The Brutal Time Special Edition Page 4

  “Indeed.” I tap the first image, which shows Colossus himself slicing off a human’s head. “Here Lucifer has drawn the archdemon king in the same red armor that hangs above. And Colossus appears to be wielding a sword.”

  Myla frowns. “But Colossus can’t wield anything himself. He’s the possession guy. That’s it.”

  “I fear Lucifer has other ideas.” I point to the ceiling. “Hence the suspended armor. It’s the exact thing he’s wearing in these images.”

  Myla gasps. “Let me get this straight. Colossus is a red mist baddie who can only possess people. But Lucifer says, I’ll make armor so he doesn’t have to go through that pesky possession stage. That way, Colossus can get right to the magic-casting and killing-stuff fun.”

  “You got it.” I refocus on the book. “Check out the margins here. Lucifer added numerous handwritten calculations to cover magical containment and power.” I gesture upward. “That armor is nothing less than a Colossus kill suit.”

  “Ick.” Myla turns another page.

  And there it is.

  A thick golden band.

  Above it is written in loopy letters, Band of Epochs.

  “Oh, Hell,” whispers Myla. “That signet ring is here.”

  Once again, smaller text fills the sheet’s margins. Leaning in, I begin to read the tiny runes aloud. “Hear ye, hear ye! This ring bequeaths the power to journey through time. There you may discover the path to save the fading angels. Lift the ring from the page if you dare.”

  Myla sniffs. “I tell you what I’m not doing, and that’s touching that freaking ring. From what I learned at the wrath coven, once I take the Band of Epochs from this lab, the ring will somehow end up in the possession of the Crimson Scourge. That evil mage frees Colossus and—WHAMMO—the world is trashed.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. We must allow that ring to be destroyed along with everything else.”

  Myla frowns. “Um, Lincoln?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened to the Band of Epochs?”

  I look at the book once more and sure enough, the signet ring is gone. “I didn’t touch it.”

  Myla worries her bottom lip with her teeth. “The wrath coven said that if I didn’t do what they wanted, their magic would make it happen anyway.”

  Little by little, Myla raises her palms. I exhale. She wears no new rings on her fingers. Whew.

  Suddenly, a burst of purple light flares at Myla’s left hand. A thin tendril of mist wraps around her thumb. The light grows brighter. Then it disappears. When the mist vanishes, I can’t believe what I see.

  Myla now wears the Band of Epochs.

  “Hells bells.” Myla yanks on the signet ring, but it won’t budge. “Stupid magic.”

  That’s when we hear it.

  Tick-tick-ding.

  “Uh-oh,” says Fluff. And he flies off down the exit passage. Clever imp.

  “We need to run,” says Myla.

  “There may be faster options.” Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a transfer charm. It appears as a purple ticket, the kind humans use for raffles. The moment the colored item hits the air, something awful takes place.

  My transfer charm disintegrates.

  “How unfortunate,” I quip.

  “That happened to me on the way in.” Myla sniffs. “Unlike some people, I didn’t do any mountaineering. When I tried to transport right into the lab, a magical null zone stopped me. Ruined all my charms, too.”

  I nod slowly. So charms are useless in here. I pat my pockets. I’ve other charms remaining, and they still feel intact. None are transfer magic, but I’m not pulling them out only to have them get dusted. I zip up my parka. “Which means this is the part where—”

  Myla finishes my thought. “We haul ass?”

  “Quite.”

  With that, Myla and I turn toward the exit and race for our lives.

  8

  Myla

  Unholy Hell.

  Sure, I wanted me some kaboom, but not while I was still inside the freaking mountain.

  Lincoln and I race through the lab. Our goal? Reach the same access passageway that we used to enter the laboratory—AKA the one Fluff just flew his furry butt into—and vamoose.

  Running around the tables is too much of a time-suck, so Lincoln and I take to leaping over them, Olympic style. As we rush toward the exit, the floor starts to tremble. Long cracks form in the stone walls.

  Not long now.

  As I speed forward, my mind snaps into a little thing I call battle mode. Everything in the room comes into hyper focus. Time seems to slow. Plans form and shift. I catalog our situation. We have no transport charms, not that they’d work anyway. Lincoln has some other magical goodies from Striga, but those won’t function until we pass the null zone.

  Images pop into my mind. The short ledge. A long fall onto pointy rocks. The soon-to-come explosion. How the Hell do we stay alive?

  An idea hits me.

  There’s a low shelf by the exit. And it’s packed with odd tools. I spy a pickaxe and some other goodies. Perfect.

  Now, it’s no secret that I suck at long-term planning. Like, you know, grabbing a coat when I’m off to sub-zero temperatures. That said, give me a crisis and I’m at my best. And my current plan is super awesome, if I do say so myself. Looking to Lincoln, I point to the shelf in question.

  “I’ll grab the pickaxe.”

  My guy leaps over a table, his forehead furrowed in thought as he figures out my scheme. A second later, he nods. “I’ll take the chain.” It’s the one the armor’s hauled up on, but can easily be unhooked.

  Perfect.

  Satisfaction and love warm my veins. Lincoln’s the best. All I need to do is point and say four words: I’ll grab the pickaxe. After that, my guy is right with me.

  Ear-piercing cracks sound as more fissures open along the walls. Books tumble. Vials shatter. My pulse speeds. The armor lurches at an odd angle.

  Only seconds remain.

  I grab the pickaxe from its spot along the wall. Lincoln unhooks the chain, then loops it over his shoulder. The opened passage looms before us. We race into the darkened hallway. Right behind us, great chunks of rock break free from the ceiling and tumble down.

  Boom! Boom!

  The ground shimmies as each boulder slams into the tables below.

  There isn’t time to contemplate how the lab is literally falling apart. Lincoln and I race down the shadowy passage. From outside, the barest tendrils of light crisscross the rock floor. Sweat beads on my temples. Behind us, fresh rumbles erupt from the lab.

  Then everything falls silent.

  Somehow, the quiet is the more unnerving than anything that came before.

  Light bursts through the tunnel. Heat sears at my back as a wall of fire erupts from the lab. Lincoln and I race toward the outside. There’s no time. Only yards separate us from the end of the tunnel. And from there? Inches divide the tunnel’s mouth and a long-ass fall. Fire licks at my heels and burns the back of my coat. Thankfully, my tail is on the job. It takes charge of putting out the flames.

  We close in on the cave’s edge.

  Five yards.

  Four yards.

  Three.

  I’ve carried the pickaxe all this way. Now I summon my demonic strength, focusing the energy into my grip on the tool. My eyes flare red with magic and power. Letting out a great yell, I slam the axe into the rock floor by the passage’s edge.

  Crack!

  The axe’s metal head bites into the stone. Was I able to get the pick deep enough to support my plan? I can only hope.

  Without needing a word, Lincoln winds his chain around the end of the axe. “Hold on to me!” he calls.

  I move so Lincoln and I stand face to face. Then I wrap my legs around his torso. “All set!”

  Looping the chain around his arms, Lincoln waits at the rock’s edge. Red light dances across my guy’s face, a reflection of the fire as it churns through the tunnel behind us. Blue power flares i
n my guy’s eyes. Before, I tapped into my demonic energy. Now Lincoln’s doing the same with his angelic side. His gaze locks with mine as he calls off a single word.

  “Now!”

  Lincoln kicks off the side of the mountain. The chain loops around the pick-axe above, using the tool as a kind of fulcrum. One side of the metal chain winds around Lincoln’s left arm; the other end curls around his right. More chain dangles below us.

  Now, I’m no expert at repelling, so it’s a bit of a mystery to me how Lincoln manages to loosen the chain and allow us to repel down into the icy clouds below the mountain. I’m just glad he can do it.

  We’re only a few yards away from the passage’s mouth when it happens.

  KABOOM!

  The entire top of the mountain explodes in fire and light. Bits of rock tumble around us. My tail takes charge of batting away the smaller bits, but Lincoln must leap from side to side so we don’t get flattened by the larger chunks. I can’t help but notice how boulders pass us by, followed by a distant smash as the massive rocks burst onto the pointy stuff below.

  If those lower rocks can destroy boulders, what will they do to us?

  Lincoln repels us down further until we’re almost out of chain. The mountain quiets. Moments pass.

  Is it over? Are we safe?

  At last, I exhale. Lincoln and I share a smile. We did it.

  “Good thing Lucifer kept a chain around, eh?” I ask.

  “Far sturdier than a rope,” counters Lincoln.

  As if in reply, the chain starts to whine. My blood freezes as I watch the links stretch and crack.

  “Oh, no.” I guess even chains get brittle after hanging out in a mountain for who know how long.

  “Quick,” says Lincoln. “My breast pocket. Purple quarter. It’s a Striga charm.”

  “Right.” With any luck, we’re now outside the null zone for spells. Whatever this purple charm does, I can only hope it involves keeping us from becoming royal pincushions.

  Reaching into Lincoln’s front pocket, I pull out the small round spell and break it in two. For a long moment, nothing happens. Then a puff of violet smoke rises from the jagged halves of the magical coin.

  That’s the good news.

  The bad news is that the chain has decided that now’s a good time to die. The links snap in multiple places at once. The metal cord turns limp around Lincoln’s arms.

  My guy and I tumble through empty space.

  Leaning in, I kiss Lincoln because if I’m about to kick the bucket, I want one last smooch.

  With a thud, we land on something hard and round. Looking down, I see a purple platform now juts out from the mountainside. It’s the kind thrax deploy on demon patrol when they need to create an observation perch. I’ve seen these used in trees, but on a mountain? That’s new.

  Not that I’m complaining. I’m just glad it worked. Lucifer’s enough of a dick to make sure his null zone is pretty large.

  Lincoln cups my face. His palms feel warm and firm against my skin. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” My tail pops over my shoulder to wave at Lincoln. “And my tail is great also.”

  A sly look enters my guy’s eyes. He pats the tail’s arrowhead-end. “Glad you’re both okay.”

  “Hope Fluff made it out all right.”

  “Me, too.” Lincoln scans the skies. “No sign of him, though.”

  Voices echo in from down below. Humans. “We’ve got visitors.”

  Lincoln checks his pockets. “Humans must have seen that explosion. We’ll need a thrax containment team in here STAT.”

  I nod. “I wouldn’t put it past Lucifer to have more booby traps left over, too.”

  “Agreed.” Lincoln pulls out a small slip of paper. With quick movements, he folds it into an origami bird. Since it’s actually a charm from Striga, this folded sheet is not just any creation. The paper bird comes alive, takes to the skies, and vanishes into the clouds. No doubt, it’s somehow summoning a demon patrol at this very moment.

  “How long before the thrax arrive?” I ask.

  Lincoln tilts his head, thinking. “Two, three minutes tops. The platform will hold out for hours, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

  “Actually, I was wondering if the patrol could look through the ruins for more magical items.” I sigh. “Maybe there will be something left over that could help the fading angels.”

  Lincoln pulls me against him. “If they find anything, they’re trained to turn it right in.”

  Those words—along with Lincoln’s embrace—should be comforting. And it is, for all of three seconds. Then that odd voice returns. In a super-serene tone, she speaks in my mind once more.

  Take the risk. Travel to the past. Save the fading angels. You can’t do this on your own.

  This is exactly the kind of namby-pamby, sweetie-pie, hearts-n-roses stuff that my inner wrath demon usually hates. Strangely enough, that part of me is completely silent. No coiled fury. Not even a huff of frustration.

  Did I get hit with a possession spell? If so, who’d possess me to have happy talk going in my head? I stare at the Band of Epochs on my thumb. Whatever’s going on, I bet it has to do with this damned signet ring.

  Trouble is, I still have no idea how to keep the wrath coven’s vision from coming true.

  9

  Myla

  Within minutes, demon patrol warriors are every-freaking-where, all of them sporting their special white body armor.

  Soon scaffolding and platforms rise up around what was once the mountaintop. Dozens of thrax check out the ruined lab, looking for magical leftovers.

  Spoiler: they don’t find anything. This is both good (because Lucifer is Lucifer) and bad (considering how I hoped there might be other stuff for the fading angels).

  Another thrax team enchants human satellites, recordings and memories, erasing any sign of the massive explosion. You’d think technology would make it harder for magical cover-ups. The reverse is true. Humans are so confident in their computers and whatnot, they won’t believe that magic changes things, even when it happens before their very eyes. Then again, humans can’t tell when a sloth demon is gnawing on their ass, either. Best to keep expectations low overall.

  Long story short, it’s hours before Lincoln and I can leave the mountain and head home. We recently bought a new house in Purgatory—living with our parents was too much togetherness—so that’s where we go.

  It’s precisely 11:03 PM when my guy and I walk through our front door. Mom’s away at her Ghoul Reconciliation Convention, trying to ease tensions between quasis and our previous overlords. It’s one of her big President of Purgatory things. When we get home, Dad’s holding down the fort and Maxon should be asleep.

  Notice my use of the word should.

  Sure enough, the moment we step into the living room, Lincoln and I find a pie-eyed Maxon. In terms of looks, my kid reminds me of a big cherub … if said cherub had a shit-eating grin and a dragonscale tail. When it comes to age, Maxon’s only two. That said, he has the logic and speech of someone much older. And his energy levels? That’s uncharted territory.

  Case in point: Right now, Maxon’s turned the living room into an imaginary lava river. My kid is jumping from table to couch to chair, all to avoid getting pretend burned to death. Considering there’s a real magma river in Antrum, this is a pretty useful game.

  Maxon doesn’t look up as we enter to room, mostly because he’s preparing for a big jump from the fireplace mantle to the couch.

  Yes, I said the words fireplace mantle and couch.

  Maxon does stuff like this all the time. We keep a box of healing charms in the linen closet.

  Dad waves as we walk in. Tonight my father wears loose ninja pants and a black T-shirt. As the General of the Angels, my father’s fit and lean with cocoa skin and pronounced bone structure. Based on the crinkles by his eyes, he’s also tired but happy.

  My father rises from his favorite rocking chair. “Someone’s been waiting fo
r you to get home.”

  At these words, Maxon nails his leap onto the couch, which then releases a serious of ominous twangs. Lincoln and I share a dry look. There’s no need to say it out loud, we both know the drill here. We’ll need a new couch again. Soon.

  Maxon then focuses on me for a millisecond before yelling at Lincoln. “Arthuuuuuuuuur!”

  No question what our little one wants here. King Arthur is Maxon’s favorite book these days. In our son’s opinion, Lincoln is the parent of choice for bedtime storytelling. I’m picked when it comes to snack time, by the way. So I totally win out on that one.

  “Arthuuuuuuuuur!” Maxon now accents the word by jumping on the couch, a motion that’s accompanied by ever louder twangs from the sorry springs inside our rapidly-deteriorating furniture.

  Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ve read him the story seven times.”

  Maxon leaps off the couch, speeds across the room, and grabs Lincoln’s hand. “Daddy read! Daddy read! Daddy read!”

  When my boy is tired, he tends to repeat short phrases over and over. And this much repetition? My kid’s exhausted.

  Lincoln guy ruffles Maxon’s hair. “Sure thing, bud.”

  “Yay!” Maxon grins, and it’s one of those smiles that radiate pure joy. Once Lincoln and Maxon are safely off, my father turns to me.

  “So, you blew up the lab.”

  There’s no question here which lab Dad refers to. “Technically, Lucifer set a booby trap on the place. So the King of the Angels blew up his own lab.”

  “But you found it.”

  “Yup. I got some help from a wrath coven.”

  “Let me guess. Was it the Bloody Knights of the Round Table operating out of the Sunset Retirement Community for Quasi-Demonic Women?”

  I let out a low whistle. “Damn, you’re good.”

  “Verus has been keeping me apprised.” Dad sighs. “Perhaps we should sit down.” He retakes his favorite rocker.

  At the mention of the name Verus, my worry-radar starts to ping and how. Verus replaced Lucifer as the ruler of the angels. Her claim to fame is that she’s a super-accurate oracle. And the fact that Verus has been focusing on my life? Not good.