Urban Nocordia

Alright, so this a story i wrote last year ... I put it on fictionpress as one of my many retired names.

Prologue: The Wrong Person

It feels like having your soul ripped out from the inside without it having the good graces to leave the rest of your body behind. Inside out, upside down, falling and swirling and I shouldn’t have to take this crap; fucking voidborn prophecy child bullshit and I can’t even stop myself falling this very small distance.

When I hit, it feels like slamming into a ceiling from the downside, and it takes me a few moments to realize it’s actually grass tickling my nose, and not fragments of smashed cartilage. It feels like it should be, like I’ve been through the wash on the heavy duty cycle then handed over to the drier for some more goodtime fun.

I’m used to pain. I don’t like being disorientated, it makes me angry.

I’m currently very, very angry, and if I could remember where I put my feet, someone might be in a lot of trouble.

“Hey… are you alright?”

As usual, Sigmund’s voice is the ice pack and handful of aspirin my poor abused little soul needs.

“No.” It’s meant to be a manly, pissed off growl… in reality it just sounds kind of shaky. I think I’m going to vomit.

My feet are thankfully where I left them, but I don’t think my legs are. I manage to sit anyway; it’s awkward, but my legs aren’t really designed for it, and it’s nothing new. Nothing seems broken, or damaged at all really; sort of like the feeling after waking from a dream cut short by a long fall. An awful lot like that, actually. Except that I didn’t go to sleep in a park, and one I don’t recognize to boot.

Sigmund is silhouetted against a streetlamp, he reaches hesitantly forward before pulling back somewhat. “Do… you want me to call someone?”

I shake my head, stand, stretch and open my mouth to say, ‘Where the hell are we?’ when I get interrupted by a gasp.

“Holy fuck.”

Now, I’m a modern kind of ancient god; I watch TV, go to the movies, hell, I’ve even been know to pick up the occasional comic. As such, I know that when the person you go to bed next to every night – and have done so for quite some time – who knows all your secrets and keeps coming back regardless, when that person meets you in a park you don’t recognize, treats you like a stranger, then says ‘holy fuck’ when you turn out to not, in fact, be a bum, but a seven foot tall demon thing… when all that happens, you’ve probably fallen into an alternate dimension. Again.

I love cutting the angst.

This realization on my behalf, however, does not change the fact that Sigmund looks like he’s about to either scream or faint or both, and I’m halfway through a stretch and am sure I’ve got the kind of expression on my face usually reserved for teenagers caught masturbating. Luckily I have very, very fast reflexes when I want to.

I’m behind Sigmund before he can breathe – one hand over his mouth and the other around his waist, and tail wrapped hard around his legs for good measure – and pull him back into the shadows slightly. He stumbles a little, but I won’t let him fall. His mind feels like it’s about to blank out on me, so I grab hold of that, too, make sure to press on all the right places to take the fight and the fear right out of him. It’s too easy – dead though she may be, my Sigmund still has the heart of a goddess and a mind like iron to go with it – but this Sigmund is all human boy. I decide that I’ll think about what to do with this information at a later date.

“Your name is Sigmund Gregor Sussman, you’re 19, you like computers and hate your middle name. You’re afraid of bats and won’t walk under a ladder for fear of getting bad luck. You also have a scar on your inner thigh form an accident when you were a kid.” – I really hope this is right or I’m going to look a bit silly – “I know this because you’re the reincarnation of my dead wife and I spend a lot of time obsessing over you and you spend a lot of time letting me. I also think I’ve somehow fallen into an alternate dimension so I know who you are, but you don’t recognize me. I just want to go home, and I’m not going to hurt you. Okay?”

I can feel Sigmund’s mind turning over; I release it, pull back feeling a little uncomfortable at being in there in the first place. Eventually he nods – he’s seen the same movies I have, I guess – and I let him go. He stumbles forward a little but doesn’t run, instead turns to look at me. He’s still afraid, but I recognize his expression as more curious now, and I sidestep slightly so I’m in better light.

Eventually, he says; “Actually my middle name’s Ivan and the scar is on my stomach.”

“… oh. I was close.” I shrug; I’m not a guy for subtle movements, and when you’re a seven foot tall demon thing, an exaggerated shrug can look pretty threatening in bad lighting to the wrong person.

“What the shit is going on here?” It’s a woman’s voice, and I don’t recognize it. This doesn’t bother me overmuch. The sound of the safety being clicked on a gun, however, does.

Why does the wrong person always happen to me?

Cool, seven foot demno thingy. Very good. I want some more. Who are you, or what are you? Continue, continue.

ok, fanx ... i barely remember what happens lol ... i haven't thought about this story in a while ...

Prologue: London Calling

London, England, was a city Joseph was not unfamiliar with. He had spent a great many years of his long life in this part of the world, and rather enjoyed it. He stopped in every now and then to relax, and remember the way things were long ago. However, this time, he was here on more serious business. The Coven, a group of witches who had made this city their home for a great many years – centuries, even – had summoned him. In their previous incarnations, Joseph had had few dealings with the group, but over the last fifty or so years he had become a close ally of their circle, and their leader in particular. She was the oldest of the group, nearly one hundred and fifty years of age, though she only appeared to be sixty at most. She was very powerful and knowledgeable, and when she sounded as serious as she had Joseph knew that the matter was dire.

He had been on the trail of a Fallen in Madrid when he received the vision – as that was mostly how the coven communicated with him – and had been forced to give up the search to answer this call. So now, he was waiting in Piccadilly Circus, hiding in plain site as a transient. His blackened eyes were covered by thick sunglasses; his jagged, bony claws were hidden beneath old mittens. A toque and a large sweater concealed the rest. He sat underneath the statue of Eros, watching the people go about their day. Several people had offered him money, but he had refused. He wasn’t going to take what he didn’t need. He would have gone straight to The Coven, but they had an irritating little habit of moving around the city.

I guess when you dabble in as much magic as they do, it’s best to not stay in one place, Joseph thought. Who knows whom they’ve pissed off in the past.

From the crowd, Joseph saw a younger woman walk towards him. She was cloaked; blond hair spilled out from under her hood, which shadowed her face. Joseph could feel her coming before he had seen her. The cloak itself was stylish, and not too out of place among the other people. She stood next to him, and he looked up.

“Iosefiel,” she said, and he winced.

“Please don’t call me that. It’s an old title I never earned nor cared for. It’s just Joseph.”

“So you are Joseph of God.”

“That’s me,” he said, after sighing.

“Please, follow me,” she said, and turned away. He stood, stretched, and made his way along behind her.

––

The house was old, and decorated with quite a few antiques and artifacts. Joseph could feel the power of the place surround him; it was like walking through a field of static electricity. Heavy curtains hung over the windows, and low wattage bulbs lit the room – the modern equivalent to candlelight. Once he had gotten inside, he had discarded his disguise; it was uncomfortable, moving about like that, and he didn’t like it one whit. The woman, whose name was Bethany, had led him from Piccadilly to this house, and now he waited for the leader of the Coven, Catharine, to speak to him. He lounged comfortably in a couch that must have been over seventy years old; one of the women brought him a cup of tea, which he accepted with thanks. Finally, the old woman made her way down the stairs, and Joseph stood when she entered the room. Two more women followed her. They were not old, but not young either. The ages of the women in The Coven varied widely; such things were unimportant. It was the responsible use of their power and dedication to their craft that mattered to them. Catharine smiled when she saw Joseph, who opened his arms and bowed slightly.

“It is a pleasure, Catharine, to see you again and be in your lovely home,” he said, as he did every time he stopped in to see the group. She sat in a chair opposite a small table that was next to the couch. He followed suit.

“It is good to see you too, Joseph, especially so soon after having called you.”

“It sounded like quite the urgent matter,” he said, cutting to the chase. She nodded.

“It’s definitely serious. We… we found something, Joseph. Something not of this world.”

“A Fallen?”

“If it were a Fallen, Joseph, I would not be this concerned. Even Usiel would be nothing compared to this. When I say it’s not of this world… it’s probably more accurate to say it may not even be of this reality,” she replied, and Joseph became concerned.

“What is it?”

“We don’t know. It feels so different from anything we’ve even read about.”

“Tell me what you do know. Everything,” he said gravely.

––

It was nightfall when Joseph left the small house, which suited him just fine as it would be easier to move around. His mind was on overdrive, running everything the Coven had told him through his thoughts. Whatever it was, they had felt it suddenly appear here, in this plane, and it was powerful. They knew it had entered in New York City, and worked as a group to sense deeper, reach farther, and discover more.

In doing so, they had alerted the thing to their presence, and it had made a direct trip to London. When they felt that the creature was in London, they had erected a powerful cloaking spell, the strongest they could do, but Catharine had been wary. She wasn’t sure it would work, and had summoned Joseph. They had only been able to glean a few things from their brief contact with the creature; age, violence, pain, and old power. Whether it still had that power or not they couldn’t tell, it was too hard to read. Joseph wasn’t going to take any chances, however, and promptly began to hunt. But first… first, he wanted to hit the pub.

––

The Black Boarwas exactly the same as Joseph remembered it. Same lighting, same dark wood throughout, and the same clientele and barmaid. Joseph let the heavy oak door to the demon pub close loudly behind him, and his boots heavy on the wooden steps leading down to the main floor. The pub was relatively empty, with just a few demons in the back playing darts, the pretty woman serving the drinks, and the lean man drinking them. Joseph made his way over to them – Risika and Damien, respectively – and leant against the bar when he got there. They regarded him with a sense of respect and fear. Risika put down the mug she had been cleaning and smiled welcomingly. She was half elf, and it showed, though what the other half was she would never say. Her skin was a light brown, and her fine Indian features made her the most attractive part of this place. Which is why, of course, Damien always sat where he did. He ran a hand through his scruffy black hair, and looked at Joseph with eyes as dark as the hunter’s.

“Aye, now look who it is,” Damien said, his Scottish accent thick.

“Hello Damien. Risika,” Joseph said, nodding his head.

“What are you doing here? Word was you were in Spain,” asked Risika. Joseph folded his arms over his chest.

“That’s actually why I’ve come,” he said, looking to one of the pub’s booths. “Come with me, I need to ask you some things.”

The trio made their way over to the booth, Risika removing her apron before she came out from behind the bar. Once they were seated, Joseph leaned in closer to them. He sat lengthwise along one side of the booth; Damien and Risika sat side by side on the other.

“I’ve just been to the Coven’s, and they tell me some very disconcerting news. I know a lot of information passes through here; I need to know if anything unusual has been happening.”

Damien and Risika looked at each other, and she spoke first.

“Well, there was a fellow who passed in here not long ago. Maybe a matter of a few days. Odd accent, couldn’t place it. He sounded American, but…”

“But also much older,” Damien finished.

“Yes, definitely,” she agreed, “I didn’t like the feel of him when he came in, but a patron’s a patron, and I served him like any other. He drank whisky; only that, and a great deal of it. But he didn’t even come close to being drunk.”

“What did he look like?”

“Orange hair, big time bright. The rest was kinda flashy. You know the stuff these kids wear to the underground clubs,” said Damien. Joseph nodded.

“And you said you could feel him?”

“Aye, same as I can feel you, mate. Looked off, and had some power in ‘im. You’ll know it when you find him.”

“And why was he here?”

“He was looking for the Coven,” Risika said darkly.

“Do you know where he is?” Joseph asked.

Risika and Damien shared another look.

––

Thunder cracked overhead as Joseph made his way along the rooftops of the city. It had begun pouring rain shortly after he had left the pub, and he sloughed through it as best he could. He had made his way to where Risika and Damien had said their odd person could be found – apparently there was a certain part of the city he was often sighted in, but Joseph’s search had pulled up nothing. He leapt across another gap, and stopped, sniffing the air. The rain had cloaked the scent, but it was there; old, and smelling of earth. He was being followed. Not wanting to give away the fact that he knew this, he quickly continued on his way. It was easy to feel, now, easy to track the scent that was following him. Joseph smirked and made his way back down to solid ground. The sound of rain splashing off of water was quite loud, and the thunder didn’t help. Joseph stood on Westminster Bridge and waited for his new friend to present himself. Joseph watched warily as whomever this person was made their appearance – rather dramatically, really, as he was only visible in the flash of some lightning, and was then hidden once more. Joseph shouted into the wind and water.

“Who are you?” he bellowed, and was shocked when a hand clamped down on his shoulder. He spun around and looked into bright green eyes.

“Ganking my line, huh?” said the young man, before grabbing Joseph by the shoulders, holding him steady. Joseph immediately shrugged him off.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Oh gee, I’m so sorry. I’ll play nice.”

“I think you really should tell me who you are and what you’re doing here,” Joseph growled, and the young man looked at him warily. Joseph thought he saw him twitch; it was enough to set him in motion.

“Why are you following me?”

Joseph didn’t respond, instead bringing up his legs and kicking the young man away. Joseph hit the ground and rolled away; the man did the same. Joseph watched as he crouched on all fours, and laughed. Joseph could sense some power about him, something – as the Coven had told him – otherworldly. Joseph hopped to his feet and resumed a fighting stance; still laughing, he watched as the man’s body seemed to elongate, and change. Joseph watched as legs went digigrade and clawed, as hair got wilder, as a tail stretched outwards, as wings spread from his back. When the man stood again, he stood was at least seven feet tall. His eyes glowed a toxic green in the darkness, and lightning flashed. He’d grown a coat of mauve fur, and his wingspan was massive, the wings themselves were tattered like Joseph’s. Joseph shrugged it off.

“Shapeshifter, huh?” Joseph said, throwing himself at his opponent. Joseph slashed with his claws and the creature dodged every blow; Joseph flipped and bent his way out of the path of each counter-attack. The fight itself looked more like a dance, with each participant moving so gracefully it looked rehearsed. Finally the pair broke off, putting some distance between each other.

“What do you want with The Coven?” Joseph yelled, his long hair slicked and sticking to his face.

“What do they want with me?” came the reply, “Look kid, you’ll have to find some other member of your freak club to get sweaty with, because… I gotta fly.” Joseph watched as the creature took to the sky, flapping those great ruined wings. The lightning helped to make this an even more impressive sight. Growling, Joseph ran full speed towards it, and jumped as the thing turned to go. He managed to grab the tail, and held on as best he could. The creature yelled when one of Joseph’s claws lodged itself into the thick meaty base of the appendage, and it looked over its shoulder.

“What the fuck is your damage, man?” it growled, and Joseph gripped harder as it tried to shake him off. They were higher up over the bridge now, and Joseph didn’t much feel like falling the distance over the solid concrete. He slid himself up further along the tail, and then wrapped an arm around the thing’s neck and shoulder. Joseph thought he saw the thing wince at this contact.

“What are you?” Joseph screamed again, and the thing bared its teeth. Joseph noticed that it had stitches over its lips that stretched as it did so.

“Very, very fucking pissed,” it said, and slashed Joseph across the side. Joseph grimaced and slammed his belted forearm against the side of the creature’s face. The two began to fall, scratching and striking at each other as the thing tried to stay aloft, lightning and thunder and rain getting their blows in as well. Finally, the creature got a handful of Joseph’s tattered wings, and he screamed; pain shot up from the sensitive membranes and throughout his back. His grip went slack and he released his hold on the creature, which in turn released his ruined wing. As Joseph fell, he felt a powerful hand grip him by the ankle and fling him through the air. Still wracked with pain, he could only mutter a protest before he struck the cold water of the Thames. Willing himself through the pain, he clawed his way back towards the surface of the water. He gasped loudly and thrashed in the rough tide, coughing water out of his lungs and looking for the thing.

Another flash of lightning showed it standing on the bridge, leaning with his hands on the guardrail and looking perplexed as he watched Joseph. Looking like he was trying to recall some old, small memory. And then it was gone, and Joseph was left to bob in the water.

ok, well no one is responding, so i'll just keep posting lol, oh well

Chapter 1: All Trespassers

Joseph stepped forward first, gently drawing back the dark velvet curtain and moving into the small room. Miriah cautiously stepped in after him, watching the way they had come; she had drawn neither of her pistols, but she kept a tight grip on them should the need for their use arise. Music from the club, whose name Miriah could not recall even though she had thought it sounded cool – something French – pulsed steadily towards them. They had to pass through the club to get here, and somehow they had both been relatively unnoticed by the crowd inside, mostly teens and young adults; the usual clientele for these places. They were pretty unique-looking in their own right, so Miriah chalked their easy passage up to that.

After all, it was either that, or somehow the sight of a topless, belt-strapped, clawed, blue-haired man-demon leading a Chinese girl wearing a smile-emblazoned long cap and a gun belt was more common that she wanted to believe; she prided herself on her unique style.

“Well, Joseph, it’s not nice to keep secrets. What are we looking at here?” Miriah asked, casting a quick glance about the room. Joseph stood in the center, inspecting what they had found. He tapped his claws lightly on the iron shelves that jutted from the walls, peering curiously at the rather large amount of rather ordinary items that lined them. To his left, at the end of the room, was an industrial incinerator. Neither of them liked the fact that it was there, as neither had a definite idea of what its ultimate purpose may be. Joseph picked up a small teddy bear, turned it over a few times in his hands (if you could call the sets of three curved claws that poked through the belts over his forearms and wrists ‘hands’), and set it back where he had found it. Miriah examined another set of these shelves, taking notice of a plain white bra. The cup size wasn’t very large; smaller even than Miriah’s, which wasn’t very large either. Her back was to Joseph as he mused aloud.

“Well… I know what it looks like, though if these are offerings they aren’t very distinct ones,” he said, continuing his investigation, “Looks like some kind of altar, really. Though I haven’t seen one like it in a very long time.”

“Bearing in mind that my idea of ‘a very long time’ is quite different from yours…?” Miriah said, prompting Joseph to be more concise.

“This is stuff that I thought died out when they would burn you for it, really. I remember a day when people were smote for this kind of worship.”

“So it is worship, then. Joe, I’m not too keen on fighting a god if we happen to come across one. Tell me better news,” she said, practically white-knuckling her pistol grips.

“I don’t think this is really any particular god.”

“That’s a nice start.”

“Nah, it doesn’t smell like one. Power, yeah. But it smells like something that’s faded over time. May have been a god once,” he said, looking over the incinerator. It was still warm; something had been burned not long ago. Miriah looked at him incredulously.

“Doesn’t… smell? You’ve got a scent?” she asked.

“Yeah. Relatively strong, too. You probably smell it and don’t realize it. We may have just missed it.”

“As long as we’ve missed it, fine by me,” Miriah mumbled. Joseph turned to her.

“Haven’t you been doing this for a while now? What are you so damn skittish for now?” he said, impatiently. Miriah turned from the door, craning her neck to look up at him.

“Why am I skittish? Gee Joe, let’s think real hard about that! You call on me at 2 a.m. back in NY, tell me it’s an urgent matter but you don’t bother to tell me what that matter is, you drag me around the world – where, thanks to you, I had to spend sixteen hours surrounded by small children who decided to see if they could wail continuously for hours on end while you chilled with cargo – and now we’re here, standing in a room full of trinkets and a large burner, discussing the possibility of coming face-to-face with a god. Now, I know you’re special, but I haven’t exactly got superpowers going for me. If I had known this was what I was here for, I would have told you to grab your coven friends! Seriously man, what the shit am I here for?” she bellowed, frantically waving her hands in emphasis; it was as she emphasized ‘shit’ that one hand flew too far and fast, and sent a small crystal ball flying from its perch on a shelf. The pair watched it float for a microsecond or two, and then plummet toward the ground… only to be snatched out of the air by a clawed, mauve hand before it could shatter on the floor.

Attached to this hand was an arm, also mauve, with fur in places; the arm, of course, attached to a body that ended up being around seven feet high, dressed in leather and scars. Joseph and Miriah stared at the creature as it rather gracefully rolled the ball along its fingers before replacing it on its stand on the shelf. Dead-looking eyes regarded them coldly; a rather good-sized tail flickered behind it.

“I know you!” It came as if on cue. Joseph and Miriah looked at each other amazed.

“You… how?” Joseph asked.

“Central Park, about three weeks ago. Saw him going after some boy! How…?” she replied.

“London, a week ago. This is my urgent business,” he said.

“Wonderful. I find the one tether to my own fucking dimension and look who I run into; Hat-girl and the walking Geek-show,” it grumbled from between stitched lips. They stretched to fit the words; the effect was as off-putting to Miriah now as it was weeks before. She grimaced. “Always the wrong people.”

It just gets better and better. Plus, I found the perfect music genre to listen to while reading it. Very interesting. Nice twist.

wee, fanx ... i'll post more later ... U GET POODLE POINTS!

kk, well i gotta go ... but i'll post chappy two,

Chapter 2: Wishroom

Despite everything, the Nortcha Drif was still there. Which surprised me no end, seeing as how back in my reality I own the place – or at least one of Travis Hale’s many investment portfolios owns the land – and, as far as I’ve been able to thus far tell, I don’t exist in this dimension. Not that I’ve looked particularly hard; fifty years of watching sci-fi movies has given me the distinct impression that, should I in fact meet my alternate self, the universe may just implode. Or not, but why risk it? And, when it comes down to it, I just don’t really like myself all that much anyhow.

But the Drif is here, and I suppose that’s a… sign of some kind. I walk in almost hesitantly and the first thing I notice is that I’m not alone. There’s something else in here, a power. One I’ve met before, and one I’m not particularly enthused to meet again.

His name is Joseph, and we spent some time ripping the shit out of each other in London a week or so ago. Was fun, as far as bloody airborne dogfights go. He’s also a mate of the purple haired girl from the park when I first got here. And I know this, you see, because after that fight in London I realized I’d seen him before, though it took me a while to work out where exactly. As much as she loathes the sight of me, I’ve been in Dee’s room exactly once; on one wall she’s got a bunch of printed out drawings stuck up, one of them is a pin-up piece from some webcomic series or other. On it, sketched in glorious Westmanga Technicolor, are my two newest friends. They look a bit different in three-d, but it’s them. Joseph the demon and Miriah the purple-haired Harajuku fashion victim.

Urban Mythica, I remember, because I thought it was an amusing description of my own life. It suddenly doesn’t seem so funny anymore. Not that I’m not perfectly capable of handling myself in a scrap but, well, it’s not really about that. It’s about going home, and how I’d like to do it now please.

Gods give off shitloads of supernatural vibes, as you can probably imagine, but they’re not that hard to mask if you know a few tricks; and if there’s one person who knows about tricks it’s me. Hell, I spent fifty years hiding from Baldr and the minions of New Ásgard, so I figure I can fool a demon or two. I follow Joseph’s ley, standing out vibrant blue against the murky dullness of the humans around him. It’s with a kind of drawing horror that I realize where he is, when I notice the ley folds right in behind the black velvet curtain tucked away at the back of the Drif.

The wishroom. My very own suburban temple of me. The Drif being here is one thing, but the wishroom… technically I suppose it existed before I found it. But the thought’s not as comforting as I think it should be.

Voices are wafting out from behind the curtain; I recognize both and am not at all surprised. Purple and blue, always the wrong people…

“–call on me at 2 am back in NY, tell me it’s an urgent matter but you don’t bother to tell me what that matter is, you drag me around the world – where, thanks to you, I had to spend 16 hours surrounded by small children who decided to see if they could wail continuously for hours on end while you chilled with cargo – and now we’re here, standing in a room full of trinkets and a large burner, discussing the possibility of coming face-to-face with a god.”

Ooh gosh, she’s playing my tune. Park-girl is sounding a bit freaked out, and good on her. I wonder if she realizes she’s already met her god. On the other hand, if she hasn’t… well, I don’t really want to think about that one, either.

It’s time to say hi to the natives, I step silently through the curtain and drop my human seeming – no point not being recognized in your big entrance – just in time to find myself eyeball to glass with a flying crystal ball, apparently sent off it’s shelf by Parkie in her spasm of god-fearing.

I catch it, of course. It almost beats my previous idea of sneaking up yelling “boo!”.

I love drama.

I like the way you've transitioned between characters. It enables us to see whats going on through two different personalities. And the changes flows, even though it's started by a new chapter. I applaud you. Great story.

wee, fanx

Chapter 3: Obligatory Conflict

“This thing! This is it?” Miriah said, slumping her shoulders and chuckling in disbelief. The newcomer looked somewhat put out by this reaction. “I saw this thing in Central Park back a few weeks ago! It’s a god?” she asked, turning to Joseph.

“It was, once. If it isn’t still,” he replied. The creature in question, displeased at being spoken of as though it weren’t present, stepped forward.

“‘Isn’t still’!” it huffed, sounding to Miriah less intimidating and more annoyed.

“What kind of god takes a kid hostage when he’s got a gun on him, then?” Miriah asked; she thought she saw its eyes roll in response, though she wasn’t all that keen on looking on the thing’s face.

“Oh not this bollocks again,” it growled at her, tail twitching noticeably; Joseph kept an eye on it, as his ribs hadn’t yet forgotten the bruising it had given them days before. The creature watched as Miriah’s fingers twitched above her weapons; it didn’t need any more holes in its body, after all. “Now, as flattering as your interest in me isn’t…” it started, moving towards the pair. Miriah, still edgy, grabbed one of her pistols. Faster than either Joseph or Miriah could have anticipated it, the thing’s thick tail had smacked it out of her grip before she could even pull back the hammer. Joseph was the next target, with the tail coming down heavily on his neck as the creature turned on its feet. He buckled underneath its weight as it relieved Miriah of her second pistol. Coming up from the blow, Joseph scraped his claws along the rather substantial tail, digging in a grip that made the creature furious. With a tug that deprived him of some flesh, it freed itself and faced the demon. Miriah, who had begun to reach for her wayward pistols, was slammed out of the wish room courtesy of what Miriah felt was an increasingly irritating tail. She cursed loudly in Chinese as she tumbled back into the club.

“Now, Joseph,” the thing said, reveling in the shocked look on the demon’s face when his name had been spoken, “as fun as this is and London wasn’t, I really must dash. Perhaps we can talk this out over coffee sometime.”

Joseph stepped forward, but the creature was already out of the door and into the club; apparently it wasn’t bothering to exit in whatever disguise it had entered with, as there were quite a few gasps and yells from the adjacent room. Joseph followed, kicking Miriah’s guns to her as she wearily tried to get up.

“We have to go. Now,” he said, and began to push through what was becoming an increasingly panicked crowd. Joseph cursed the effectiveness and unexpectedness of this obstruction. His own appearance didn’t help, sending the people who had missed the first monster into frenzy at the sight of the second one. Miriah groggily trotted behind him, pushing through the club’s clientele.

People milled out of the entrance, giving a wide berth first to the creature, who promptly took to a more vertical route, and then to Joseph, who clawed his way up the stone of the building in pursuit. Miriah followed, and watched as they both disappeared onto the rooftops.

“I’ll just wait here, then?” she shouted after them, crossing her arms and sitting on the sidewalk. The long tail of her hat fell over her face, the attached bell jingling quietly. She couldn’t be bothered to move it. “Yeah. That went well.”

Chapter 4: Gods and Monsters

My first thought is I’ve got to get out of here. By here, of course, I mean this whole fucking dimension.

My second thought is that my tail hurts. It’s slowing me down more than it looks like it should, but only to someone who’s never actually had one. It’s hard to balance with it injured, so my rooftop chase is slightly more wobbly than it should be. But I’m still faster; I’ve outrun worse things in my life than this, and of course unlike my pursuer, this is my city. That I’ve lived and built around me for forty odd years, and it’s not called Pandemonium for no reason.

It was called that before I got here, incidentally; comes from the dog days of the old coal mine, now disused after a group of miners found something older than themselves in the deep dark and went berserk, murdering the rest of the town. Or so the story goes. The place was abandoned for twenty years until the mine was reopened in the forties, and since then supernatural evils – bar yours truly – have been few and far between. Which is to say non-existent, and I didn’t get here until the late fifties. My first business was, unsurprisingly, all about coal. I was good at coal, earth and fire; right up my alley. In the eighties the black lung was starting to become unpopular, so we closed the mine down for good, and got into tech. I was good at that, too; electricity is fire and air, silicone is earth, and the industry had such a vibrancy and nonconformist spirit about it. Tech made me rich in the way coal never could dream of, and so I built my city.

The place is still the same as it always was, though this time I wasn’t here to build it. Odd, but not so odd that I’m going to spend a great deal of time angsting about it, because as fun as trips down memory lane are, I’m still getting chased across rooftops by a raging blue-haired demon.

Right, that.

There’s one other thing about Pandemonium City, and that’s Golgotha. It’s a hill, barren and ash grey. Common thought has that it was a slag heap from the old mine that the expanding city just grew around. Which is rubbish, of course, because it’s not anywhere near the old mine for starters, and nature is pretty tenacious and as far as these things go a slag heap isn’t too bad a place to grow a few weeds. Golgotha Hill has nothing except one dead ash tree, and that’s the big fat hint about what it is. A place of death, sure, but half my family is death in some guise or other so that doesn’t scare me. At the moment it’s just a good, open space to do what I’m about to do.

The closer we get to the hill the slummier the houses become. This is the sort of place Lovecraft would have had a field day with, with it’s destitute, shambling population and promise of dark horrors hidden in crumbling tenements. I wait patiently for the lightning to start up.

Getting Joseph to follow me out this far has been a bit of a challenge, but I’m the master of bait and switch, slowing down at just the right times, getting into short scraps to keep his interest, leading him on like a rabbit before a greyhound. It works, and suddenly there are no more houses to jump between, instead my claws are scrabbling against dead alien soil.

There’s a slight shift in the air. I think demon-boy notices it, because he looks slightly worried. I’m just happy my gamble has paid off, and I turn to face him.

“We’re not in Midgard anymore, Toto,” I growl in my best dramatic voice.

Joseph hesitates, “What–”

But I’m not here for the witty banter – at least not anyone else’s witty banter – and I slam into him before he can finish. And this time, I really fight.

Did I mention I don’t have to obey the laws of physics? Especially not here.

Joseph has no real option but the one I’ve given him; to flee further up the hill. I can see he wants to head back to the houses, back to normality, but I keep cutting him off. He’s a smart cookie and realizes he’s being herded, but what else can he do? He might be a demon, but I’m still a god, and this is my turf.

Another few hundred yards backwards and we’re where I want to be; the lone dead ash tree looming up behind us like a Tim Burton nightmare. Joseph standing right beneath it, panting heavily and slightly the worse for wear. I let him take in the tree, approaching slowly, unconcerned. He’s frightened, but is doing a good job of pretending not to be. Good man.

And now it’s time to wax lyrical. “Spooky, isn’t it? Say hello to one of the branches of Yggdrasil, the tree that connects the worlds. Imagine my surprise when I found it here of all places.” I walk up, past Joseph, and place my hand on the withered bark. It feels like dry corpse-flesh and sounds like the whispering of a thousand worlds. Oh yes, this will work.

“Since this is my exposition time, I’m going to go out on a limb,” slight pause for pun effect, though Joseph doesn’t seem to notice, “and pretend you don’t know the story. This tree has power, kid, and I know you can feel it too. That power is knowledge; this tree is everywhere, anywhere and always. It sees, and it knows, everything there is to know. But that knowledge is in here” – I rap on the bark for effect, it makes a hollow sound – “and not in here” – I point to my temple.

Joseph’s blank black eyes widen slightly. I start circling gently.

“I see you see my problem. The tree doesn’t give up it’s secrets easily, it needs to be coaxed. The word yggdrasil has a connotation something a bit akin to ‘gallows horse’. You’re a bright kid, I’m sure, you can work it out. I hate to put you though it, I really do, but it was either you or the girl and, let’s face it, I don’t think she would’ve survived. This is a place for gods and monsters, not little girls no matter how tough. So…”

My voice is hypnotic, it’s deliberate, and Joseph doesn’t realize the exposition for what it is until his back hits the tree itself. He gasps, starts to dive but it’s too late.

“Let’s go for a ride.”

In the same movement I reach into the bark of the tree, almost surprised to find what I’m looking for is still here. But then again, these things always have a way of working themselves out. I pull the spear – rotted and rusting – from it’s hiding place, and thrust it low, driving it through the demon’s side and straight into the bark of the tree. The momentum brings me forward and crashing into his claws, which I feel slide deep between my ribs and into the organs beneath.

That’s going to smart in the morning.

All I want to do is go home.

––

Three days and three nights, at the end of which I wake, sick and sore at the base of the mountain, and promptly throw up. There’s no sign of the spear, but then again I didn’t expect that there would be, and the pain wracking my body comes from knowledge, not from any external wounds which have long since healed – if they existed at all, it’s kind of hard to tell with these things.

The pain doesn’t recede, but I’m no stranger to it, and it doesn’t take me long to start ignoring it. Forcing my long-blind eyes back into focus, I search for Joseph; I don’t have to look very far. The tree spat him back out too, which is good. He’s also still alive, as far as I can tell, which is better. Most importantly, he’s unconscious, and probably will be for a few days at least. This sort of things knocks me around, and I know how to do it right. Anything that means I don’t have to get into another fight right away is a good thing in my books.

Above all, however, is that I know how to get home.

“Come on, kid,” I growl to Joseph, slinging his body across my back. He’s deadweight heavy, and every inch of me protests at carrying him, but some sacrifices you just make.

The trip across town is not a particularly enjoyable one, and more than once I wish I had an Elijah in this place to bring my goddamn limo over. But we can’t always have what we want, so I walk, dragging and carrying Joseph all the way.

I’m looking for Miriah. After Joseph didn’t return to the club she put herself up in a nearby hotel – the Lakeview Apartments – and started searching. She’s pretty fucking frantic by now, but that’s what you get. I know this, incidentally, because the World Tree doesn’t give help in half-measures. Miriah and Joseph are my keys for getting out of here, like I figured they would be. It’s like an episode of fucking Quantum Leap or something, and I’m somehow not surprised.

Since I can’t exactly carry Joseph in through the front way, I take the fire escape up to Miriah’s window, which is conveniently open. Actually, it probably wasn’t, but that’s the wonderful thing about being a god.

The window opens into the living room, and I hear the sound of the shower running from the next room. Hilarious. Joseph finds himself arranged neatly on the couch, and I practically fall into the armchair next to it. I’m about ready to sleep for the next month, and feel somewhat aggrieved that this is not an option. I take my aggravation out on some luckless hotel matches, lighting them with a glare – it’s harder than it should be – and burning them right down to my fingers.

I get through about half the book before I hear the door to the bathroom open. I don’t bother looking up, not even at the shriek and the sound of the gun’s hammer.

“I really don’t suggest you do that,” I say, raising my eyes finally. Miriah is standing, damp and wearing nothing but a towel, with a gun leveled straight at my head. What is it with humans and guns? I level all my godly irritation at her and she stands, frozen, by my gaze.

“I’ve had a particularly shitty three days, and I’m not feeling tip-top, but I can still stop a bullet and I can still take you down and you damn well know it. So put that thing down.”

There are a tense few moments until, slowly, she does – though there isn’t really much choice – and her hands go to the edge of the towel where it wraps around her bust, a charmingly nervous gesture.. or would be in other circumstances. Her gaze flickers to Joseph.

“He’s fine,” I say. “Or will be.”

“W-what do you want?” her voice quavers only slightly, though now she’s managed to drag her eyes from mine she wisely doesn’t return them. I do her the favor of toning down all the divine power bullshit – she almost visibly sighs as the presence retreats. I’m here to help, after all.

“Honestly? I just want to go home. Unfortunately, the thing that’s keeping me here is you – no, not like that, leave the goddamn gun alone.” I sigh, which seems to sound human enough that Miriah’s eyes flick up to me for a moment. Good. I play the effect up, leaning an elbow on the couch and rubbing my forehead tiredly. It’s not entirely and act, either. “It’s pop-sci-fi cliché; I fall into some stupid parallel dimension, and the only thing that will send me back is fixing some problem. See, for a while I thought it was Sigmund who brought me here, but it wasn’t; it was you,” I emphasize it by looking right at her.

“B-but I didn’t–”

I wave her off. “Probably not deliberately, but you know how these things are. A wish and a prayer and all that.”

She nods, and I see she does understand. Good.

“So, it’s time to do some DIY work on your life. Congratulations, kid, you’ve got yourself your own personal god.”

Oh, that sounds like fun... having your own personal god.
The story is good. I hope you have more comming.

teehee, let's just say the ending of the person god thing is not expected, so just be prepared for a ... surprise ...

Chapter 5: The Oddest Teatime

It was, by far, the oddest teatime Miriah had ever endured. Across from her, a god. Behind him, unconscious on the sofa, the wounded demon Joseph. And her, dressed in black save for the white skull of the Punisher on her t-shirt and the deep brown of her gun belt, serving tea for the two who could drink it.

“So… it’s like a Quantum Leap thing then? You can’t piss off until something important changes?” Miriah said, sitting with her cup. The god seemed a bit taken aback at the reference, but nodded all the same. “And… you’re sure I’m the reason?” It had to have been the fifth time Miriah asked the question, and the god, whose name she had discovered was Loki Laufeyjarson – she stuck with Loki for simplicity’s sake – grew visible tired of answering it.

Miriah hadn’t liked that name when she heard it. She’d read enough about the Old Gods and Thor comics that Loki was not particularly trustworthy. Words like trickster, deceiver, cunning, and bad green spandex outfit – thank you, Marvel, for that lovely rendition – sprung to mind, and none of them were particularly good. And here he was, sitting before her. Bound to her.

She didn’t completely buy it.

So there they sat, the pair of them, Miriah on the kitchen counter, Loki in the chair she’d found him in. She sipped her drink, watching. Mm, awkward, she thought

“You have to understand, not only is this entirely improbable”– she knew it was not impossible, as it was happening after all –”but I haven’t the faintest fucking idea of where to even begin. My life is full of problems, you see. Lots of little holes that might need plugging. When you’ve stared down the barrel of an apocalypse or two, you kinda stop keeping track of the things that get fucked, you know?” she said, setting aside her cup and tying her hair back.

“Then we’ll figure it out. Even if it takes all century. Though I’ve got a stockholder’s meeting in ‘04 I really can’t miss…” Loki mused, maintaining his composure. Miriah blinked at him.

“Dude, that was, like… almost a decade ago. Where have you been? It’s 2011,” Miriah said, half giggling. Loki tapped his fingers on the armrests of his seat.

“Fan-bloody-tastic,” he said, taking some amusement in this fact. Not a whole lot, but some. When something’s funny, you have to laugh, even if it’s something you didn’t particularly like to hear. He turned his attention back to Miriah, opened his mouth to continue, and stopped. Miriah quirked an eyebrow; it almost looked like he was listening to a voice only he could hear. He turned his attention to Joseph, shook his head, and then returned his gaze to Miriah.

“There’s magic about you,” he said, like it was some matter of importance. Miriah blinked.

“Well that’s… uh… sweet, I guess?” she replied, and he leveled his gaze at her pistols.

“I thought it was only Edward Scissorhands I felt,” he said, “but looks like that was wrong. Why…?”

“What, these?” she said, following his gaze. She drew the revolvers and spun them around her fingers, cowboy-style. “Yeah, but it’s nothing special. Simple return spell, really. Didn’t know it when I had them made, but the gunsmith put a whammy on ‘em. Bound them to me. Try as I might – and believe me, I did try, years ago – I can’t get rid of them,” she said, replacing them in their holsters.

“I should have picked up on them sooner. A lot sooner,” Loki mused.

“No worries. Everyone slips up,” she offered.

“I don’t,” he replied.

here's more cuz i'm going soon ...

Chapter 6: Teatime of the Gods

“May I see one?”

Miriah kind of blinks at that, startled. I give off a frustrated sort of huff. “Oh for my sake I’m not going to shoot you. Unload it if you must.”

She, quite amusingly, does, handing me one by the handle. I have to lean forward to grab it, and she jerks a bit when a my fingers come into brief contact with her. No trust. I think I’m too used to working with Sigmund and the girls. Even Dee’s deep intrinsic loathing of me never manifested itself as fear or mistrust. At least not in anything that mattered. Such as her life.

The gun is strange, big and almost cartoonish, but I’ve no doubt quite effective. The spell woven across it is fairly simple, as far as these things go. Although, considering I spend most of my time attempting to unravel a spell set to bind a god, perhaps I’m not the best judge. I pick at one of the shining white strands that make up the spell, run a claw along it as it spreads, umbilical-like, back to Miriah. She watches, cock-eyed, and I suppose I look kind of weird to anyone who can’t see the actual leys themselves. Waving my arms around in the air like I’m performing some kind of interpretive dance.

I hold my left hand out in front of me and fire at it experimentally. Miriah starts at the muffled gunshot that ensues, looks dartingly at the bullets she thought she’d unloaded. Don’t get me wrong, the gun is unloaded. But anyone who thinks that means a goddamn thing to me obviously doesn’t have much experience with the divine. A bullet is simple, and so is catching it in my other hand. Heat and speed; the skin on the palm of my hand sizzles and smolders with transferred kinetic energy, but the pain is neither here nor there.

Mostly I’m just showing off. I could kill you, if I wanted.

What I actually say is, “I can probably remove the enchantment, if you want.”

She shakes her head. “No. No I don’t think I do.”

I shrug. “Fair enough,” and hand it back to her. The first thing she does is check the chambers. All empty of course.

“How…?”

I grin lazily at her and hold out my left hand. Curious, she picks up the mashed pseudo-bullet there. It disintegrated into ash as soon as she touches it. “Guns shoot lead slugs; most people don’t really care how or why, only that it happens. Magic is just the exploitation of the unknown, and today we live in a world full of unknowns. More so than ever before. Guns and cars and TVs and telephones and computers… few people really know how all these things work. Oh, I can tell you that a TV works because it has a cathode ray tube inside that shoots little laser beams out onto specific spots to produce colour… but really, how different is that to saying I can produce an illusion by manipulating the photons in the air? Unknowns hold the world together, and where there’s an unknown… well, you know well enough I think.”

I stand up, wander lazily over to the small window – it’s locked – and look out over the city I didn’t build. “What do you know about me?”

“Enough not to trust you,” Miriah says behind me. “Loki is the name of the Norse trickster god. You lie and cheat and steal, not to mention bring on Ragnarök by killing, er… that guy.” She falters a bit on the name.

“Baldr Baldr Baldr,” I say, except it’s not really me that’s saying it. “It always comes back to Baldr. It’s never, ‘Good work on recovering Mjöllnir!’ or ‘Thanks for fucking a horse to spare Freyja’s precious non-honor!’–”

Miriah almost chokes. “Excuse me? You did what with a horse?”

I groan; this one’s always fun to explain. “You can’t tell me you don’t know the story?”– she shakes her head –”Alright, well, this was right back when we were first settling Ásgard after the war with Vanaheim. This guy comes up and tells us he’ll build a stronghold against the marauding thurs and trolls if we promise him the sun, the moon and Freyja. The Æsir agree on the condition that he does it in a single winter; if he doesn’t make it, he will take no payment, right? Obviously no-one thinks he can build something so big so fast, but he agrees as long as he has the help of his stallion, Svadilfari. Suddenly everyone’s asking me if this is a fair deal, as if I’d know jack shit about building walls, so I’m like ‘Yeah, whatever’. Aha, little did I know it was a magic stallion and suddenly there’s three days to go and it looks like our mystery builder friend is going to finish on schedule. So all the Æsir come back and are like, ‘Fuck you and your crappy advice, Loki, fix it or we’ll kill you, because there’s no way we’re going to pay’. Which I got a lot of, you know, and people accuse me of breaking oaths. Anyway, I’m sitting there trying to think of a way to disrupt this guy without technically breaking any oaths – which would reflect badly on the other Æsir, and we couldn’t possibly have that. Finally I think, well, if I can get his horse out of the way then he’s fucked. So I turn myself into a mare and lead this stallion Svadilfari into a merry chase off in the woods. Anyway, the end of the story is our builder friend doesn’t finish his wall and gets angry because he knows he’s been cheated, so he’s about to tear into the Æsir when lo and behold Thor comes home and smashes his head in, because that’s what Thor does to giants; oaths or no oaths. And then eight months later I give birth to Sleipnir because whoops apparently that’s what happens in these kinds of stories.”

Miriah just blinks, dumbstruck. “And that… really happened?”

“Yes, it really happened. Now you’ve heard my horse-fucking story I hope you’ve learnt something important about Æsir bearing oaths, because I sure as shit never did.” I ignore her giggling. I’ve had worse. “Anyway, the point is that no-one ever remembers anything constructive I’ve ever done, instead it’s always ‘Screw you for killing Baldr’, because apparently everyone nowadays has also forgotten that the Ragnarökk was supposed to be a good thing, ushering in a new age of happy flower picking and good will to all, not to mention that Baldr’s death was symbolic of his journey from innocent stupidity to wisdom and manhood. Bah.”

I turn back into the room. “Whatever you’ve heard about me is true and more besides. But it’s also utter crap. So while you’re sitting there, thinking bad thoughts about me, remember that I was bound to the Æsir like I’m bound to you, and everything I did, I did because I had to. I shoveled the shit no-one else wanted to, and I was fucking good at it. So doubt my honor all you like, but never ever doubt my loyalty. I’m bound to help, and so help me but I will. Whether you like it or not.”

Miriah starts slightly at the tirade, she can hear the difference in my voice I think. Feel the changed presence in the room. She blinks, just once. “Well…” she says finally. “There’s a terrifying thought.”

I push down the Ásgardian and try and regain some control over myself. For someone whose sliver tongue is supposed to be legendary, he can be pretty fucking abrasive at times.

“Sorry,” I say. “Remind me to tell you about my disorders some other time.” I give her a calculated self-mocking half-grin, and she returns it somewhat nervously.

“It’s okay,” she says. “I… understand.” And I’m pretty sure she does, too.

Hehe, he fucked a horse. This story is awesome. I can kinda see where it's going. Continue...

teehee, yes i shall warn you like i have ... i thought i knew where it was going when i was writing the beginning, but them came the chapter (chapter 31) to be exact that i decided to un-bore myself and i just made the biggest surpries in the world ... ur warned!

Chapter 7: Stroll

“Anyways, we won’t be getting anything done if we just sit here on our arses,” Miriah said, grabbing a messenger style bag from the floor and putting it on, “I’m fecking famished. Let’s get some eats and I’ll explain some things to you on the way. I have a feeling it’s stuff you may want to know. Will he…?” she started to ask, indicating to Joseph. Loki nodded.

“He’ll be okay,” he replied. Miriah forced herself to believe him.

“Well… ah… you can’t go out looking like that.”“

––

“So… what have they got, where you’re from?” Miriah asked, as the pair walked along a rather busy street. Pandemonium City reminded Miriah slightly of New York, but then again most large urban centers did. Loki – or Lain, as he called himself in this form – to blend in, had assumed a less conspicuous appearance; not a lot less, as his fiery orange-red braid and somewhat eccentric outfit would attest to. The last person Miriah had seen wear a mesh shirt was Eishi, but that had been years ago. The memory of Eishi caused a twinge of regret to go through her, but she quickly shook it off. No time to reflect on that, not right now.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked, looking down at her. Even in his shorter human form, he was taller than she was.

“Y’know… creatures. Uglies, big bads. Werewolves, vampires, zombies, sorcerers, aliens… what’cha got?” she asked. Lain-Loki scoffed.

“If people believe in them, I’m sure they exist. Me, I don’t really give a shit,” he said, “I’m far more busy with things like re-making the fucking world, for instance, to bother about who’s sucking whom.”

“Well excuse me all to hell. I was just curious,” Miriah shot back, sticking her tongue out at him when he looked away, “It’s kinda important to me, and if you’re here to help me it’s stuff you should start ‘‘giving a shit’ about. These things,” she motioned to the pistols that hung from her waist – a New York police badge also hung from the belt at this point, after they had been stopped by a couple of Pandemonium’s finest for her wearing them in public; it was more symbolic than anything, a deal she had hammered out with NYC Police Chief Charles O’Reilly to make her life easier - and smiled, “these things are what keep me from winding up on their chopping block.”

“Ah, but bullets don’t kill vampires, so…”

“Most of ‘em don’t, yeah,” she said, opening her bag, “Lesson the first, God, is this”– she pulled a quick loader out of the bag and held it up –”these are exploding tip rounds. Very expensive, and hard to use properly. You put one of these in a vamp’s face, his head will go with it. Just as good as decapitation.”

“You’d have to be a hell of a shot,” he replied, “like me. But for you it’d be like swatting flies with a pin.”

“They’re like anything else, enough practice and you’ll be able to do almost anything with one. Now, lesson the second is this,” she said, removing another quick loader from the bag, “these, my friend, are ironwood bullets. Incredibly dense wood, and even more expensive to procure than even the exploding tips. The wood is practically as heavy and dense as lead; it won’t float. In South America, it’s called quebracho; ‘axe breaker’. They can get deformed as hell on their way out of the barrel, but if you can put it in the chest”– she tapped his, to emphasize the point –”it doesn’t matter. Basically a rocket propelled stake,” she said, popping both loaders back in her sack. Loki nodded.

“I still don’t like them,” he said. She shrugged.

“Doesn’t change the fact that they’ve saved my life more than once.”

––

“Now here, we also have to deal more with Angels. Specifically the Fallen, as they’ve taken to calling themselves. The first one I met was named Ariel, in New York back in aught seven, and he was a bitch. Dominion over demons; may not be much to you, but you’ve probably always had that kind of power,” Miriah continued their lecture as they sat on a park bench; she held a hotdog in one hand, a Pepsi in the other. Lain-Loki had decided to pass on food at the moment, and listened to Miriah as she went on.

“Now angels, they can either be a blessing or a complete pain in the ass. I’ve only ever dealt with about three; Joseph has spent the better part of 1600 years going after the Fallen. I think he was worried you may have been one,” she said, “Every one of his scars–” she started, but Loki interrupted.

“Every one of his scars comes from some encounter with one of them, I know. I read the back of the DVD box. I particularly like his encounter with what’s-his-el… Usiel, that’s it. The one in Australia,” he said, as if he’d been there, seen it, and had the t-shirt, “to go up against something like that… not bad. It had abandoned its body, you know. Tried to ascend.”

Miriah just stared; even she didn’t know that story.

“Right… should I even bother getting into the stuff with Tara? Eishi? The Doppelganger?” she asked. Loki simply shook his head.

“No, apparently Yggdrasil thought that was all stuff I needed to know.”

Miriah nodded slowly, taking a bite of her hot dog and wondering who the hell Ig Druh Sil was.

I liked how at the end you told us how to pronounce Yggdrasil. Pretty intersting. It seems she know a lot about killing vampires.

ok, i'm gonna post a bit just cuz it's better, and you take longer to read bigger things, it's a law of physics.

Chapter 8: Crash Course

So… vampires and demons and angels, oh my. I decide to test Miriah’s theory and start looking. Sure enough, where there’s a believer, there’s a belief. While vampires per se aren’t something I’ve had much firsthand experience with, when I send my mind flying out over the leys of the city they’re easy enough to spot. Freezing crimson strings cutting and crossing the city, a web of blood and death and grave-mould. They feel a little like draugar and a little like svartálfr, a little like neither and a lot like trouble.

Good, I like trouble.

“So,” I say, snapping my eyes back open from the semi-trance, “how’s about I show you how the gunless play?”

––

We don’t have to go far. Two blocks down we hit the outskirts of Golgotha, which is still king pin in not-quite abandoned buildings.

“You want to tell me where we’re going again?”

“You said you’ve got a vamp problem,” I say. “So I’m putting on my Scooby hat and going hunting, as they say. Never seen a vampire in the flesh myself, should be fun.”

“Oh, right.”

“Just for the record; fire, sunlight, all poof?”

“All poof.” She nods.

“Sounds just like my kinda job. You know I was originally a corn god? Had nothing to do with fire. It’s a mistranslation, you see. Logi, Loki… kinda the same. You think the fact that I’d lost an eating contest to a guy called ‘fire’ would’ve clued someone in, but there you go. Tell a lie often enough and it become truth.”

“And the sun part?”

“Ah, that’s where my ‘disorders’ come in. We’ll see about it when we get there.” Honestly I don’t know if I can call out the noonday sun at midnight, but that’s half the fun.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed the three guys who’ve been following us for the last half a block?”

“Of course.” Miriah grins, starting to get into the swing of it.

“Let’s just ‘accidentally’ walk down this blind alley over here, shall we?” I hold out an arm at an old-fashioned gentlemanly angle.

Miriah takes it with mock-delicacy. “Wahy thankyah sir,” she drawls in a faux Southern patois. I grin, she grins, this is fun. The vampires behind us can’t hear us; I make sure of that. Just like I made sure to draw them here in the first place.

This will be the first test.

We turn down the blind alley. Stop.

“One…” I count.

“Two…” says Miriah.

“Three!” we exclaim, rounding simultaneously on the three vampires, about to jump us with their own witty entrance. As if I’m going to let some lick upstage me.

“What the fu–” starts the middle vampire, a lanky mall-punk looking kid.

Miriah levels her guns, but I wave her off. “No no, let me.” I grin at the vampires, who falter half a step back. They know. “I want some fun.”

Test one, speed.

I launch myself at the group, darting in between the middle and the one on the left. They both give growls and try and grab at my arms, or at least where my arms had been half a second earlier. I’m back around behind them before they’ve even registered that I’ve moved again, grabbing the leftmost vamp by the base of his neck.

Test two, decapitation.

I shove the vamp to the ground, one boot crunches into the base of his spine. Ignoring the animal howl of pain, I reach down with my hand, get a good bowling-ball style grip in his eye sockets, and pull. Ripping someone’s head off is no mean feat in itself, and it’s usually messy and never entirely successful. But the popping of vertebrae and tearing of muscle and flesh happens eventually, and I’m left with a handful of what used to be head. Just as I’m about to show it to the others – currently conveniently paralyzed with almost entirely natural fear – the whole thing, and the body I’m standing on, has the audacity to burst into cinders, and I find that I’m suddenly holding onto nothing but ash.

“Well, there you go.”

The death of their companion seems to shake the other two vampires out of their shocked state. “Holy shit, this ain’t worth it,” says one, and they both start making for the entrance to the alley.

“I don’t think so,” I say, flinging out an arm. The gesture is technically unnecessarily, but it looks much more impressive when a two storey high wall of flame shoots up right in front of the fleeing vampires. They both scream and try to turn, the first is slightly too slow; when his ash-burns boned hit the ground his mouth is still open in silent scream.

Test three, fire.

The third and final vampire in on the ground, scrambling back towards the wall of the alley. A trapped animal.

“W-what the fuck are y-you man?” he stammers.

“More fucking hardcore than you,” I tell him, crouching down a meter or so in front. “What’s your name, boy?”

His mouth just hangs open, stupidly for a few moments, before his nasty little raptor brain finally registers a potential escape.

“E-eric,” he says. “Eric Mathers. Man I didn’t want this, fuck you’ve gotta believe me I was just–”

“Shut up,” I tell him. “I’m not going to kill you because of what you do. I honestly don’t give a shit whose blood you suck; I’m no fucking saint myself in that regard.”

“T-then why?”

“Because I can.” And I’m grinning again, low and dangerous. “Tell you what, if you can do something for me, I’ll let you go. How ‘bout it?”

“Y-you serious?”

“Sure as shit, kid.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Hit me as hard as you can,” I say, and suddenly we’re a scene from Fight Club.

“W-what?”

“I want you to hit me as hard as you can.” I spell it out a little slower, standing up and taking a step backwards. I jump a little and gesture at the vampire. I’m ready, come fight me.

Hesitantly, the vamp stands, walks up. “You sure about this man?”

“Sure as shit.”

“So, I just hit you as hard as I can, and you let me go?”

“Scout’s honor.”

“Okay man… Here I go.”

And he hits me. A good, solid whack that just about manages to dislocate my jaw. Vampires are quite strong, even if they are dumb as shit.

Test four, strength.

I feel my jaw for a bit, open and close it experimentally. The vampire just looks at me, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I grin at him. “Thanks man,” I say.

“I-I can go?”

“Sure.”

He looks to the alley exit – the wall of fire is long gone – then to Miriah, who looks none-too-pleased, but she’ll survive. “Off you go,” I say, making motherly shooing motions.

“Thanks man,” says the vamp, nervous grin splitting his face. “You’re alright, man, you know. Alright…”

“I know,” I say, watching him run out of the alley. He gets halfway across the road before an errant truck slams into him, sending ash flying out in all directions. “But I never was a scout.”

“Holy shit!” I hear Miriah job past and peek around the alley; there’s no truck, there never really was. But humor is often the most lethal thing of all.

It’s like squashing bugs, and I think I’m ready for the big guns.

Chapter 9: Hissy Fit

This guy is fucking psycho, Miriah thought, as she watched Lain-Loki revel in the dust of the three former-vamps. Buddy went all Tyler Durden on that last guy, then hits him with something out of one of the old cartoons. He Roadrunner’d that last vamp. Sure, shit, vamps were monsters, but just because you can tear a dude’s head off doesn’t mean one should. Still, it was a pretty damn impressive show of power; even the strongest witch Miriah has come across could only begin to generate that kind of fire out of nothing, and so far the only people she’d met who were able to tear a head off bare-handed were Joseph and the creature Cain. And only Cain had really enjoyed doing it.

Still, she didn’t bring this up. Not yet. Maybe not ever. She re-holstered her guns, adjusted the belt, straightened her hat, and looked at Lain-Loki with the best smile she could muster.

“Well, well done. That’s three bloodsuckers down, and in rather,” she choked the word she had intended to use back down her throat, replacing it with another, “impressive fashion. But they were grunts; no Spike or Angelus in that lot. But no worries,” she said. “We may yet run across one of those soon enough. For now, though, let’s see how you handle a demon or two.”

Lain-Loki did that weird pause thing Miriah witnessed in the park, where it looks like he’s just a shell; empty. And then, he was back. He grinned.

It was unsettling.

––

On their way to whichever destination Lain-Loki had decided to lead them to, he asked Miriah about something that she thought he had been trying to figure out for some time.

“What do you know about this city?” he asked.

“I know it reminds me a lot of my own,” she said, looking around. Many of the storefronts were still open; neon signs of all sorts lined both sides of the street. Chinese characters she could read as well as anything in English glowed like beacons; they had passed into the Chinatown of the city. Every major urban center seemed to have one, and despite her having grown up in a posh school in Britain she always felt more at ease surrounded by these places. She once used to wonder if it was some destiny thing, that she should return to her actual country – her birthplace – and do something incredibly important. But after she hit seventeen years old, she had given up on the concept of destiny completely. She was destiny-free. Prophecy, to her, was a load of crap. And it was.

Wasn’t it?

She hadn’t gotten much further than that in her thoughts when Lain-Loki interrupted by clasping a hand on her shoulder; he had stopped, and stopped quickly.

“Look at this; it’s you,” he said, watching a stack of televisions behind the thick glass of an electronics store display window. Each on had Miriah’s face on it; and the logo of her father’s television network in the lower right corner, as well. Another one of her father’s ‘news’ features on her, a campaign of slander he had started a few months ago. That Miriah had been something of a prominent figure in the media for the last seven or so years of her life was well known and something she had gotten used to; the daughters of fortune were almost always followed. When she hadn’t turned out to be the next Paris Hilton – no, that odious honor had been placed upon Sonya Melton, a socialite cut from the same mould with even less brains who had been an acquaintance of Miriah’s years before – the media had let her alone, for the most part.

Her father’s network, however, had seemed to develop an odd fixation on what she was doing and who she was doing it with. And usually their spin doctors found just the right way to show things in a light that had quickly made her some sort of monster. She wondered if this is how Presidential candidates felt. And though she couldn’t hear exactly what was being said in this broadcast, she could guess. And she didn’t like it.

Lain-Loki could feel the heat of fury coming off of her in waves. And even if he hadn’t been able to, he might have been tipped off to this anger when she started pounding her fist against the glass, cursing in Chinese. He carefully – but by no means weakly – put his arms around her and carried her, cursing, from the display. Miriah, though she knew she shouldn’t, felt anger also at Lain-Loki for drawing her attention to it. If he knew so much about her, shouldn’t he have known to not point it out?

Maybe he didn’t know.

Maybe.

––

Now while all this pleasantness was going on, Joseph lay sleeping on the couch back in Miriah’s hotel room. Moonlight streamed through a window, though he couldn’t see it. What he could see, however, were flashes; pictures of pictures, jumbled in his mind. At some points he saw Sariel; others, Usiel, Gabriel, Raphael, Golgotha – not this city’s take on it, but the original – the SS laboratories where he lost his hands in the Second War, it was all jumbled up. Punctuating each of these flashes were other images, things he shouldn’t have recognized but knew anyways. Ásgard. The punishment of Loki, and the rage of Baldr; Baldr especially seemed to stand out in his mind. Baldr and Loki, and the unmaking of the world. Not this world; this world hadn’t been affected by any Æsir in millennia. The other world, Loki’s. He saw the world unmade and remade, though he could not truly comprehend that this was what he saw. He even saw the world go… sideways, Loki would call it, for a moment; this world, not Loki’s. It flickered like a 35mm film that had too many frames blacked out. Then, another Angel. Here, in Pandemonium. He saw himself face to face with it, in darkness punctured by small squares of light. There was the smell of machines, grease, and the heat of… fire? No, electricity. Beneath him. He didn’t recognize this one, not yet, but he knew what the image meant.

So, when the glass window beside the couch exploded into shards and the figure came through it, waking him, he wasn’t entirely surprised.

Chapter 10: Not the EasyWay

I don’t put Miriah down until we get to a small EasyWay store some distance down the street. She struggles the whole way, cursing and screaming first at her father then at me. I pretend I don’t understand Mandarin, and ignore the looks people are giving us. Leaving her on the stool – she’s smoldering so much I’m surprised she doesn’t melt the damn thing – I go order us some pearl tea from the cute Korean boys behind the counter. They look between me and Miriah. “Women,” I say in fluent Korean, and they grin and nod their heads in understanding.

I watch the cups rolls through the automatic lid-laminator – I would not by lying if I said the only reason I come here is to watch that thing. Finally I grab two straws and return to where Miriah is still burning holes into the bench top with her eyes.

“Here,” I say, putting the cup and straw down in front of her. “You about ready to calm the fuck down now?”

“Calm the fuck down?” she cries, drawing all nearby attention towards us. I wave at them with a long-suffering grin, and they turn back to their tasks. Miriah glares at me and continues in a much lower voice. “Calm the fuck down?” she hisses for the second time. “That… that network has been running a goddamn smear campaign against me for months now! They’ve practically accused me of doing everything but eating babies. All I want is for them to leave me alone, and all they do is paint me as a monster. So don’t you dare tell me to calm down when you have no idea what it’s like for me out there!”

“Yes, I’m sure I’m a total ingénue,” I say, totally dry. Miriah’s eyes widen and her mouth forms into that little ‘O’ people make when they realize their own faux pas.

She looks away, muttering, “… at least it’s not from you own father…”

“You’re right about that,” I tell her, voice still totally flat and dry. “It was my brother. Do you think that makes it better or worse?”

She doesn’t answer, has moved past embarrassment and has gone back to shooting death beams from her eyes, this time at this neat lino floor.

“You beat your own path, kid. So do I. People like us always get the burnt end of the stick by society because, and this is the kicker, that’s what we exist for. We’re parables to show people the One Way is not the only way, but it certainly is the easiest.”

“How do… did… you deal with it?” Miriah asks the floor.

“Honestly, not very well,” I grin ruefully. “See?” She looks up, and I pull down the neck of my shirt to expose my shoulder, or more rightly the scars. “To force me into something, Odin – my brother – used to break my shoulders. My lips you’ve seen, the stitches comes from being too clever when losing a bet. My eyes and mouth are burnt out from a thousand years of Chinese water torture with added venom. My nipple I lost by being tied down with the entrails of my own dead son – I’ve got matching scars across my pelvis and ankles. And then there’s this,” I turn on the stool, showing Miriah the full expanse of my back. It’s cut through with many smaller scars I know, mostly the results of writhing on jagged stone, but the tattoo is still predominant. Twists and scrolls of Viking knot work wrought through with runes.

“A tattoo?” Miriah asks, somewhat dubiously.

I turn around again. “Not exactly. It’s a woad – a ward – locking me down against being too outrageous, too different. Too powerful. That’s what scares people about us, Miriah, that’s what all of this”– I gesture from shoulders to face to chest –”is about. We live our whole lives saying no, and we will always have people trying to bully us into saying yes. They did it to me with pain, to you with TV.” I look straight at her, catching her gaze in my own and holding it. “But all it means, in the long run, is that whatever we’re doing… we’re doing right.”

that should keep u busy knight!

~~

You're right, that did keep me busy. But, now I've finished the current section. So, he had a son, who got killed, interesting. And Miriah hates her dad. And Joseph is seeing Loki's world. Very strange.

yes, i liked it MORE BUSINESS!

Chapter 11: Uninvited Guest


Joseph, while quite accustomed to pain, was not really all that fond of it. It had cost him the proper use of his hands, his wings, his eyes, his ears, and so on and so forth. It had spared some of his more delicate bits, and for that he was thankful. However, he’d just been tossed across the room by those bits, and that thankfulness was not exactly what was running through his mind.

He was still rather weak from his wonderful trip on the Piercing Spear Express with Loki, so when the Angel – who Joseph had finally recognized as Nelchael, formerly of the Thrones and an Angel of Poetry (of all things), if his memory served him – had so rudely burst into the room, Joseph had been able to do little more than roll with the punches. He must have believed now that Joseph – renowned in the mystical circles as a Killer of Angels – was easy prey.

He would soon become disappointed when he realized it was not so.

This last toss had thrown Joseph over the countertop of the kitchen, and Nelchael could no longer see him. Perfect. On the other side, he could hear the heavy rustling of the Fallen Angel’s coat – this lot all dressed like they came straight out of The Prophecy, which Joseph found amusing and irritating at the same time – as he approached. He feigned unconsciousness, splayed on the floor. A sharp kick to the ribs flipped him onto his back; the Angel knelt over him and drew a sleek dagger not unlike the one Joseph used to carry, and crossed himself – it was always the ritual, even for Joseph. Joseph waited.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, amen,” he said, mocking the prayer which Joseph was well-known for using when he finished off a Fallen. He readied the blade. “First you, dearest Yosef, then we find The Other.”

They always let that stuff slip, don’t they?

Joseph, faster than this Fallen by far, was on his feet and dangling this one by the throat before Nelchael knew what was happening; his mouth was agape, staring down stupidly at what he had thought for sure was a sure thing. Joseph, still relatively unwell from his earlier experience, trembled; luckily, Nelchael mistook it for rage.

“What about The Other, pray tell?” he growled.

––

Miriah walked beside Lain-Loki once again, hands jammed into her pockets. She felt damned foolish and hadn’t been able to look him in the eyes for more than a second after her tirade at the EasyWay. Lain-Loki took a slow pull on his pearl tea.

“So,” he started, a little too nonchalantly, “don’t suppose you know who built this place, do you?”

“Not off the top of my head,” Miriah said, quirking a brow, “why?”

“Just something I’ve been trying to figure out,” he said, returning his lips to the straw. Miriah thought he sounded disappointed. She would have liked to have been able to offer him some of that information, but she had told the truth. She didn’t know. She had figured that, by his fascination with this place, that there was something glaringly wrong with it. Either someone he knew ran it in his world, or…

“This was your city, wasn’t it,” she said, not asking as much as stating the fact. Lain-Loki nodded.

“You’d better believe it,” he said, without even the slightest hint of modesty, which Miriah noticed seemed to be his custom, “Spent the last half century or more building it up. Which bugs me. Because here… here there is obviously no me.”

“Which begs the question of just who did it here?” she finished his thought. It certainly was a paradox. Miriah didn’t like paradoxes; they tended to drive people mad, blow up the universe, erase huge amounts of history, or all three in a single blow.

“Really, it shouldn’t matter,” Lain-Loki said, “as long as it’s here.” Miriah knew it wasn’t her he was trying to convince.

“I guess what the Powers want, they get,” Miriah offered, and it looked to her like he was going to take it. And take it far.

“Where there’s a Believer…” he started, letting the words hang in the air before taking another sip of his tea. “Come on. To get to where we’re going, it’s easiest if we take the subway.”

––

Blood had begun to well up where Joseph’s claws dug into the soft flesh of the Fallen’s throat. He was losing his patience, and would soon abandon this line of questioning for a more direct end to this meeting.

“What about this Other?” he bellowed, and Nelchael gasped. His breath was ragged; it didn’t help that Joseph’s ‘thumb’ was giving him an impromptu tracheotomy.

“Az–Azaza’el!” he wheezed, and Joseph dropped him to the floor. Nelchael had started to back away as he rasped deep breaths in, but Joseph crouched and grabbed the lapels of his oat before he got far.

“What does Azaza’el have to do with this?” Joseph growled; Azaza’el was not a name he’d wanted to hear. Not at all. Nelchael, more terrified of Joseph than he thought he would be, trembled.

“I… I can’t tell you, Yosef, I can’t…” he said, and Joseph slapped a hand up to the side of Nelchael’s head, holding it steady; his pointed thumb hovered millimeters in front of Nelchael’s right eye. He sobbed; in the moonlight, Joseph could see a growing dark patch spread over the front of the Fallen’s trousers. If Joseph had pupils, he would have rolled them. Nelchael, shuddering, started to give it up. “He wants the Other. The one who left his chains! He wants him for his own and he wants him fast!”

Oh, grand.

Chapter 12: Trainrunning

And then, just when you’re starting to warm up to the situation, everything starts going pear-shaped. Which I should’ve seen coming, of course, because it always does. In the end, though, all you can really do is make sure that, when the shit hits the fan, you’re the first to duck…

––

The Golden Tree Subway Station was so named not because of it’s actual location – at the corner of Blackland and Market Street – but because of the piece of weird modern art that sat right outside; a barren tree trunk, stripped of all but a few branches and covered halfway down in dripping gold paint. During the day water fountains out of the top and sluices down the track between the amputated branches. I can only imagine what was going through some city official’s mind when they commissioned it, and then again when they decided to install it smack back in the middle of Chinatown.

Nevertheless, it marks the entrance to the station, our destination.

As we pass the tree, Miriah says, “What’s with the–”

But I cut her off. “I honestly have no idea. Just look, enjoy, and more on.”

“Right.”

We descend the steps to the station without further ado. The place has been tiled and decorated in faux-Chinese Imperial style, bright reds and blues and latticework and a little underground garden-thing. It’s actually a pretty nice place, and surprisingly vandal-free. But we’re not here to admire the view.

“So, where to this time?”

“You’ll see,” I say, irritatingly cryptically.

There are quite a few people milling about down here for this time of night, because I suppose some parts of the city simply never sleep. I check the train timetable; there’s one coming through any minute now, and I lead Miriah over to the edge of the platform (“Mind the Gap!” says the sign on the edge in London-esque cheer), right near where the train will soon emerge.

“Now, this is going to be a bit fiddly, but just walk where I do and you’ll be fine,” I tell Miriah.

“All… right…”

Sure enough, several seconds later a train comes screaming into the station. When we don’t get on, I think Miriah starts to get an inkling of what we’re about to do, and I see her torn between adrenalin and fear. Good.

Commuters shuffle unthinkingly in and out of steel cars. You’d think that such a public place would be a bloody bad locale to start acting weirdly, but there’s a special magic about public transport that leaves everyone almost blind to anything but their own little bubble of desire to return home without incident. So when the monotone call sounds and the train starts to pull itself painfully from the station it doesn’t really take much to make sure everyone’s attention is turned just so, and to make our move.

“Now!” I grab Miriah’s hand and, barely inches behind the retreating train, jump down onto the tracks. I don’t give her much warning, and she falls somewhat awkwardly. I catch her, and there’s one of those little moments where she’s looking up at me and I down at her and all I can think is that she’s soft in all the wrong places and doesn’t smell at all like Sigmund.

It’s only an instant, and she recovers, pulling back but I don’t let her take her hand from mine just yet.

“Well, that was–”

“No time,” I say, and start running pell-mell down the center of the tracks.

In case you’re wondering, the subway trains are powered by the so-called ‘third rail’; the one that’s live with electricity. I don’t let Miriah think about it. As long as she’s not thinking about it, it will be alright, because no-one ever stepped on the third rail unless it was a previously elaborated plot point.

We run seemingly forever, Miriah’s breathing grows hard beside me, but I pull her ever onward ever faster. I hope the train is late, but it’s not a good thing to rely on, and we’ve a way to go yet.

The train, as it turns out, isn’t late. It’s early.

Miriah notices the tunnel suddenly isn’t a dark as it should be. I can feel her falter, try and tug her hand away, but if I let her do that now she really would die.

“Are… you… insane!” she screams between ragged breaths. “There’s a train!”

“I know,” I tell her. “Trust me.” I don’t think she likes that much.

The roar of the approaching train grows steadily louder in the bare-walled tunnel, the circle of light drawing every brighter and ever closer up ahead. I dampen Miriah’s fear and bite down on my own – I don’t think a direct hit with a train will kill me, but it won’t be fun, either – and keep running.

And then she sees it; the rough-cut hole in the wall. Not too far away now but the train is coming awfully fast. The driver should have seen us by now; should have, but hasn’t because that’s an accident just waiting to happen.

To say we make the hole with only seconds to spare is actually a lie. In truth, we shouldn’t have made it. The tiny delay when I pulled Miriah down onto the rails too quickly and she fell… such a small thing, but one that made all the difference in an eternity of minutiae.

The train should have hit us a fraction of a second before the relative safety of the tunnel. And while I could’ve jumped or ducked or something to get out of the way, I doubt Miriah would have had that option. So a microsecond before the moment of impact I close my eyes and change the universe, and suddenly we’re a fraction of a second ahead of where we were – or the train a fraction behind – and the train is racing past and I can feel the wind and the earth shaking from our spot on the ground just inside the tunnel, the spot where we landed after our made dive, just before the train would’ve struck us.

Walls of fire are easy, so are illusorily trucks and the thousand and one little tricks I keep up my sleeve to make sure my life stays on tracks. Creating things is easy, but altering time something else entirely.

(“stupid stupid stupid boy.”)

The voice of the Ásgardian rattles around my head. I ignore him and his laughter, instead focus on forcing the shakes out of my hands and the bile back down my throat. Something tells me it would very much not be wise to let Miriah know exactly how close we came to a meeting with the business end of a speeding train, and how much it took out of me to make sure we didn’t.

(“reckless…”)

It takes me a minute to register she’s talking. “… swear we weren’t going to make it! Holy shit I never want to do that ever again!” But she’s grinning underneath her anger, head still spinning from the ultimate rush. “You are one fucking crazy bastard you know that?”

I bite back an apology. They’re not my style. “It’s the only way to get down here,” I say, opening my eyes and forcing the tremors out of my voice. Changing the universe took all my attention, and as such I’ve lost my human disguise. Miriah can see my eyes glowing eerily in the darkness. “The trains come so regularly there’s practically no way a human can get into this place on their own unless they’re very, very good.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because I’ve been here in my universe,” I say. “Just so happens in your version the inhabitants are a little different.”

“So… what would you have done if the entrance hadn’t been exactly where you expected it?”

I very, very specifically don’t tell her that I think perhaps it wasn’t, instead saying. “You underestimate– shit!”

“Underestimate… shit?”

Tired, too tired and distracted, and suddenly there’s something else here. Grinning bad and mad in the darkness.

I scramble to my feet but it’s too little, too late, too soon.

The next thing I know there’s pain in my chest and gravel in my face, and after that… nothing at all.

Chapter 13: Flashes


Loki’s voice stopped, his eyes dimmed, dropped, something thudded, and Miriah was on her feet in a flash, pistols drawn. The god was down but she wasn’t helpless. She hadn’t been helpless since Lien was killed, many moons ago. Sorry Lien, she said in her mind, this is not the day I see you again. I’ll make it up to you when I’m sending off the winter clothes. Promise. She didn’t wait for a target to present itself, instead firing shots into the darkness. In the light of the muzzle flares, she could see shapes

Flash

Loki on the ground

Flash

Something

Flash

Some things coming at them

Flash

One drops. God they’re ugly, she thinks

Flash

The biggest one is

Flash

right over Loki, next to her

Flash flash flash flash flash

And then there was nothing. Her ears had gone deaf to the noise, as it often did when she shot, but even in those last flashes there hadn’t been anything. Anything. Miriah rummaged through her bag and quickly removed a small electric torch with a round vise-like protrusion along its shaft; even in the dark it didn’t take long to attach it to the barrel of one of her pistols. She twisted the lens to its on position and sweeped the light over the ground.

Nothing. Not even a body.

“Bullshit. Bullshit! I dropped at least three,” she hissed through clenched teeth. She dropped to her butt, next to the jötun. She hoped he wouldn’t be out for long. The firefight, combined with their extremely narrow escape from becoming silly putty, had charged her with adrenaline, but it was quickly leaving her, and leaving her exhausted. And if she fell asleep here, that would be bad.

Very bad.

––

Joseph pushed himself faster than he ever had before when traveling by rooftop, and in his current state that was something of a feat. He cursed himself as Nelchael sprinted ahead, moving faster than any Fallen he’d had to chase down. He left a wonderfully convenient trail of blood as he went, though, so Joseph wasn’t too worried about him getting too far. He would just prefer he catch him before he could reach others.

Because this kind of person, Angel or not, always tended to run in packs. And better to deal with one of Azaza’el’s ilk than ten. Or one hundred. From what he had learned from his prey before their discourse was cut short, he knew that Azaza’el was pretty hell-bent on catching Loki, who they knew only as The Other, or Chainbreaker, because they didn’t get it. Azaza’el and Loki had the same deal; chained to some desolate fucking rock, blinded, until the end of the world was nigh. Joseph guessed that Azaza’el, who must still have some bloody tricks up his sleeve, had discovered Loki’s entrance to this world, and he knew. Of course he’d know. If they shared the same punishment, and Loki was out…

Joseph’s thought was cut short by the sight of seven people standing on the next rooftop. All dressed the same, waiting. Joseph put a full stop on his run, skidding along the loose gravel that made up this rooftop and falling to his side. The jagged stones scratched him up roughly.

Fallen. All of them, he could smell it. Seven fucking Fallen, and he’d run right in to them. He wanted to vomit.

Nelchael turned around and stared with one wild eye; the other hung grotesquely from its socket, slapping wetly against shredded, blood-soaked flesh. He looked far too pleased with himself.

Joseph didn’t stick around for any monologing on their part. They started forward, and he was on his feet just as quick, running for the edge of the building. He leapt, and prayed there was something he could use to slow his descent as he fell.

Flash

Hey, don't stop! You can't do that! Right at the good part, too. I till am enjoying it. No repeats or anything. How many chapters are in this?