventy-eight,
wasn’t a difficult thing to envision—or he held many beliefs he’d never
confided to her until now.  Many…blasphemous…things.  He was of the proper
age
to be losing his wits, but something told Imelda that the old man, her
lifetime confidant, was opening up to her in a way he had never allowed himself
in her younger days, and that tonight had been a way of testing the waters, to
see how much he could tell her without her bringing the Order down upon his
head. 

Which, in itself, was disturbing.

“Home, Jacquot,” she muttered,
slamming the door of the SUV behind her.

Her driver turned in his seat to
give her a concerned frown.  “The talk with your Père did not go well, ma mie?”

Imelda shook off her ill-at-ease
feeling and said, “Padre Vega is getting old, Jacquot.”

Her scout gave her a look of
sympathy.  “When he passes, he will find the arms of our Lord, ma mie.”

Would he?  Imelda suddenly had a
pang of doubt.  The old Padre had always been quirky and outspoken in his
liberal ideas, but because he had always advocated tolerance, Imelda had
written it off as one of the unavoidable faults of human nature.  But after
tonight, after questioning the presence of an
angel
as a messenger of
their Lord, Imelda was not so sure.

“Just take me home, Jacquot,” she
said, rubbing her temples, trying to ease the ever-present pain in her head. 
“I find I need my sleep.”

Chapter 7:
A Challenge of Seven Days

Eyes closed, his magus knelt at
the water’s edge, grazing her fingertips across the thin film of half-melted
ice skimming its surface.  Immediately, the dark, slow-moving creek beneath her
hand began to crackle and pop as it solidified, the ice thickening from a
quarter of an inch to over a foot.

Slowly, flicking aside the bits
of frost that had accumulated upon her fingers, Kaashifah stood.  Looking back
at him, she gestured imperiously at the creek.  “It is passable.”

‘Aqrab eyed the frozen water-bridge
with a surge of distaste.  “I will cross it in the Fourth Lands, thank you.”

His magus sighed.  “It’s at least
a foot thick.  And you weigh what…”  She looked him up and down.  “A hundred
pounds?”

Feeling his face twist, ‘Aqrab
said, “If it is all the same to you, mon Dhi’b, I would rather not walk across
something that would kill me, should I slip or linger too long.”

The wolf rolled her eyes and
started carefully across the ice, ignoring the whipping wind that was even then
trying to snag their clothing from their bodies.  Before she could get out of
range of his tether, ‘Aqrab quickly twisted to the Fourth Realms and jogged
across the dunes, then twisted back to watch her unsteady approach from the
opposite side of the creek.

“We should remove the bullets,
mon Dhi’b,” ‘Aqrab said, as she daintily found purchase on his side of the
creek.

“You’ve already said this,” she
said, walking past him with the cool dignity of a princess correcting a
particularly dense slave.  Without another word, she entered the forest beyond.

Narrowing his eyes, ‘Aqrab started
after her.  “They are leaching poison into your system.”

“It is poisonous to the Third
Lander,” she said distractedly.  “Not to me.”

“You may
need
the Third
Lander,” ‘Aqrab argued.  “All it would take is a simple cut…”

His magus stopped and glared up
at him with her deep brown eyes.  “You are
not
touching me again,
‘Aqrab.”

“Is
that
what this is
about?!” ‘Aqrab cried.  “You are still being unreasonable because I saved your
life…
again
.”

She rolled her eyes and
continued.

‘Aqrab raised his face to the sky
and prayed to his Lady for patience.  “Listen here, little wolf,” he growled,
once he’d calmed himself, “I will not stand by and allow you to disable
yourself when we need it most.”

“‘We,’ ‘Aqrab?” she snorted,
without looking or slowing.

“My fate is tied to yours,”
‘Aqrab growled.  “And
I
am not a warrior, mon Dhi’b.  That is your
forte, not mine.”

“Never fear, djinni,” she said. 
“Your fate will be tied to the
dragons
, just as soon as we make it
through Thunderbird’s territory.”

‘Aqrab groaned and said, “
Must
you do that, mon Dhi’b?  I’m sure there’s a wish you could make that would
benefit us both—”

“The only wish I make,” she
growled, without looking up at him, “will be the one in exchange for the
dragons’ help.”

Frustration rumbling from his
chest unheeded, ‘Aqrab growled, “Why must you be so
difficult
, mon
Dhi’b?!”

“Because I’m a qybah, obviously.”

‘Aqrab fisted his hands and
cocked his head sideways, trying to fight the urge to scream.  “When I said I
was in the mood for compromises, mon Dhi’b, I wasn’t speaking of
one
compromise and then returning to our old ways.”

“No, you meant to get me naked
and frolic with me in your bed.”

Oh, more than you know,
‘Aqrab thought, but he bit his tongue before he could say it.  “All right,” he
growled, “perhaps you could tell me
why
you are suddenly so set on
getting rid of me, when a simple wish would remove the Third Lander just as
easily as a dragon’s magic.”

His magus stopped, staring at the
forest ahead of her.  Then, slowly, she turned on him, a look of challenge in
her face.  “Very well, ‘Aqrab.  Answer me this simple question and I will
consider it.”

Not expecting anything other than
more scorn, ‘Aqrab stumbled to an abrupt halt.  “What question, mon Dhi’b?”

Her words were biting when she
said, “Of all the wishes you’ve granted to those who have claimed your service,
how many of them have you granted without monkey-pawing?”

‘Aqrab narrowed his eyes.  “That
is not a fair question.”

His magus laughed and turned on
heel, marching deeper into the forest.

“It’s not fair,” he called after
her, “because you never claimed my service.  I gave it to you, by surrender.”

“Oh?” she called, without
slowing.  “And how many times have you surrendered, djinni?”

He glared at her back.  “Once,
you miserable wretch.”

She kept laughing.

“It’s not fair,” he growled,
jogging to catch up, “because I
had
to twist your first two wishes,
because you were like a rabid dog in your obsession to kill me, and in doing
so, you would
reap
my
soul
because of your damned duel-of-souls
that we began at Tafilat.”

“I had to challenge you to a
duel,” she said distractedly.  “You would have fled otherwise.”

“Of
course
I would have!”
‘Aqrab cried.  “Neek hallak, woman, you’re an entrail-flinging
Fury
!”

Still she laughed.  “And you
believe that I will just take it on good faith that this third wish will be
different.”

“
Damn
you, woman,
yes
!”

Still chuckling, his magus just
shook her head.  “Three thousand years of being bound to a djinni has made me
less of a fool than you would think.”

‘Aqrab gave up, then.  He slumped
to his knees and slammed his forehead into a birch tree, then remained there,
staring at its papery white bark, until the tether of Law started dragging him
after her.  He let it carry him a few yards through the moss, highbush
cranberry bushes, and—more painfully—the devil’s club, before grunting and
shoving himself back to his feet.

Marching up to the wolf, he
grabbed her by the shoulders and swung her around.

“You,” he growled, jabbing a
finger between her breasts, “are not being reasonable.”

She yanked herself free and,
amidst shrugging off his ‘taint,’ glared up at him.  “Why?  Because I won’t let
you grope my thigh or set you free?”

“Because you are acting
insane
!”
‘Aqrab cried, waving his arm at the forest.  A branch dislodged from the winds
above fell to the ground beside him, punctuating his bellow.

Her eyes dropped to the stick,
then flickered up at the trees above.  “The winds are dying down,” she noted. 
She turned to go.

Narrowing his eyes at her back,
he said, “I propose a bargain, little wolf.”

“No.”

“Give up this insanity with the
dragons and wish me free and
I
will help you retake the phoenix.  Do you
know what a
djinni
could do to aid your cause?  With Fourthlander Law at
our disposal?”

His magus snorted, but did not
even dignify his words with a response.

After a moment of staring after
her, fuming, the tether began to drag him again.  ‘Aqrab irritatedly stumbled
after her once more.  “You want your pendant back?” he called.

“I will get my pendant back,
beast, when I cut it from my enemies’ dead fingers,” she said, still not even
deigning to look back at him.

Beast.
  Muttering curses
to the gods, he followed at a distance.  After three thousand years, she still
thought of him as an animal.  Chained to a Fury.  Damn the gods for their
wicked, petty cruelties.  “You want it back?” he called.  “Go seven days
without insulting me, magus, and I will give you your pendant.  That is my
bargain.”

Ahead of him, Kaashifah stumbled
to a sudden halt.  He slowed, waiting.

Indecision wracking her features,
she turned.  “Only seven days?” she asked tentatively, her brown eyes almost
timid as she met his gaze.

“That’s all I ask,” ‘Aqrab said. 
“Go seven days without insulting me or my heritage, and I shall give you your
pendant, bound by Law.”

“That…” she began hesitantly,
“…sounds reasonable.” 

‘Aqrab’s heart began to pound
with adrenaline at the prospect of sealing a bargain.  “We will have to wrap it
in Law, otherwise I would not have the power to retrieve the pendant.”

His magus looked almost like a
cornered doe as she licked her lips.  “No monkey-paws?”  Her voice was
timorous, full of anxiety, yet he could see the delicate hope in her eyes, the
desire
to trust him.

“No monkey-paws,” he assured
her.  “A bargain between friends.”

She automatically scoffed at the
word ‘friend,’ then hesitated, once again reluctantly meeting his eyes.  “You
swear
you will bring me my pendant, the one I lost to the Inquisitors, the one I’ve
carried all my life, not some replica?”

He crossed his arms over his
chest.  “I will give you your pendant.  For the rest, you will have to trust
me.”

Her face darkened, then, and for
a moment, he saw her almost tell him to toss his bargain into a latrine. 

“Seven days of kindness will not hurt
you, mon Dhi’b,” he offered, as she turned from him.

She hesitated, half-turned, scrunching
her nose as if she smelled something foul.  Slowly, however, she twisted back
and gave him a long look, her brown eyes considering.  Eventually, she
muttered, “Seven days without insulting you will not hurt me.  No one said
anything about kindness.”

Sighing deeply, ‘Aqrab rolled his
eyes.  “They are one in the same, mon Dhi’b, but if you want to live by the
technicalities, yes, all I’m asking is for you to cease insulting me.”

She licked her lips, still
looking as if she were caught between the urge to accept and the urge to tell
him to shove his dick up his ass.  After a very long—and very
visible
—internal
debate, the magus finally grated, “Fine.  State your bargain.  Wrap it in Law. 
I will decide whether to accept once I’ve heard it in its entirety.”

The Fury is wiser than I
thought.
  Taking a deep breath, feeling the exhilaration of a good bargain
zinging through his veins, ‘Aqrab opened himself to the full power of the
Fourth Lands.  Immediately, the world began to take on varying shades of
violet.  The words that came forth billowed in triple-toned, echoing booms that
rattled the very mosses at their feet.

“I, Yad al-‘Aqrab, sand-singer of
the Scorpion clan, firstborn son of Bakr al-Shihab, eleventh djinni Lord of the
Fourth Lands, hereby offer a bargain to you, Kaashifah the Fury, Handmaiden to
Ares, Warrior-Priestess of Horus, Angel of Vengeance, and Justice of the
Battlefields:  Cease insulting me for a term of seven days, consecutive and
uninterrupted, and, once the seven days are completed, I will use the powers
granted to me by the Lords of the Fourth Realm to return to you your Lord’s
sacred pendant, of which you recently lost.  This is my bargain.  Do you
accept?”  The last of his words echoed out amongst the trees in a booming sound
that carried all the unearthly force of the Fourth Realm, and ‘Aqrab waited,
watching her through a purple haze. 

Kaashifah eyed him like a wary
cat in the silence that followed.  With all the dignity of a queen, she lifted
her chin and said, “What happens if I slip?”

“Then you shall reset your seven
days and your time shall begin anew,” ‘Aqrab boomed, wrapping this new term in
Law.  “Do you accept?”

For a long moment, she scanned
his face, obviously weighing the chances that he had somehow slipped a twist
into his weave, and actually intended something horrible.  Once she found
whatever she was looking for in his face, she glanced at the ground and kicked
at a clump of moss with her boot.  ‘Aqrab let her consider, for to speak to her
now would be to break the Law and shatter the bargain.

Taking a deep breath, she finally
looked up at him with determination in her face.  “I accept.”

‘Aqrab gasped at the rush of
ecstasy that flowed through him with the full force of the Fourthlander Law. 
The magic sang through his soul, tingling every fiber of his being, as powerful
as a thousand orgasms, as overwhelming and disorienting as spinning through the
Void.  The Law boomed through him, powering his voice in that unearthly echo as
it said, “As agreed, so decreed, the bargain has been made.”

When it was over, he collapsed to
his knees to recover.

“So, slave,” she growled, “is it
working?”

Before he could look up at her
and frown, ‘Aqrab felt the Fourthlander Law wrest control of his voice from him
in a booming, “You have reset your seven days.”  He sighed, once his voice
returned to him, and returned his attention to recovering his bearings.  It was
part of what was so alluring about the full force of the Fourthlander Law…  It
was, quite literally, better than sex.  Part of why some djinni couples would
make bargains in the morning, rather than expend the effort to get messy. 
‘Aqrab, on the other hand, was of the full belief that, while nothing could
truly compare to a good bargain, the messier the better.