Chapter 20 #2
“But it didn’t,” I remind her, winking as I kiss her cheek. “You draw their attention, and I’ll show them how to make a shot in the dark count.”
“Don’t joke,” Celine mutters. “Walk me through exactly what you mean.”
I point to the sword and keep my eyes on the broken window, still mostly concealed by the room-darkening shade. “You stick your head out the window and wave that sword around. Once they look at you, I’ll pop out and turn them to stone.”
“And if they throw another koil’nashra?”
I grin. “Then we’ll find out how good you are at bat, baby.”
Celine studies me with sharp eyes, her messy bun listing to one side. She adjusts her grip on the sword, kisses my lips, and makes for the window without another word.
I curse and blink rapidly to prepare my eyes. “Don’t make eye contact with me,” I whisper. “I mean it. Under no circumstances will either of you look at me.”
“Duh,” Celine says.
Malach dips his head, slow and grimly. It’s the most serious nod I’ve ever seen in my life.
Walking to the window, I crouch to Celine’s right, keeping my gaze focused on the floor. Let’s do this. I tell my basilisk, embracing the cold, bristling feeling of its magic. Our magic.
Icy, sluggish tendrils creep into my eyes, coating my vision in a yellow, poisonous mist.
My eyesight isn’t great as a basilisk, but it doesn’t matter if I can make out my targets’ pores. If they lock eyes with me even once, that blink will be their last.
It’s petrification, and it’s fucking permanent.
In nature, it takes thousands of years for bone to mineralize and millions more to become stone. That’s if decay doesn’t win out. But me? I don’t need time. I don’t need patience. I just need a motherfucker to give me one good look.
“I cannot see a thing,” Malach grumbles behind Celine. He’s cradling his injured hand against his body. Once the emergency is over, we’re going to have a long talk about what the fuck that angry crystal ball of death was.
“Grab a blanket off the couch,” I hiss at him. “In case another one gets through, so you don’t lose the skin off your other hand.” His heavy footsteps tell me he’s following my advice, and I tap Celine’s foot with my hand. “Ready when you are, baby.”
She yanks the shade down and throws it behind us, the screws coming loose from the drywall with a crumbling pop. Through the yellow film over my eyes, I see smoke, a strangely round, SUV-sized ball of metal, and . . . a deserted street.
Celine leans out the window, hanging dangerously over the edge, and more glass snaps. “Careful,” I say, grabbing the back of her sweatpants. The leverage isn’t great, but maybe it will be enough to keep her from falling out the window.
Her wings are pinned tightly to leave room for me at her side, the blade-like feathers rubbing against each other with faint metallic whines.
Celine screams out the window. While I don’t have a clue what she said, from the way Malach gasps, it wasn’t polite. Until told otherwise, I’ll assume she said something metal like, ‘Face me and fry.’
A yellowish blob moves on the ground, and I squint, realizing it’s someone, not something. “I see one,” I whisper. “If you get them all to come out, I’ll draw their attention.”
A bead of sweat rolls down my back. Celine’s body is radiating so much heat . . . it’s all she can do not to light up like a candle.
She spews another furious sentence at top volume. A light turns on across the street, and I wince. There’s no way her neighbors are sleeping through this. The entire street is supernatural, but we’re breaking all kinds of Fringe rules.
I don’t have time to worry about that, though. The blobs are mobilizing.
“They’re coming,” Celine says. “Five, no—six total.”
“Got it!” My stomach does a backflip. I’ve never killed that many. Shit, I’ve never planned to kill anyone before either. Breathing deeply, I smell the burned skin of Malach’s palm, and my resolve hardens. They made their beds, now they get to die in them.
Movement comes from several spots along the street. They’re spread out, strategically spaced at the corners of the intersecting roads. Blocking our exits. Only one of them is close enough to have thrown the orb in the window.
“Change of plans,” Celine mutters. “I love you.”
Dread hits me like a truck. I try to get a better grip on her sweatpants, but I’m too late.
Celine dives through the window, flapping her wings hard. She hovers there, three or four feet above the window, bare feet dangling with Malach’s sword raised high above her head.
“Tell me,” she says, voice quivering with rage, “have you ever told a lie before?” She repeats the sentence in a celestial dialect, and her skin lights up like a glow stick—the truth rune etched across every visible inch.
My heart slams against my ribs. She’s a target. Even if some of these guys are bad shots in the dark, she’s lit herself up brighter than a godsdamned lightbulb.
“Baby, I don’t think calling them on their shit right now is the best idea . . .”
“Stay back,” Malach says, grabbing my shoulder with his good hand.
Golden magic shoots from Celine’s chest in six pulsing bursts. My jaw drops as the beams transform into spears of light, zipping through the air toward each target.
The closest angel ignores the beam coming for him and hurls another glowing-death ball at Celine.
With the poise of a veteran batter, she swings the sword, driving the flat of the blade into the ball. The crack echoes—impossibly loud and terrible—like a mallet hitting a gong made of pissed off cats. It’s all I can do not to cover my ears.
The angel who threw the orb tries to dive out of the way.
He’s too slow. Through my yellow-tinged vision, I watch the ball of light devour him whole.
It expands rapidly, sucking him and a nearby trash can in before contracting to a pinprick of light and spitting out a round, lumpy mass.
A round, lumpy mass dripping blood and guts.
I gulp, the chill behind my eyes spreading to cover my whole body. Nothing could be worse, right? The thought seems reasonable. Then Celine’s truth beams hit the remaining five angels, and I realize I was wrong. Incredibly fucking wrong.
I’ll never forget their screams.
The closest one—about ten feet from the base of our building—grabs his head as he wails. It’s torment come to life.
Shit. Fuck. Gods. I’m going to be sick. No, focus Luca. You have a job to do.
Shaking my head, I block out the wailing and shout at him. Whether he hears me or glances at my corner of the window by accident, I’ll never know. We lock eyes, and I end his life and suffering at the same time—immortalizing his final shriek in stone.
His death sets off a chain reaction. Two more angels look at me in shock, and I petrify them both, shuddering as my blood circulation becomes sluggish. It happens every time, a taste of my own medicine, and a reminder that all abilities have limits.
Two more angels remain, and one of them—fuck, he isn’t wailing anymore.
Jaw clenched, he crawls along the pavement, fumbling to open a pouch strapped to his waist. Shivering, I grip the windowsill and try to catch his eye, but my angle’s no good, and we’ve lost the element of surprise. I need a better vantage point.
Leaning out the window, I reach for Celine’s foot. If she anchors me, I’ll be able to surprise him during his next throw. My fingers graze her ankle, and I miss, lose my balance, and free fall toward the concrete.
Celine screams.
I wait for my life to flash before my eyes, but all I see is asphalt.
Then thick arms wrap around my waist like a vise. Hair in my eyes, stomach in my throat, Malach’s wings flap wildly as he tries to support us both.
“Can you”—he pants—“get a shot off?”
I nod. “Line me up!”
Malach dives. My stomach leaves my body entirely. The dripping ball of trash and liquid-angel passes on my right, then I find myself face-to-face with the crawling angel.
I kill him. The chill spreads from the pocket of arteries behind my eyes to the patchwork of thicker veins in my limbs. I shiver, violently, the kind of full-body shudder that belongs on a snow-capped mountain and nowhere near Las Vegas.
My feet skim the ground, and I force my knees to bend. It’s hard. Harder than it’s ever been before. Fear grips me. Will I be stuck this way forever?
Malach groans and adjusts his grip on me. “One more,” he says. His voice is strained, his accent more pronounced as he supports our combined weight.
I blink lethargically and try to focus on the final angel as my eyes water.
He isn’t screaming anymore, and he’s pieced together what I can do.
Instead of looking at me, his gaze is fixed on the ground.
He’s digging ferociously in his bag. Gods.
If he hurls one of those death balls at us from this range, we’re fucked.
“Drop me on him,” I demand.
Malach’s arms tighten instead. I open my mouth to argue.
Then he throws me. Brittle and achy, I collide with the angel, grabbing his hair and forcing his head up. He tries to close his eyes, but he’s too late.
I petrify him, and it feels like I’m petrifying myself. His stone face blurs, and I roll to the side, the pavement unbearably cold against my bare feet and arms.
Breath. Don’t stop breathing. I beg my body to listen, focusing entirely on the grinding rise and fall of my chest. In. Out. In. Out. I’m not ready to die.
My throat spasms as I swallow, venom-laced saliva trickling down my esophagus. It’s bitter, but unmistakably liquid. I’m not a statue; not yet at least. Relieved beyond belief, I force my arms and legs to move, wiggling them until the stiffness turns to pins and needles.
“Luca!” Celine drops to her knees at my side.
Her fingers are scorching against my face.
Satisfied that the cold burn behind my eyes is gone, I pry them open. Stars wink down at me, pure white and crisp, without the fuzzy yellow halo.
“I’m okay, baby,” I murmur, squeezing her hand.
Black spots blot out the stars, and I can’t hear her response over the deafening roar inside my head. Spoke too soon.
Celine’s worried face is the last thing I see.