He scowled and retreated back to the kitchenette, split the contents of the skillet onto two plates, and disappeared down the hall to the bedrooms. Lucky Griffin, breakfast in bed. Unlucky Griffin, Zeke had cooked it. “Your friend came through, then? Walked into Hades, picked out a souvenir, and brought it back to you?” Leo, who had waited for Zeke to pass, stood in the hall now, his hair half in and half out of the ponytail he’d secured it in for bed.
“I told you. Love and goodwill wherever I go.” Letting the pitcher drop onto the couch, I stretched my hand back down and pulled the sword from the stone. I held it high, a blade seemingly made of glass, but it was water. All of it. The blade, guard, grip, and pommel, the entire thing almost five feet long. The Namaru alone could make a weapon out of water, one you could hold firm in your hand and one that could cut absolutely anything.
Leo folded his arms. “All Hail the Once and Future Queen, but it has been done.”
Affronted, I complained. “Arthur only had to pull the sword out of the stone. I had to steal the stone and then pull out the sword. I deserve extra credit for that.” I’d also pulled a five-foot sword out of a one-foot-square block of stone, which, while impressive, I couldn’t claim credit for. A long-gone Namaru was responsible for creating that technical miracle.
“We’re sure it was all worthwhile, that this will work?” He leaned against the wall. I could see him through the sword itself, his image wavering through the rippled surface of the blade.
“No, we’re not sure of anything, but I scraped the bottom of my bag of tricks for this. If it doesn’t work, no one will bitch that we didn’t give it our best shot. Cronus will be giving them plenty of other things to bitch about. Torture, death, the sun falling from the sky, being thrown into another world where sharks are people and humans are chum.” I pointed the sword at Leo, admiring the crystal sheen of the blade—straight and true. “I think I want one more meal at the diner. One more helping of biscuits and gravy in case it’s our last.”
“I know you don’t equate that with the Last Supper, you with your heathen existence.”
If anyone had worse timing than a demon, it was an angel. “More of a Last Lunch.” I let the point of the broadsword drop toward the wood floor as I swiveled to face Azrael. Griffin was right or rather I wished he were right. The sudden appearance and disappearance should be somewhat akin to poofing. I knew I would appreciate a sound effect to let me know when an angel or demon shimmered into existence behind me. Bell the cat. If they both weren’t so fond of their own voice, and they were, you often wouldn’t have any warning. “You’re not invited.”
The disdain in the purple-black eyes was the same as it had been before. “If a sword could fell a Titan, don’t you think we would have tried it?”
“With one of those flaming swords? Did you ever wonder where they come from, the swords made of fire? Whatever angel is passing them out up in the Penthouse, did you think he made them? It’s ironic that all the smiting you and yours does is with weapons made by dead païen.” If you could make a sword out of water, you could out of fire as well, the Namaru’s natural environment. I smiled. “Why, sugar, you don’t look pleased to hear that. Your feathers are ruffled.”
“He looks ready to drop a load on a statue’s head, I think you mean,” Leo added, pulling the ponytail holder from his hair and resecuring it tightly.
Azrael ignored the insult and the one who’d delivered it. “That is not so. Our weapons are of Heaven and always have been of Heaven.”
I didn’t try to change his mind. In my life and my occupation I’d learned that you can change behaviors, with the right kind of motivation, but you can rarely change minds. Logic was useless. My natural optimism had taken a beating from reality more than enough to learn that while truth and facts were nice thoughts, they required a reasonable medium to take root. Angels weren’t often reasonable. It would be easier to pry the six-pack out of a NASCAR fan’s hand than to change an angel’s mind. “Did you want something, Angel of Death? Was Ishiah wrong in thinking you could do what needs to be done? Killing is easy for you, but leading—is that out of your depth?”
“I can do both, easily. You should remember that.” His wings, often an indicator of an angel’s mood, stayed flat. They hadn’t been disturbed, although I’d told a tiny white lie and said they were. Azrael was right. I should remember he had no problem with killing, certainly no emotion attached to the act. Which was worse? To kill out of cold arrogance or to kill out of a hunger for violence? Angels and demons, if you asked me, the only difference was location. “I came to see if it was worth it. If we had a genuine chance or if all of this has been trickster talk and trickster ego. Liars, thieves, you hold nothing to be sacred and true, including your word.”
“I always keep my word. There are plenty who would tell you that. They’d have to crawl out of their unfortunately early graves to do it, but they could tell you.” I hefted the sword again. “This is a win-win for everyone, Azrael. Try to keep that thought in your tiny parakeet brain. We all stand together or we all fall, and that fall will make Lucifer’s seem like a trip to the ice cream store. Just do your part and we might make it. Think how Heaven will look at you”—I nudged—“with adoration and admiration. They’ll love your ass, put it up on a pedestal.” As Lucifer’s followers had once done to him. “You’ll be the hero of Heaven.” It did sound better than hit man of Heaven, but Azrael was not interested in heroics. He wasn’t made that way. He was interested in saving his own life though and that would have to do.
“If you fail us, I shall kill you before Cronus has a chance,” he promised.
“If I fail, trust me, death will be the least of my worries,” I said. This time the wings did spread, because he knew—he knew, at least, that was true. For everyone. Killing didn’t cause an emotional flicker, but thinking of how Cronus would make the rest of existence an endless damnation that Hell could never begin to dream of or match—that ruffled Azrael and good.
“Then do not fail.” He was gone before I could make sure Ishiah had given him the right time and place. It didn’t matter. I knew he had. Ishiah was thoroughly dependable and one of the exceptions that proved the rule about changing minds. Ishiah wouldn’t let me down. I didn’t know how he had been made, but it was far from the template of Azrael. Ishiah could kill, most likely had killed, but he would feel it and I thought he would regret it, whether it was justified or not. That made him a better person than I was.
“One tentative RSVP from Heaven,” Leo said. “Now what about Hell?”
“That’s going to be a roll of the dice. Cronus needs only one more demon. I’m hoping that’s not because he caught Eli peeking out of Hell and took his wings. Without Eli, we’re pretty well screwed.” I put the sword down on the couch. It magnified the weave of the material beneath it. “He’s the only high-level demon I know. . . .”
“Since you killed the others,” he interrupted.
That was unfair. How was I supposed to know I’d need one or two later on? You didn’t keep around a rabid dog on the off chance that Hollywood would call you to make Cujo 2, Wrath of the Motherpupper. “He’s the only one I know,” I went on, “and of all the ones I have known, the only one silver-tongued enough to have a hope at getting us what we needed. Not many demons could deliver up Hell itself.”
“Maybe not even Eligos.”
“Maybe not.” I shook my head. There was no point in worrying about it as there was nothing we could do about it. “We’ll have to keep our fingers crossed.”
“You don’t think that no matter how this ends, Heaven and Hell are going to think we didn’t do our share?” he asked, knocking once against the wall in punctuation.
“They have a trickster and a god playing on the team. What more could they want?” I knew what I wanted. Païen kind as far from Cronus as they could get. Cronus was the sole remaining Titan. The others, like him, couldn’t be killed . . . except by their own hand. Only a Titan was powerful enough to kill a Titan and they’d all eventually done just that, but to themselves. All that unending power, it led nowhere but to insanity. The other Titans had turned that insanity inward and died of it. Cronus was the only one who had turned it outward, which was apparently the ticket to escaping suicide. Unfortunately, outward also equaled homicide. Two “cides” to every story, but with a Titan the story was always a horror. I didn’t want our kind near that horror. We were too few as it was.