I feel my arm and cheek get scraped up as my limbs get tangled inside the netting, my wing practically shrieking in torment.
I untangle my scythe enough from the rough, unyielding bindings of the net, gripping it so hard that my fingers ache as I try to breathe through the agony as the giant starts to carry me away. Sweat drips down my face as I try to hack at the material of the netting to cut a hole for myself, every movement jarring more pain to my crippled wing. But the demons obviously planned for this, because my blades do nothing. I don’t even make a nick in the hard ropes of whatever this thing is made out of.
I grip one square of the netting, trying with all my might to pull it open or weaken it somehow, but it doesn’t budge. Panic pushes me like a bully on the playground, demanding attention. I scream for the guys, but no one can hear me, or if they can, they can’t get to me.
When something hits the giant, I go crashing down as it loses its hold on me. The net drops to the ground, jolting me and making me cry out from the force of my landing, my poor wing getting battered, so much hurt radiating from it that I’m not even sure if it’s just one break or many.
The giant quickly regains his hold and starts dragging the net through the carnage of the graveyard, heading straight to the mausoleum where I’ll no doubt be yanked through the Hell portal to join this fucking Ophidian person and whatever he has planned for me.
But then I hear a strange noise, and when I whip my head around to look through the hole in the net, I see something I never thought I’d see in a million years.
With a battle cry that eerily resembles my own Xena: Warrior Princess call, I see Nefta, in all her Colonel Legion glory, and right there with her is Tazreel, in all his arrogant grandeur.
They’re fighting back-to-back, one with a gleaming white sword and scythe, and the other with two stone-black double short swords. They fight fluidly, with a grace and precision that you can only have with a millennia of experience.
It becomes clear that these two aren’t just any old angel and demon. They’re more. It’s as if they’re the embodiment of Heaven and Hell, and all their might.
One breath, one swing, and they’ve slaughtered a dozen. Another swing, and demons are flying back, injured and reeling to get out of the trajectory of the two lethal forces. Demons crumble and wither like raisins, without Taz even making contact with them. One raised arm, and blinding light is shooting out of the sword Nefta holds, making demons disintegrate left and right.
I watch, awed by their power and ability. It’s clear from our time in Purgatory together that there’s no love lost between these two, and yet, they work so seamlessly together that I might as well be watching some choreographed dance between lovers who have spent a lifetime together.
My attention is forced away when I’m jostled in the net. I refocus back on my predicament, like I’m now looking at it through a new lens. I’m one half of each of those lethal beings. I’m one half Legion of Heaven, and one half Nihil of Hell. I’ve been punching demon bitches when I should’ve been figuring out how to crush their fucking souls.
I mean, if that’s even a thing.
Either way, I’ve gotta have some kind of ability other than scythe-wielding in my genetic repertoire...right?
If I do, now’s the time to figure it the fuck out.
22
I focus on the giant demon whose kick rocked my world, while I still try to breathe through the throbbing, sharp wound emanating from the limp wing at my back.
Cyclops holds the net and me tightly in its hands, its eye focused on the mausoleum. I can tell that someone is working to slow the demon carrying me, but I can’t focus on who or how, because instead, I’m focusing on the giant’s head and mentally taking a pickaxe to it. That doesn’t seem to be doing anything though, so I regroup, take a deep breath, and invoke all my energy, willing the dormant power that I hope I have inside of me to come rushing out.
The scythe is still gripped tightly in my hand, but unless I have a demon around to swipe the blade through, it can’t