Blood Debts (The Temple Chronicles Book 2) (49 page)

Without warning, jagged bolts of lightning from both the nearby volcanoes and glaciers simultaneously hammered into the Angel with twin explosions of light. As the initial flare of light faded, I saw him again. He grunted. Once.

Holy crap.

He set his shoulders defiantly, withstanding the raging flood of crackling energy pouring into him in a continuous stream — fire and ice, the children of the unforgiving, merciless Mother Earth — and was slowly imbued with the powers that God had once created in seven days. The torrent continued unabated, the bolts of power only growing thicker, and thicker, wilder and wilder. Sets of eyes — inky obsidian from the Demons and galactic ice chips from the Angels — watched the spectacle with intense interest. Eae’s wings slowly began to flesh out, sprouting gleaming, pristine feathers over rapidly growing corded muscle, until they stretched a good six feet to either side of him, quivering with sizzling elemental energy. With a crack that split one of the volcanoes down the middle the cord of fiery power from over the Demons’ heads simply ceased, and a single feather rose above Eae’s head, gathering light from the remaining cord of power emanating from the glacier. Lava began spewing wildly into the air, a dust cloud filling the already dark skies. The feather began to glow as it slowly rotated on its axis, faster and faster, brighter and brighter with each passing second. A shockwave built around the feather and then screamed outward in a sonic boom that shook my hair. The glacier calved, sounding like the earth beneath me had suddenly split in two. The bolt of power disappeared, leaving a purple haze in my vision. I blinked several times to clear my sight.

Eae stood before us, a veritable mountain of muscle, much larger than when I had first met him, and his newly remade body would have made the famous Renaissance artists envious. His Grace had been restored.

“I declare the murder of the Demons, the Nephilim, and injury of the Angel even. Both were misunderstandings or misguided actions caused by the summoner, who I will deal with in my own way.” The last was a dark promise that caused several pleased nods from the Angels, and hungry, thoughtful looks from the Demons. “It’s not a crime that Master Temple successfully and fatally defended himself from several Demon attacks. And it is not his fault that he found a way back to the land of the living. It’s mine.” No one argued, as Death’s judgment was the final word on the matter. After all, the Horsemen were the judge and jury of Armageddon, and I
had
been acting in self-defense, having done nothing wrong in the first place. I nodded in appreciation, but held up a hand.

Famine clapped excitedly, pointing at me. I blushed. Was he for real?

“I have a last request, if it’s not already clear”

Death nodded.

“The little boy, Othello’s nephew. He is to be released.” I did my best to sound confident.

The Demons began to grumble unhappily but Death held up a hand. “Agreed.”

I nodded in thanks. Othello’s knees almost gave out but she managed to maintain her feet, shooting me a smile of such happiness that I couldn’t help smiling back. Famine leaned closer to her and offered her a sip of his orange juice with a friendly smile. She accepted, with wildly terrified eyes, as if fearful of refusing his offer. He beamed as she took the faintest of sips. I chuckled to myself, feeling my tension begin to drain away.

It was…
neat
.

Clean. Orderly.

The Angels couldn’t be pissed, and neither could the few surviving Demons. They had only been on earth thanks to the Greater Demon and the summoner. Sir Dreadsalot and Gavin, and I had sent them both packing. Everything important concluded, the Angels and Demons left. Somehow. I didn’t exactly dare to watch where they left to, not sure if directly catching a glimpse of Heaven or Hell would permanently destroy my brain.

Death held out a hand and I nodded in understanding. I handed him the motorcycle keys and his mask. As soon as they touched his hand, I collapsed in pure agony, as if every single one of my recent wounds had suddenly happened for the first time.

Simultaneously.

I was whimpering on the ground. The torture slowly began to recede, leaving behind only the lingering effects I had felt prior to the church. Which was enough all by itself to leave me as a quivering puddle of throbbing aches on the ground. Several eons later, the pain began to subside enough for me to move. Barely. I still hurt. Everywhere. But it was somewhat tolerable. Death was speaking to me as I felt Othello lift me back to my feet, supporting me completely. I survived it, but scowled at her for good measure. She winced. “You can either have your original power back or allow Othello to remain alive.” Death repeated. I felt Othello go rigid beside me.

It took me a few seconds to trust my throat with identifiable speech. I looked from him to Othello. I managed to answer with several pauses for breath amidst bouts of pain. “Not that this is my deciding factor, but… you think I want to get my magic back and be under the purview of the Academy… after all I said to them?” I grunted at a particularly nasty shiver, glad Othello still held me upright. “No thanks. Othello is the true hero. I consider it a win-win. No more asshats in charge of me, and she gets to keep on ticking.” I was definitely a crock wizard, and didn’t deserve my old power back. It would be a reminder, the grueling years it would take me to learn my new Maker ability — the cost of arrogance.

And failure.

I slowly began to feel more or less human, able to withstand my injuries on my own two feet. But Othello was shaking slightly with barely contained cries so I kept my arm wrapped around her, squeezing her shoulder for comfort.

War came down from the table, but Famine and Pestilence continued eating their pancakes. “If you are still alive at the End of Days, I vote that you become a Rider with us. It seems you already have a horse, Grimm, and he will fit in splendidly with Gruff. The grumpy bastard is intolerable.” Death scowled back, but War merely smiled good naturedly before continuing. “You will be the rider of Hope, as that is your most cherished value.” I began to nod in respectful appreciation for the offer, and the fact that he had considered Hope to be a cherished value of mine. Then he continued. “You will pillage and rape all Hope from the world.” My nod froze instantly.
What?
I hoped that this was just idle talk, and that I wasn’t actually being bound to such a career path.

“I’m not even a Christian.” I finally stammered.

Respectfully.

“That doesn’t matter,
Maker
. Ragnarok, Armageddon, etc. are all the same to us. Christians got most of the facts right, so we lean towards that title.”

Famine spoke up from the table, seeming interested in our conversation for the first time in a while. “You think any of us are
Christian
? That would be a… what do you humans call it? Ah, yes. A
Conflict of interest
. We are all non-believers, judges, pious.” He chuckled. “Perhaps not
pious
, but cast-out. You will fit in
excellently
.” The last statement was said as the Rider leaned forward with a lethal grin. Apparently, I had impressed the Horsemen.

“I’ll… consider it.” I answered softly. Othello’s eyes widened in disbelief but she kept her thoughts to herself.

“So be it. You’re a good man, Nathin Temple. You can borrow my mask any time.” I shuddered at the thought. “Now, you’re body
did
literally die, so you must rest while I begin the paperwork. This will not go easy on your friends. Your death is all over the news. Your body was found in a bar near Soulard.” Death smiled sadly, waved a hand over my head, and I promptly blacked out to the sensation of my forehead catching on fire.

Chapter 42

I
woke slowly to the sensation of warm air gently brushing my eyelids, soft murmured sobs and comforting voices filling my ears. Unsure of who was near me, I carefully cracked my crusty eyelids open. Someone must have super glued them together because it took me a mountain of effort.

I was in the Temple Mausoleum.

And my friends surrounded me. Gunnar comforted Ashley in a close hug several feet away, his eyes chips of cold stone, and Misha and Tory were holding hands, sobbing softly beside them. Othello stood off to the side, alone, staring up at the Temple family tree as if she knew she wasn’t welcome in their grief. Then again, she knew I wasn’t truly dead. Had she told them it was just a ruse? No, they wouldn’t be so grief-stricken if she had.

Then I spotted Indie. She was standing entirely alone, staring blankly. I took a deep breath and sat up, causing a slight
creak
of flexing wood.

Indie stiffened at the soft sound, then slowly began to turn around. She saw me sitting up.

From inside a coffin.

She… blinked. I smiled tiredly. Then she took a shuffled step backwards and gasped. Gunnar glanced over his shoulder and saw her staring at the not-so-dead Temple heir. His forearms shifted to claws as he shoved Ashley away to safety. Everyone turned to face me then, eyes wide in utter confusion. And then an enormous amount of rage. The sudden shift in emotions hit me on a physical level, like a giant pillow had clipped my ears — powerful but not painful. Claws appeared from Misha’s arms with a
snicker-snack
like Marvel’s Wolverine. Her eyes flared red, a feral gleam catching the soft light. Tory’s hand shattered the table she was using for support as she suddenly clenched her fist. And Indie cocked a freaking pistol held in a shaking hand. Right, I probably needed to put them at their ease or something. Before they made my die for real.

“I’m not dead yet.” I declared in my best Monty Python voice. Then I began coughing. My throat was bone dry.

Ashley and Tory passed out in unison, crumpling to the floor like wet laundry.

Indie just stared at me with glassy eyes — shock taking over. The gun clattered to the floor uselessly, causing me to flinch in case it went off. With my luck, I wouldn’t have been surprised it if took out the leg of the coffin I rested in, sending me crashing to the ground where I would instantly be devoured by my best friends. No one else moved.

I began to feel guilty about putting them through this. No one spoke, adding to my guilt, but Gunnar was growling and sniffing the air hesitantly. Then he bent over Ashley, keeping one wary eye cast over his shoulder at me. “Uh. Did you get my message?” I asked Indie. She continued to stare blankly back at me. “I didn’t do so hot on my communicating, did I? Also, it looks like you’re unemployed, as Plato’s Cave was smited while you were away…” I turned to Ashley, who had been violently shaken awake by Gunnar and was groggily getting to her feet. “Temple Industries has a big hole in it. Crater, to be exact. Not sure how much that is going to cost to fix, but we’ll probably need to talk about it. Later. I’m kind of tired right now. And thirsty.” Blinks answered me. “So, how were your vacations?” I rasped through my dry throat.

Then Indie covered the distance between us like a ninja and pounced on top of me. She began poking, prodding, and kissing every square inch of my body. It felt glorious. I sighed, leaning back into my coffin as I held her close, breathing in her scent.

“How?!” She demanded between angry kisses and hugs.

“It’s a long story. I’m just-”

Pow!

She smacked the living daylights out of me with an open palm like fire. Stars exploded across my vision like the Big Bang. Othello burst out laughing as the stars ever so slowly began to fade away. I continued as if nothing had happened. “Glad you’re alright. Is your mom okay?”

She stared back at me, heaving. “Yes. Mild concussion, but she’s fine.” Her next words were precise, clipped, and dripping with warning. “What the
hell
happened while we were gone? The whole city is a buzz with talk of murders, explosions, and attacks.” She shook her head, focusing on the important question. “How are you
alive
? They found your body three days ago. This doesn’t make any sense.” She began to sob, unable to maintain her anger, let alone comprehend my revival.

Othello chimed in. “Oh, he’s better than alright. He stole Death’s mask!”

Indie’s sobs silenced in a blink. She turned an icy gaze to Othello. “She finally decides to speak. Who might you be, mysterious stranger?” Her tone dripped venom, even more of a warning than she had used when speaking with me. “Your voice sounds vaguely familiar…” Indie’s eyes were diamonds as they turned back to me. I realized that Indie knew exactly who she was, and that I was about to pay for it.

Unfortunately for me, I had been an open book on my past romances.

“She’s a friend of mine. Othello, meet my friends. Friends, meet Othello. She helped me while you were out of town.”

“And do you make a habit of sleeping with all of your friends?” Indie’s voice was brittle.

Gunnar chimed in, still sporting his werewolf claws, as if unsure what to make of everything. “He tried once with me, but I was able to resist. Thank god.”

“That was in the past. We were much younger then.” Gunnar burst out laughing. “
Her
, not
you
, you damn dirty dog.” I scowled at him, fighting a grin. I turned to Indie. “I didn’t even know you back then.” I said softly.