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“I’m not dragging that thing one more foot.”
“A lot of people feel that way. Maybe they’ll take us to Heaven with them to fight.”
“I doubt that. Odds are they’ll take the gun and piss off back home, leaving us here with a pat on the ass and a promise to call the next day. But they never call.”
She gives me a look.
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s a metaphor . . . or maybe a simile. I’m not sure. What I mean is Vehuel and the rest are done with us. They have what they want and they don’t care about us any more than the Magistrate cares about those morons he’s been dragging through the desert.”
“That’s not true,” she says. “He cares. You just misunderstood.”
“Sure. It’s all a misunderstanding.”
I give her the last of the Malediction. She finishes it and absently drops it on the ground. It’s hard when your parents disappoint you and doubly hard in Hell when you thought you were having Sunday dinner with the messiah. Whatever Daja was when she got Downtown, she’s more screwed up than when she got here, and that’s not fair. Of course, fair doesn’t mean anything in this universe. The winners are the schemers and the ruthless who take what they want, not the suckers standing around hoping for an even break. Still, it’s one more reason I’ll enjoy killing the Magistrate.
But I might not get the chance. I think some other people have the same idea.
The angels with their supersonic ears hear them first. By the time Daja and I notice them, the mob is practically on top of us. Or rather, from the way they’re spaced out, two different mobs come at us side by side. This is definitely a pitchforks-and-torches situation.
Johnny is at the head of one mob. Wanuri leads the other. Two mild-mannered personalities. Nothing bad can come of this.
Wanuri shouts, “Daja! Magistrate—be careful!”
“Is that the sword?” says Johnny. He’s holding Doris’s panabas. There’s no way she gave it to him voluntarily. I scan Wanuri’s bunch and see her with them, a deep gash across her forehead.
“Hand it over,” Johnny says.
See, this is what I meant by fair. The problem here is that while Wanuri and her group are clearly looking out for people they consider friends, Johnny’s horde is twice as big. The only thing keeping his bunch from ripping hers apart is that Wanuri was smart enough to keep control of the guns. Almost everyone in her group is armed. So, why aren’t they shooting? I have a bad feeling I know the answer.
Johnny
is flanked by Billy and Frederickson. Barbora is nearby with a small contingent of Hellions. She nervously taps a length of pipe against her leg. The mob behind them looks tired, hungry, and desperate. I’m sure they’re going to listen to reason.
Vehuel holds the sword across her chest.
“The Lux Occisor belongs to the Almighty, not damned mortals and fallen angels. You will not have it.”
“Look,” says Johnny in a more reasonable tone. “We’re going to take it. Yes, you’re bloody angels and all the rest of it, but even with those sparklers you call swords, there are only six of you. There are a lot more of us and you can’t take all of us down.”
Vehuel takes a step toward the crowd. A few of them back up.
“Do not test my patience, mortal.”
Johnny points at her.
“We know you can die.”
He points to me.
“That shit stain there killed one of you by himself. I figure all the rest of us together must equal six of him.”
“You don’t,” I shout. “Go home before they chop you into kitty litter.”
“You’re next, mate. We take the sword and then we settle with you.”
I turn to Vehuel.
