In the Dark of Night – Part 22

If refusing to quit were a super-power, then I would be its Superman.

Through countless trials, through all of life’s forgotten tribulations, I continue to plant myself in front of the keys.  

I write through a pandemic, through job loss, through weight loss, through whatever 45 was supposed to be, through economic recession, through voter suppression. 

I write. 

I don’t write very fast. I’m really bad about hitting my own deadlines. But I write.

Refusing to give up, even if it means taking the slow way round, is still going to get you where you want to be.

So I sit once more upon a sunny Saturday, video game music playing in the background, writing with my laptop on a pillow before me. I will be here, imagining with all my might, until my race has been run. 

While I exist, it shall always be story time.

Join me as we journey once more…

In the Dark of Night – Part 22

My outstretched hand was limp and empty as dull panic filled the emptiness that should’ve contained purpose.

I didn’t know what to do or where to turn. I had faced demons and angels and done my best to protect those put in harm’s way. Father had always taught me that our power existed to protect those without it.

I was numb. Defeated. I had done everything I could, tapped every single ounce of potential entrusted to me, and it hadn’t been enough. I hadn’t been enough. Death came for us on skeletal hooves; all claws and infernal desire.

I stood helpless before it, frozen like a deer in headlights. 

From beyond the time-dilated barrier that separated spiritual beings from reality came a beautiful bird-song. Not the deliberately not-a-bird that Atomo had been using earlier. It filled the timeless space with a majestic melody that could never have been voiced by a flesh and blood creature.

The stark divide of time which served as both arena and armor did something it hadn’t done before: it thinned. As the song grew, the world without slowly came into sync with the world within. The mountainous figure of Chief Waitley stood at the rippling edge, hand slowly raising to acknowledge whomever had summoned the hideous Azazel to finish me. As I stood, hand still outstretched stupidly before me, a silver-winged bullet rammed into the back of Chief Waitley. 

For a bird that couldn’t weigh more than several ounces to shove 120 kilograms of pure muscle several meters across carpet and through a magical barrier should’ve required a bone-breaking impact. Instead, Chief Waitley simply stumbled a little and righted himself as though nothing had happened. 

Whatever else he had been expecting to see, finding himself in front of a being as large as he with an extra set of hands to boot hadn’t been among them. His eyes went wide, but there was no hesitation in his voice when he spoke.

“WHAT in the sweet merciful heavens is THAT?! Claire, take your friend and RUN!”

Warning out of the way, Chief Waitley, with no weapon and no magic, let loose a leonin roar and sprinted forward to meet his destiny.

I looked after the man whose footsteps thundered like salvation and railed against the helplessness which had bolted my feet to the floor. Even if I wanted to help him, I couldn’t do anything. The thought of having Anzi’s sword draining me until I was nothing more than an empty husk tightened the bolts even further. 

Then came anger.

It was acrid and bitter; pure bile in my mouth and my heart. Anger at Tim and Atomo for all their indirect and unhelpful nonsense. Anger at Heaven and it’s obscene concept of ‘salvation’ which was going to force me to let a good and honest man die just so I could live. Anger at myself for being so useless that all I could do was honor his wishes and put my tail between my legs. 

Tears, hot and splotchy, fell down my face as I reached my useless hand out towards Anzi. 

Anzi wasn’t there. 

Once more I was left standing with my hand out and empty.

I turned, eyes sweeping the room with panic as I tried to find where she had gone. 

Ahead of me, demonic malice met iron discipline in dramatic fashion. There was a tremendous crash as flesh struck bone. Azazel grated out a raspy howl of rage when he failed to overwhelm the mountainous strength of Heaven’s champion. Chief Waitley was being pushed to his limits only moments after meeting the charge. His outfit was soaked through with sweat, ripped and torn along the seams as well-tended muscles burst through fabric already strained just trying to cover them.

Despite his obvious distress, Chief Waitley did not budge one inch. His hands had locked with Azazel’s lower pair of arms to halt his progress. He was, however, unable to do anything about the second set of arms and their attendant talons. They rose high, promising a terrible blow that no amount of muscle could withstand. Chief Waitley did not run, nor did he loosen his grip. Instead, he locked eyes with the demon and prepared to give everything he had to buy Anzi and I enough time to flee.

I found where Anzi had gone. 

She was having none of Chief Waitley’s noble sacrifice. With a wordless cry not all that different from Atomo’s beautiful birdsong, she finished her sprint towards the pair and pulled the sword back for a single thrust. 

As her steps brought her even with the grapplers she swung out to the side Just as Azazel swung his upper arms down in a vicious overhead blow, Anzi caught the claws upon her sword with a masterful lunge. Bone rang upon steel, but with no magical energy powering the weapon, Anzi was now locked in her own struggle with the demon.

And she was losing.

Sweat poured down her face as her arms started  to shake from the strain of holding the claws at bay. She gritted her teeth and tried to turn the blow aside, but it was a futile gesture. A thousand generations of practice from her prior life had gotten her where she was needed, but she was an angel no longer. Now she was just a heavily muscled young woman trying to fend off a creature three times her size.

I could run now, if I wanted.

The realization snuck into my mind, stilling all other thought as it arrived.

I could escape now if I chose to. It would take time for Azazel to win, and I could use that time to flee. My hand, my stupid, pathetic hand, was still out in front of me. My wrist was chaffed and bleeding, the handcuff closed around it stained scarlet from my struggles.

What could I do to help them? I was unarmed and pursued by a nameless foe who was quite literally willing to sacrifice everything they had to see me dead.

I looked past my hand to the trio in front of me. 

Anzi, hair plastered to her head as she fought with every ounce of her being to delay the inevitable. Chief Waitley, eyes gaunt, frustrated that he hadn’t been able to save the young woman who had charged in to rescue him. Azazel, whose howl had turned to a raspy coughing laugh as he ground down the will and stamina of those foolish enough to oppose him.

The thought of abandoning a man who had decided to offer up his life without a moment’s hesitation was too much for me to bear. On top of that, leaving the woman who had been placed in my care to die just so I could live a little longer drained the last of the bitter anger from me. Righteous fury washed through me, and I channeled it for all I was worth. I mixed it with all my fear and despair and frustration and pain and forced it to pump through me with each heartbeat.

Magic is life in all its beauty and its ugliness. Rage, love, joy, sadness. All were a part of living. Some chose the darker path, giving in to their anger and their despair. They let it guide their hands and their magic towards those creatures who were empowered by it. 

Once more, power shone from my hands and oozed down my wrists.

I set my jaw and started to close my fist. I might not stand a chance without a weapon, but I refused to be a spectator in the life I had been given.

Cool, sturdy wood fell into my outstretched hand just as my resolve curled it into a fist. Wood carved by me using the ancient ways given to me by my father. Wood which had been taken from me even as I had triumphed in the bathroom brawl. 

Wood which had been taken by Theodore Davis. Police Officer Theodore Davis. Who had stashed the nunchucks he had confiscated at school in his desk here.

My magic had, at long last, been given a place to call home.

Silver light sprang from every inch of slender wood, a radiant beacon of power. My feet, needing no further instruction, pushed me towards those in need of my help.

My hand, empty no longer, spun the nun-chuck as I unleashed a scream of defiance and rage and joy.

Win or lose, I would not waste the chance I had been given to save those I cared for.

To be continued…

Determinedfully,

The Unsheathed Quill