Bladed Wings (4 page)

From somewhere behind him, the girl shouted “See that! I got him!” Timothy glanced back to see her hop up and down with the enthusiasm of an over caffeinated cheerleader.

              He could run or double back for the phone.

              Timothy turned right at the edge of campus, heading across the bridge over the Sacramento River. At nine o’clock, cars streamed by, but they thought he was a jogger. No one cared that there was another very big, very mean looking runner followed a few feet back.

Timothy wouldn’t stay ahead for long. He wasn’t good for distance. He might be quick in a sprint, but with every foot he felt his lungs get heavier. Every second and they felt smaller. His legs burned with motion, groaning for some rest.

              Timothy got to the other side of the bridge. A public place, he realized. He had to get to a public place. To the left side of the street were overpriced apartments that catered to freshmen who didn’t know any better. To the right sat empty offices. That left the couple of strip malls, bookstores, and restaurants half a mile up ahead. Timothy didn’t think he could run that far.

But he had to try.

              A squirrel dropped down in front of him. At first he ignored it. Then thirty feet ahead, that squirrel shifted and grew, bright with light as it expanded, first inches, then feet. It became a column of light and grew arms, a head, a human head with locks of blond hair and the same face he saw before.

              “What the hell?” Timothy panted.

              “Close,” the girl smiled.

              Behind Timothy, Morgon loped up and those burly arms locked around his shoulders, trying to bind him in a bear hug. Timothy wasn’t a ninja or wrestler. He didn’t think he’d be able to break this kind of hold. Ripping free from concrete would have been easier.

              That didn’t stop Timothy from struggling, from trying to jerk or squirm his way out. Strategy didn’t matter when panic or instinct drove every act. He didn’t remember to stamp the guy’s foot, scream for help, or slam his head against his attacker’s chin. Fighting hard, Timothy fought and jerked back and forth to break the hold.

              The corners of his vision went dark. They didn’t blur. Shadows covered the edges of his perceptions, then he felt Morgon’s arms give way like they weren’t there at one moment. Timothy was secure, unable to get away, then he stumbled forward, as if Morgon just let him go. Timothy couldn’t explain it. He didn’t care as long as it meant he got free.

              Head titled, Morgon spoke for the first time, “Isis, it’s true!”

              “He did it,” she said.

              “Cordinox will definitely want him alive.”

              “Well, then,” Isis said with a wave at Timothy, still stuck between the two of them on a bridge, a hundred feet over a river. He could jump and he could die on one of the logs or a block of random concrete.

              Trying not to look obvious, Timothy glanced at both Isis and Morgon, trying to figure out who’d be a greater threat: muscle-man or shape-shifter. At the same time, he watched for cars. Both directions were clear. They’d be clear for just a second. Fair Oaks was a busy street. And there were rises in both directions meaning he’d get all of three seconds to get out of the way.

              Screw it, he thought and jumped into a street which could be filled with SUVs and speeding compacts at any second. He ran as hard as he could.

              A car appeared, screaming its horn, the twin suns of bright white burning at Timothy’s vision. A vine of shadow shot from his wrist, yanking his arm as it coiled around one of the bridge’s metal beams. Then it felt like his arm would get jerked out of its socket as the tendril pulled him up. Timothy lost his stomach in that second, then the car was gone, and he hung there.

              The tendril seemed to be suspended by nothing but shadow, a dark mist of something that shouldn’t have been solid. It looked like the tendrils from his dream. He tried to swing or pull, anything to get it to let go. A second later it did and he fell, landing on his feet, tumbling to his knees, everything jarred under the weight of gravity and pavement.

              Morgon pounced at him again.

              “Don’t be clever,” called the girl. “Just hit him.”

              “Right,” Timothy poked the back of his head. He felt dried blood, and his touch stung. “Who are you?”

              “Erzu Cordinox,” he said and held out a hand. Decked out in a black collared shirt, equally dark pants, and shining dress shoes, Cordinox looked like a very expensive assassin or a mortician. He stood straight, like one of the business majors at school who wanted to prove they were serious.

              Ignoring Cordinox’s outstretched hand, Timothy shook his head and asked, “Why am I here? What do you want from me?” After another second, he remembered his discarded backpack and wanted to know, “Where’s my stuff?”

              Erzu smiled like a real estate mogul or chess player. “As to your last question, your books and whatnot are with Isis. I believe she was even kind enough to retrieve your cell phone. Regarding your other questions, you’re here because you became interesting when you managed to kill one of my allies,” Cordinox said. “Isis tracked Cipher and found some leftover energies in a church downtown. Then she tracked you down. Apparently you carry his scent now. To her at least.”

              “I didn’t kill anyone.”

              “Of course you did,” Cordinox said.

              “There wasn’t a body. It was a dream or something else.” Timothy stopped, irritated. He didn’t want to say he suffered from delusions.

              “Right.”

              “C’mon,” Timothy tried to find the balance to stand. “This has to be a joke or something. This isn’t really happening.”

              “Of course it is.”

              “What happened?” Timothy asked, “Really. What happened?” What could explain this?

              “Cipher was attacked by one of Despada’s followers. Cipher, from what I’ve been able to learn, killed his opponent, but then got dunked in a font of holy water by some kid who happened to be in the wrong place at the right time. Dunk a demon in holy water and what do you think is going to happen?”

              “Demons aren’t real. And even if they were, they wouldn’t be in churches.”

              “Ordinarily no. Churches are boring, though I suspect Cipher didn’t know what building he fled into. More likely he got ambushed, wounded, and needed some cover. Little did he know he’d run into the college kid who’d toss him in a holy bath.”

              “This can’t be real.” It sounded lame to Timothy. Too many memories said it was true.

Hands behind his back, Cordinox strolled over to Timothy. “What do you see?” he asked, holding out his hand again. He flipped it over. Timothy didn’t say anything, guessing this was a trick, or maybe he was just sick of not knowing what happened. “It’s a hand right? Well, how about now?” A blink of energy and the skin solidified into black scales, the fingers tipped with points of sharpened bone.

              “What are you?” Timothy asked, pushing his sight up to Cordinox’s face.

              “A demon,” Cordinox said.

              “How is that possible?”

              “We’ve always been around. Ever since the beginning of time we’ve appeared, growing out of broken souls. Sometimes taking human bodies, sometimes creating new ones—custom models if you will.”

              “Demons,” Timothy repeated. “Shouldn’t you be from hell then?”

              “Hell?” Cordinox asked with a smirk, “Not as far as we know.”

              “And holy water kills you?”

              “Anything blessed with a love for others will hurt us. You see Nicholas Santos, we are creatures of self-love. Not evil, just very egocentric. Don’t confuse the two.” He glanced at the ceiling like he had to pick exactly what he’d say next, “That’s something which really irritates me. See, you hear people talk about demons and evil and they think that if you’re selfish, you must be terrible. Evil, they think, is selfish. But we’re not evil, not in the sense people think. Sure, we don’t say we’re good, and we don’t work to help others—unless it’s in our best interest. But look at the average human, and there you go. People do charities, usually because it makes them feel good. People take care of families because they love them. A mother is happy when she takes care of her child. That child makes her happy. Each one gets something out of that relationship. None of those motivations are beyond us. We’re just more honest.”

              “And you work together?”

              “It’s in all of our best interests,” Cordinox explained. “There’s protection in numbers. Go it alone, and you’ll get yourself killed. Thousands of bands across the planet. Hundreds of demon lords spread out across the continents. Trust me, you don’t want to be alone.”

              “And you are?”

              “I lead this little band.”

              “This is real,” Timothy said, not sure if he made a statement or a question.

              “Very much so.”

              “How do I fit into this?”

              “You killed a demon. That wasn’t supposed to happen. As far as I know, it’s never happened before. But don’t quote me. I’m not much of a historian. See, demons fight to get stronger. We’re very predatory that way. Kill another demon, and you get his strength. All of your opponent’s life and strength and power flow into you, his killer.”

              “I’m not a demon.”

              “You weren’t. Now you seem to have bonded with Cipher’s soul. It’s inside you now. You’re a demon now, a human with a demon soul. Something new. Congratulations.”

              “No, it’s not possible.”

              “Yeah,” Cordinox said. “I wouldn’t have thought so either, but here we are.”

              So much information, Timothy didn’t know if he was back in a dream, but everything felt real. And honestly, he didn’t think he could be creative enough to come up with something like this. Here he stood with time to think, and it felt real anyway. This wasn’t a life or death situation where everything flashed by. He could think and ask questions and none of it went away.

              “And on the bridge, the shadow stuff?”

              “A manifestation of your new abilities,” Cordinox said. “You have a demon’s soul now. Which is surprising considering that it didn’t overwhelm you.”

              “Overwhelm me? How?”

              “Cipher’s personality might have crushed your mind and taken control of your body. He’s a demon. You’re a human. It happens.”

              “But it didn’t?”

              “Obviously not.”

              “Small miracles,” Timothy muttered.

              “Hardly,” Cordinox said. “You fought him off, consciously or unconsciously. Now he’s gone and his strength is yours.”

              “Just what I always wanted.”

Cordinox smiled at that. “I’m sure it’s not what you anticipated for your life.”

“So I can—throw fire or something?”

“Probably not. Every soul has power, but how that strength appears depends on the body it inhabits. Cipher’s body had an affinity for fire. Now that soul is inside your body and it’ll be something different.”

“Shadows,” Timothy said without thinking.

“That’s what Isis and Morgon reported,” Cordinox said. “You may have some very impressive potential and might prove useful.”

“I’m not working with you,” Timothy said even though he knew it probably wasn’t the smartest answer. The smart thing to do would be to tell Cordinox whatever he wanted to hear and drive screaming to Mexico. That or a mental hospital could still be a good choice.

“Do you want to die? Oh, don’t look at me like that. I wouldn’t kill you. I wouldn’t need to.” Cordinox strolled to the other side of the room, his hands in his pockets as he explained, “This city has two bands of demons. We are at war. I control one group. The other is controlled by Maria Despada, and she’s insane. She’d hear your human heartbeat and feed you to the rest of her group. Or she’d kill you herself, though I’m guessing she’s too prejudiced for such a pragmatic approach.”