The Devil in the Black Suit

The Message at the Door

Chapter Nine

The Message at the Door

With the speed of an arrow, my attack rams into Blondie’s temple and knocks him off James.  He soars backwards, knocking through tables of unsuspecting demons and topples over a waitress who is already teetering precariously on too-high heels.

From across the room, James catches my eye and shoots me the smallest smile.  It is nothing like the normal cocky grin I’ve come to expect from my counterpart.  This is subtle, meant for me and only me.  It means admiration.  It means he’s impressed.  It means thank you.

Blondie is still regaining his composure when the old man takes his place.  Jagged hooks sprouting from the edges of his wings, he aims for James’s throat.  I try to conjure more energy into my already searing palm, but come up with nothing.  A warm tingle runs up the length of my arm, then flickers, then nothing.

Warm, large hands constrict around my arms -- Quroh’s, presumably, though I don’t know why he’s holding me back -- and I shout as if that is enough to save my counterpart.  The old man closes in, his sharp feathers cutting through the space between us and making the air vibrate.  Thrashing at Quroh’s grip, I make another attempt at an attack.  Again, nothing.  And I’m sure James is done for -- look at him, staring wide-eyed at the demons like a child watching a magic trick -- when Maleka rams the old man in the shoulder and knocks him off balance.

There is a flurry of wings and fists as James joins Maleka in the brawl.  “Let me go,” I hiss at Quroh.  “Let me fight.”

“That’s what they want,” Quroh whispers back to me, tightening his grip around my biceps until the skin goes bone white, then sickly blue.  “So they have cause to detain you.”

James smashes his head into Blondie’s face just as he gets back to his feet.  His skull screams with an echoing crack like a cymbal crash.  Blood gushes out of a starburst gash just above Blondie’s lip and outlines the deep grooves in James’s forehead.

“You don’t believe me,” he says, and it’s not a question.  “But you should.  You weren’t there after the sentencing.  It was all Amos could do not to have the council overturn the decision.  They don’t want you here, Riya.”

“Then why are they keeping me out of heaven?”  It comes out as a scream, so high-pitched and unnatural that I can’t believe something so childish has come from my mouth.

Quroh either has no answer or refuses to tell me.  Turning over one shoulder, I see his lips are locked in a straight line, edges pale from pressure.  Just as I whip my head back, Maleka catches the end of a wing with the side of her face, long red streaks coloring her cheek and neck, making her look like she’d tangled with a feral animal.

“James says Bale wants me,” I whisper.  I don’t know why I say it; I trust Quroh about as much as I like him, which is to say not at all.

Maleka, none to take a beating, something I’m more sure of than anything, whips her leg behind her and her heel sinks into the old man’s gut.

Panicked, I remember the solemn third man in the group, with his stern, dark features.  From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of him.  Dmitri and Ymae are talking to them, and all I want to do is tell them --scream at them -- to stop.  To get away.

But I’m too late.  The bald man pushes the pair aside as if they’re nothing but stray feathers dangling from his back.  Then he comes for me, taking long-legged strides like he relishes seeing my fright.  Desperate for Quroh to release me, I pound my wings onto his back, thumping like a drum.