Morning Star (Sins of the Father 3)

1

My muscles bunched as I slashed with my beloved new instrument of warfare, with the fury and delight of a man wielding a whip. The wind sang with every lash and stroke, the laughter in my chest matching the whistling of the air as I attacked again and again. Metal clanged against metal when my morning star met its mark.

“Hey!” Raziel stumbled backwards, the weight of the blow striking heavily against his shield, leaving pock marks and dents. “Be careful, Mason.”

I hefted my weapon over my other shoulder, preparing for another strike. “This is me being careful.”

As light as divine steel could be when deployed in battle, it still landed with the brutal force of forged metal. Weightless to wield, but more or less unstoppable when it came to crushing things. Or people.

Metal clanged again when my weapon’s three heads crashed against Raziel’s shield.

“Dude,” Florian said, feeding himself another peanut. “Take it easy.” Next to him, Priscilla ooked in agreement, shaking her head at me in disapproval.

It was a nice, warm day in Paradise, birds twittering, trees rustling in a gentle breeze, with nothing else disturbing the peace except for the grunts and clangs of two angels locked in battle. Well, an angel and a half, I suppose.

Florian and Priscilla were bored enough to peel themselves away from the television Artemis had somehow rigged to work in the center of Paradise, neatly accessible from each of our huts and the domicile’s entrance. Artemis herself was nowhere in sight. If she’d been napping, Raziel and I would have found out the painful way at least a half hour ago, probably used for archery practice for the crime of waking her up.

“Mason, I said to slow down.” Raziel’s eyes and nose peeped above the top of his defensive barrier. My voluntary sparring partner had clearly summoned an enormous full-body tower shield because he was worried about getting his not-fake designer threads all mussed up.

The outfit of the day was a distressed tank top, holes slashed haphazardly all over what little fabric still clung to Raziel’s body. His jeans were similarly distressed, his leather boots intentionally scuffed. I never realized people paid such a premium for clothes that looked like they’d been fed into a woodchipper, but there we were.

“I thought you’d put up more of a fight.” I took another swing, perhaps a little too proud of the weapon that I’d improvised out of thin air.

The only thing better than a mace, I’d learned, was a morning star. Sometimes it’s called a flail, just a handle or a shaft with some chains on it, and with huge, heavy balls on the end of each chain to smash people with. Stop giggling, this is serious.

Now, a morning star? Imagine every ball is studded with spikes. Now we’re talking. Of course, that’s the kind of thing that can seriously injure someone, maim them, kill them. Morning stars would have a limited use if I was just trying to fend an attacker off and not actually end them. They were great for caving in chests and skulls with both blunt force and some truly awesome spike action.

And those spikes? As far as I knew, they didn’t keep morning stars in the armories upstairs. The spikes were my own special, unique touch, attached lovingly through the magic of creatio ex nihilo – of making something out of nothing.

Clang. Clang. Even with the morning star’s feather-lightness, my muscles strained with every attack, meaning to deliver maximum impact with every blow. Raziel could take it, right? He was an immortal angel and everything, plus he was leagues better than me at all this Vestment stuff.

Clang. Thud. Raziel’s shield went flying. My heart surged with the excitement of being strong enough to knock the damn thing out of his hands. I admit, it was amusing seeing how Raziel’s eyes went huge when he found himself defenseless.

But I should have stopped when that last blow smashed Raziel’s shield clear out of his grasp. That would have been the sportsmanly thing to do, but the battle in my blood kept on raging, singing, and without meaning to, I let my muscles carry on their rampage, bringing the morning star down in one last, decisive blow against Raziel’s torso.

“Oh, shit,” I muttered, just as metal clanged against metal yet again, just as a golden flash of light dazzled me long enough that I had to shield my face and stumble away.

From somewhere nearby, Florian gasped, and Priscilla gave a long, awestruck “Ook.”

It only took seconds for my vision to clear, but I couldn’t believe my eyes. Raziel stood before me, only it wasn’t him exactly. I’d never seen him unfurl his wings before, and I never knew that he had four of them. One pair was wrapped protectively across his torso, their feathers stronger than steel, enough to repel my morning star. The other pair loomed above his shoulders, majestic, radiant, reflecting the light of the sun. I’d never seen the angel of mysteries look more, well, angelic.

“Holy crap,” I murmured.

“Holy, yes. Crap? Not quite.”

Raziel brushed a loose feather off his shoulders, then spread his arms. His wings sprang out to meet them parallel, then folded up, disappearing back into his body like they’d never been there. Just like that, we had the old Raziel back, just some slightly awkward dude in his thirties with a striking sense of fashion and a perpetual look of disapproval on his face.

“You were enjoying that far, far too much, young man. That’s quite enough.”

My morning star’s chains rattled as it thudded to the ground, then disappeared. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I definitely got a little carried away.”

“I expect a firmer grip on discipline in future, Mason.”

Florian swallowed noisily before speaking up. “You could have hurt him, dude.”

My toe dug into the ground, and I bit on my bottom lip. “Okay. I swear, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. But hold up, how come you’ve got four wings?”

“Yeah,” Florian said. “What’s up with that?”

“Oh, those?” Raziel brushed his shoulder off again, a smug little smile creasing his lips. “It’s kind of a status thing. That’s a simple way to translate it into mortal terms. You know about the hierarchies of angels, yes? Well, the stronger you are, the more wings you have. That about sums it up.”

I looked over each of my shoulders, suddenly aware that I hadn’t even used my own wings in ages. “Will I get more than just the two?”

Raziel shrugged. “In time, as your power grows, who knows? You might discover that you’ll have grown another pair yourself.”

“Hah. He said to grow a pair.” Florian guffawed as he popped another peanut in his mouth, the pile of shells between him and Priscilla steadily growing into a little mountain. Priscilla chortled.

“That’s not at all what I said. The point is, Mason needs to use his wings more.”

“Nope. No way. Not after the first time. I didn’t know I could get airsick so badly. Never even been on a plane, and figuratively driving from the cockpit all by myself was not a great way to discover that my stomach was so sensitive to that shit.”

> Raziel harrumphed. “Ridiculous. An angel who refuses to use their wings? You’re being absolutely ridiculous. Flying is like a muscle, Mason. It needs to be trained. You’ve gone without using your wings your entire life. Of course it’s going to be difficult at first. You’re very much like an infant learning to walk. Imagine if you mastered the gift of flight. Imagine the advantages you could have in battle over your enemies.”

“Pssh. Don’t need flying for that.” I flexed my biceps, posing and grunting for effect. “Check out these guns.” I pointed at the indentation in the ground left by my now-missing morning star. “Plus I can summon the Vestments, or enhance them.”

Or fire an entire cannonball into someone’s face. I left out that last bit because I didn’t need Raziel lecturing me about learning to control my ability to create matter, either. Making that cannon had drained me physically and spiritually. It took a hefty amount of time to recover from the strain and get back to normal again, whatever normal meant for me, that is. The two weeks of intermittent fever and chills weren’t very much fun, either.

“I’d caution you not to be so smug about your abilities.” Raziel folded his arms and sniffed. “You need to be ready for battle, any time, any place, and if that means calling on all of your talents to help you, then so be it.”

“Oh, please. Let me rest a little, Raz. I only just went through that crap with Loki, and I still need to collect his fee. Don’t tell me you expect someone to come and attack me again so soon.”

A pillar of crimson flame burst out of the ground just then, sending bright red sparks up into the sky. Priscilla leapt to her feet and beat her chest, howling. Florian sat there, mouth agog. Raziel raised his hand above his eyes as he retrieved his shield, and I readied myself to call one from the Vestments as well, just in case. I knew who was coming, anyway, even if I didn’t like it.

I couldn’t help my teeth clenching as I grunted out a greeting to the thing emerging from the fire. “Belphegor,” I grumbled.

The demon Prince of Sloth stepped out of the shaft of flames, kicking at a crimson ember that happened to be sitting in his way. “Mason Albrecht, and all your little friends.” He grinned, sharp teeth burning red in the firelight. “Long time no see.”

2

I folded my arms, lifting my chin as I scrutinized the demon. “It’s a little early for you to be showing up, isn’t it?”

Belphegor’s eyes flitted to either side of him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He wore the same skin he’d been using for months now, the one that made him look like a teenage skater, eyes rimmed red from all the pot, hair hidden under the hood of his jacket. As for what hid under his hair – I shuddered. Best not to remember what his third eye looked like.