He frowns.
“Are you going to fight me with a stick?”
“It’s very pointy. It’ll really leave a mark.”
“No tricks,” he says.
“No tricks. Just me and my stick.”
He doesn’t say anything because a second later he’s in the air, coming down like a falling star.
I need to time this just right. No more fuck-ups or half-assing it. I’m going to get one, maybe two shots at this, tops.
I really don’t want to lose to this guy. I’d rather work the reggae bar with ganja-head white-boy nitwits than let Mr. Universe get his smug way.
Michael closes in fast.
I bend my knees, dropping my weight back.
See you around, Candy. Stay sweet.
When he’s just a few feet away, I let my legs go and roll, so I drop down on my back.
Damn, but archangels are fast.
I get the amber knife up exactly where I want it, but he rakes his Gladius across my chest. My vision goes black for a moment from the pain. When I can see again, I’m very pissed off.
Even though I got Michael square in the chest with the amber knife, he’s standing nearby fresh as a fucking daisy. There isn’t even a mark on his armor.
When he sees me staring, he checks himself. Nope. Not even a skinned knee. He points at my hand.
“What exactly is that?”
He looks over at Samael.
“Did you give this buffoon your blade?”
Samael shrugs.
“Father isn’t going to be very happy with you.”
“He seldom is. But at least I’m not boring.”
“And I am?”
“No. Of course not. You’re terribly interesting. Read any good books lately?”
“I’ll deal with you later.”
He turns back to me.
“Didn’t we just agree to no tricks?”
“It’s not a trick. It’s a knife.”
“And no technicalities either.”
“What technicalities? You have a fucking sword. And you can fly. I have a knife. What’s your problem?”