Sarwat Chadda: Devil’s Kiss

Watchers scuttled like insects along the black steel beams and columns. There were dozens of them. The lightning erupted again, and silhouetted against the raging white was a lone figure, poised on the highest point of the skeletal frame of the tower.

Michael.

She knew. It was down to her. It had always been. She was a Templar, and in the end it was as simple as that. And if this was to be the Knights Templar’s last hour, so it would be hers too. She knew it and, finally, was not afraid.

You shall keep the company of martyrs.

Had this moment always been planned? Kay’s prophecy? A freak meeting on the train? Destiny?

No, simpler than that.

Billi raised her sword high and it blazed in the storm light. Supernatural energies coursed through her from the weapon as it trapped the sparks of lightning and blazed. The others turned towards the blinding light as Billi cried:

‘Deus vult!’

She ran now, straight for the goods lift. The other Templars saw her, and understood. They broke their way out of the attacking Watchers, converging on her. The dark angels sensed it too. They screamed and howled, leapt from steel girder to girder, but she was there. She threw herself into the steel cage as Arthur reached her. Their eyes met. Streaked with blood, he smiled. She stood up, steady despite the way the fragile steel cage trembled in the tempest. He didn’t speak – there was nothing to say – he merely nodded. Then Arthur stepped back and slammed the gate shut.

Billi twisted the red handle and the lift rattled and sprang upwards. She gazed down into the swirling muddy battlefield as the Templars formed a circle at the bottom of her lift scaffold. Around them, merging into the darkness, gathered dozens of Michael’s followers. Billi stared down until they were lost in the rain.

The lift jolted as it stopped. This was the end of the journey. Billi dragged her sleeve across her face, ridding herself of the blinding rain. She tightened her grip on the Silver Sword, feeling its energy pulse through her. She rolled the door open and stepped out. Half the floor had been cast with concrete, but she could see it was broken up with black empty holes. One misstep and it was two hundred metres before she’d stop.

‘Billi, how appropriate,’ said Michael. He stood on the very top of a steel column, barely wide enough for both feet. Despite the winds screaming around him he did not falter, but waited, perfectly balanced. He wore only a pair of rain-sodden black jeans, his torso bare; glistening like silver. His elaborate tattoos writhed like serpents over his white skin, alive and eager. The two long scars on his back bled.

‘Come down,’ she said. Her eyes were set on his, but she did not tremble under their unearthly gaze.

A Templar does not tremble.

‘And what?’

‘Engage in an orgy of violence.’ She stepped out into the centre of the half-concreted floor. ‘It should be most cathartic.’ She held the sword in both hands, but low. ‘Or are you scared?’

Michael sighed deeply. ‘What do you see out there?’ He held a sword in his own hands and pointed it westwards.

Towards St Paul ’s Cathedral.

Lights. She saw thousands of lights, even from so high up. The city which had twinkled the first time she had looked down from this very spot was now flooded in a flickering yellow haze of light.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ he said.

But she knew what those lights were, what they meant. They meant a family with a dying child. Someone they loved and adored, who was going to die at dawn. They congregated around St Paul ’s and if she was down there she’d see it wasn’t beautiful like Michael thought, but ugly, vile, horrific.

‘See, Billi? See how I’ve brought God back into their lives? They will never again stray from the Path of Righteousness.’

‘And what of the millions you’ll kill?’

‘They will pass into Heaven. They are my sacrifice.’

‘You are beyond insane. You’ve not brought God into their lives; you’ve brought nothing but fear.’

Michael smiled to himself. ‘And that is the beginning of faith.’ He gestured to the eastern sky. Despite the dark storm clouds, there was the faintest hint of colour, just a thin dash of grey and purple. ‘Not long now.’

Billi tapped her sword tip against the floor; she’d had enough. ‘Come down and die.’

He spread his arms. And dropped.

Gravity didn’t take him; Michael was made of something other than crude flesh, bone and gristle. He was a being of light and glided to the floor, his toes first brushing the surface before settling himself firmly down.

‘Remember this?’ he said, holding aloft the Templar Sword and slowly turning the polished blade in the growing light. It had changed. Billi couldn’t see the difference, but she felt it. Power radiated from it, no longer mortal-forged steel, but something more, imbued with angelic energies.

Billi raised her own weapon. ‘Remember this?’ she asked.

Was it her imagination, or did Michael go pale?

‘A Silver Sword. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one. How did you get it?’

‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend,’ Billi replied.

Michael opened his mouth in a silent ‘ahh’ and nodded. ‘Satan. How ironic you should make a treaty with the Morning Star to destroy me.’

She stepped over a crossbeam, wary of the gaps in the concrete floor, carefully shifting her weight from one foot to the other, eyes never leaving Michael’s.

The swords touched, deadly edges stroking each other, testing for that first opening. Billi’s heart hammered with concentrated adrenalin, and minute jewels of sweat rose on her forehead as she sized up her opponent.

St Michael.

Archangel of the grigori.

Angel of Death.

God’s Killer.

Michael flicked her tip aside, swapped grips and Billi’s instinct took over. She didn’t even see the attack, but turned her wrist and the steel screamed. Flying sparks leapt from the killing edges as they both fought to drive their blades into each other’s flesh. Michael’s hot breath washed her face as they butted together, then sprang apart.

His offensive was unrelenting. The sword caught her arm, but she barely felt its sting. Billi backed away, deflecting attacks that came on like an avalanche. Michael’s blows smashed against the Silver Sword, and her arms ached from each assault.

The blades locked; her quillion caught the other’s hilt. She tugged hard, hoping to rip the weapon from Michael’s grip.

Michael grinned. ‘Is that the best -’

Billi screamed and headbutted him. Michael’s legs wobbled, just for a second, but it was enough.

As he fell Billi grabbed his sword-wrist and drove her knee into it. There was a jolt – it was like kicking a tree – but his fingers loosened their grip. She twisted her sword hilt; the Templar Sword slipped free and spun away.

Michael roared, ignoring the Silver Sword as it ripped across his ribs, and grabbed Billi’s head. Iron-stiff fingers covered her face. Muscle, bone, flesh, all flexed under the vice-like pressure. White-hot pain swelled in her skull, and her eyes bulged, ready to pop like grapes. But she wouldn’t quit. She hissed, consumed with battle madness.

The Silver Sword touched his stomach, and she pushed, deeper and deeper. Even as her jaw cracked and nerves screamed, she pushed.

Michael let go. He stumbled back, clutching his side. Billi gasped, suddenly free of the crushing fingers, and the ground rocked unsteadily as she tried not to faint.

Michael’s hands were sticky with his blood, but the stomach wound wasn’t fatal. His eyes searched for a weapon. He moved towards the discarded Templar Sword like lightning.