squad was under attack.
Emotions rushed through
Blake in successive waves. First and foremost was worry; Kate and
Marc were down there, already fighting side by side. He needed to
go help them. Fear was next, so overwhelming Blake felt like he
would choke. The last time he had fought demons, he had lost, and
he’d been punished with decades of pain. What if he lost again?
Shame and anger surged through him. He refused to be scared,
refused to be a victim any longer. That was not who he
was.
“ Blake? What should we
do?”
Simon’s squeaky words
snapped Blake back to attention. He turned to the mage, his mouth
already open to give orders. It fell shut and he blinked when he
took in Simon’s appearance, three red lines of drying paste drawn
over each of his eyelids as well as above and below it. For a
fleeting moment, Blake wished he had paid attention while Simon did
his magic, or even asked explanations about what he was doing.
Maybe later.
“ Is your spell over?” he
asked. “Did you get the information you needed?”
Simon grimaced. “Not yet. I
need a little more time. Can you—”
“ Make sure you get it?”
Blake’s grin felt like his first real smile in months. The sense of
purpose that came with it was like a balm soothing an open wound.
“Yeah, I can do that. Come down when you’re done, all right? And do
your magic cloak thing on yourself when you do.”
He barely waited for Simon
to nod in reply before he hurried to the stairs, his sword already
in hand. In moments, he was back in the street. He remained near
the entrance to the building so he could defend its access. Most
fighters worked in pairs, but that did not worry him. Fighting was
in his veins. He didn’t need help. He only needed an
adversary.
It wasn’t long before one
presented itself.
The demon struck with a loud
grunt. Its sword met Blake’s in a clash of fiery sparks. For the
first time in what seemed like forever—what was centuries, in fact,
at least to him—Blake felt as though pure life was coursing through
him. Not until this very instant had he realized how much he had
missed the rush of the fight, and the exhilaration of going head to
head with an adversary. The fears and worries that had plagued him
when he had sparred with Marc were gone, leaving only a sense of
rightness behind.
With a shout that was part
delight, part defiance, he struck high at the demon’s chest. Seneca
rang like a gong against the thick metal armor. The demon wasn’t
hurt, but it stumbled back either from surprise or from the force
of the blow. Blake rushed forward at once and struck again, high,
then low, at the demon’s leg, and its arm, blood dark as ink
staining his blade. With a growl, the demon pulled back again; the
light emanating from the breach now bathed its side.
Blake froze. His throat felt
tight, too tight. His fingers clenched on the hilt of the
sword.
Demons were all different.
No two of them had the same pattern of protruding bones. But back
in the demon dimension, when Blake had first been captured, when
demons had dragged him to a cell, one of them had had a series of
bone spikes on each forearm, five spikes between four and five
inches in length on either side.
The demon standing in front
of Blake wore identical spikes. Five on the left forearm, four on
the right, plus a short stub near the elbow where a fifth one had
been broken off.
Where Blake had
broken it off.
* * * *
Shouting or struggling was
useless, and so was refusing to walk. The demons would drag Blake
over uneven ground and stones until he was bruised, maybe even had
broken bones, and that wouldn’t help him escape in the least.
Walking behind one of his two captors, with his hands tied in front
of him and a rope around his neck, Blake tried to take in as much
as he could, memorizing features of the landscape around him,
seeking paths through the rocky terrain.
The trouble was, they had
been walking for hours, and everything looked the same.
Emotions rushed through
Blake in successive waves. First and foremost was worry; Kate and
Marc were down there, already fighting side by side. He needed to
go help them. Fear was next, so overwhelming Blake felt like he
would choke. The last time he had fought demons, he had lost, and
he’d been punished with decades of pain. What if he lost again?
Shame and anger surged through him. He refused to be scared,
refused to be a victim any longer. That was not who he
was.
“ Blake? What should we
do?”
Simon’s squeaky words
snapped Blake back to attention. He turned to the mage, his mouth
already open to give orders. It fell shut and he blinked when he
took in Simon’s appearance, three red lines of drying paste drawn
over each of his eyelids as well as above and below it. For a
fleeting moment, Blake wished he had paid attention while Simon did
his magic, or even asked explanations about what he was doing.
Maybe later.
“ Is your spell over?” he
asked. “Did you get the information you needed?”
Simon grimaced. “Not yet. I
need a little more time. Can you—”
“ Make sure you get it?”
Blake’s grin felt like his first real smile in months. The sense of
purpose that came with it was like a balm soothing an open wound.
“Yeah, I can do that. Come down when you’re done, all right? And do
your magic cloak thing on yourself when you do.”
He barely waited for Simon
to nod in reply before he hurried to the stairs, his sword already
in hand. In moments, he was back in the street. He remained near
the entrance to the building so he could defend its access. Most
fighters worked in pairs, but that did not worry him. Fighting was
in his veins. He didn’t need help. He only needed an
adversary.
It wasn’t long before one
presented itself.
The demon struck with a loud
grunt. Its sword met Blake’s in a clash of fiery sparks. For the
first time in what seemed like forever—what was centuries, in fact,
at least to him—Blake felt as though pure life was coursing through
him. Not until this very instant had he realized how much he had
missed the rush of the fight, and the exhilaration of going head to
head with an adversary. The fears and worries that had plagued him
when he had sparred with Marc were gone, leaving only a sense of
rightness behind.
With a shout that was part
delight, part defiance, he struck high at the demon’s chest. Seneca
rang like a gong against the thick metal armor. The demon wasn’t
hurt, but it stumbled back either from surprise or from the force
of the blow. Blake rushed forward at once and struck again, high,
then low, at the demon’s leg, and its arm, blood dark as ink
staining his blade. With a growl, the demon pulled back again; the
light emanating from the breach now bathed its side.
Blake froze. His throat felt
tight, too tight. His fingers clenched on the hilt of the
sword.
Demons were all different.
No two of them had the same pattern of protruding bones. But back
in the demon dimension, when Blake had first been captured, when
demons had dragged him to a cell, one of them had had a series of
bone spikes on each forearm, five spikes between four and five
inches in length on either side.
The demon standing in front
of Blake wore identical spikes. Five on the left forearm, four on
the right, plus a short stub near the elbow where a fifth one had
been broken off.
Where Blake had
broken it off.
* * * *
Shouting or struggling was
useless, and so was refusing to walk. The demons would drag Blake
over uneven ground and stones until he was bruised, maybe even had
broken bones, and that wouldn’t help him escape in the least.
Walking behind one of his two captors, with his hands tied in front
of him and a rope around his neck, Blake tried to take in as much
as he could, memorizing features of the landscape around him,
seeking paths through the rocky terrain.
The trouble was, they had
been walking for hours, and everything looked the same.
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