Custo groaned, trouble pouring out of him. The angels’ minds were open to each other. The boy had to know their strategy.
“You need not betray them,” Shadowman said. “I know how they will approach. I have presided over many battles over the ages.”
“And you call me a mind reader,” Custo said, the unease abating a fraction.
“I’d imagine emotion is often more telling.”
The angels would attempt a divide and conquer: a contingent to busy Custo, a larger one to busy him, and a third to attack the gate. It would not work.
A long moment of silence, and then, as if on silent cue, the host attacked.
Shadowman thrust a wall of pitch between him and the gate, and the fast-approaching angels were flung back, bodies skipping on the hard floor of the cave.
Ballard lunged, wielding a blade, Heavenly in origin, so it seared as it sliced, but Death reformed just as quickly, unscathed. Ballard would have to do much better than that. Shadowman hit him, heard the snap of his spine, felt the shock of pain, as the angel flew back. At least the spine would take longer to heal.
A jut of Shadow and the angel grabbing for the hammer flew to the side, taking two more with him. Another burn, quick to heal. A spin, a dart, a thrust of darkness and none were near enough to touch him.
More would come.
Custo held off four of his own kind with no weapon, though the wounds he took soaked his shirt. Sweat and dirt streaked his face, but still he moved and struck with grace and force.
Darkness whipped around the cave in a frenzy. Shadowman cast his mind out once again to harness the storm as it swirled around him.
But . . . the hurricane of pitch did not obey.
He tried again and was instead barraged by cave dust and wetness, singeing his skin. Always in the presence of angels he felt a burn, but he hadn’t expected Shadow to go astray.
Well, then.
With his fist he knocked an angel back from the gate. A blow like that should have sent the angel to the far depths of the cave, but he only fell a few paces. And rose to try again.
Something was wrong.
Shadowman took position in front of Hell. Kicked the angel back again. But the burn on Death’s skin had grown to a maddening inferno, sending needles of fire deep into his muscles and igniting his bones. Within him, he sensed the rush and pull of Earth, relentless in its reckoning, rapturous in its claim.
His mind was ablaze. His vision blurred with echoes of movement. The pain brought him to his knees, and he screamed his agony, the sound reverberating through the cave.
“The wrath of God is upon Death!” Ballard cried. He darted forward with his silver blade to strike.
Shadowman reeled as Ballard slashed through the air. Felt a strange sizzle. Glanced down. Marveled as blood dripped from a slice across his chest.
Blood.
How? Death could not bleed.
Ballard whirled, kicking Death back against the gate. Shadowman heard a skull crack, but it took a moment for him to realize that it was his head that made the sound. A sharp taste was in his mouth, and the smell and texture told him it was blood. Again.
His blood.
Shadow made no effort to restore him. It lifted away like a blanket of mist, leaving him naked and so cold on the silt of the cave floor.
Ballard leaped into the air, the dagger poised to plunge into Death’s heart.
Shadowman raised a defensive arm and wondered again at the flesh of his body. He didn’t fear the dagger, couldn’t in his utter confusion. He knew in the abstract that the dagger meant death, but he was Death, so it made no sense.
And then Ballard was knocked out of the air by a boot to his gut and dropped like a stone.
“Look at him!” Custo yelled.
Look at whom? Shadowman shook with chill and dampness. Put fingers to the red on his chest. Lifted his hand to his eyes, as if he’d never seen spilled blood before.
“He’s mortal!” Custo announced.
“Who is mortal?”
Custo glanced over, pity in his eyes. “Oh, fucking hell. You are.”
Shadowman used the gate to climb to standing. His knees buckled and he slid right back down again. This must be gravity. Earth’s breast smelled mineral sweet.
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat: Open me quick before they cut you down. They will use your weakness to destroy Layla.
“But he’s fae,” Ballard argued, standing.
“I am fae,” Death agreed. For once Ballard was right. Most other times the angel was too much of a zealot to think through what came out of his mouth. Passion alone should not put a man in a position of authority.
Ballard lowered his weapon, a look of consternation on his face.
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat: Time is running out.
“Yes,” Custo said. “Can’t we take a moment to think?”
Shadowman squinted as Ballard pointed an accusing finger in his direction, but he could not get a sense of Ballard’s emotion. Dozens of mortals were in this cavern, yet it felt empty.
“This changes nothing,” Ballard said.
“Death, a fae, is now a man,” Custo returned. “This changes everything.”