Page 72 of Dead Wrong

Before long, I heard footsteps, followed by what sounded like the wheels of a wagon on the paved driveway. Azzy was right. They were getting closer. And I was an easy target, bleeding on the azaleas.

“This way,” a soft voice came from my right.

I turned to see a pair of eyes looking at me from the bushes, followed by a clawed hand, outstretched and beckoning me with a come-hither motion. The other footsteps grew even louder, the rattling wagon noise unmistakable now.

“Quickly,” the voice said again, the hand disappearing into the brush.

What did I have to lose? If I stayed here, they were going to find me eventually. Gritting my teeth and doing my best not to lean on my injured arm, I crawled over to the bushes in question, pushing aside branches till I found the owner of those peering eyes.

“Balthus…” I breathed, coming face to face with the grey-haired Unseen. He wore a dirty pair of coveralls, his beard long and unkempt, and his eyes sunken into his head. But it was him. Of that, I was certain.

“Quickly,” he repeated, turning around and moving in a crouch through the cover of the brush.

With great effort, I followed, wincing with each branch that dug into the wound on my shoulder. My mind raced. Did Balthus know that his son was here, in the garden that he’d been sequestered to for all these years? Did he realize that he was closer to liberation than he’d ever been before? Did he recognize me, the man responsible for sending his son away?

Moving out from under the brush, Balthus deftly maneuvered over to a glass-paned greenhouse, ducking behind one of the walls, his outline becoming obscured by the frosted glass. I did my best to mimic his movements, but I was far less graceful in my weakened state, and I knocked into one of the large clay pots in rows outside of the greenhouse. The resounding noise of the pot colliding with glass echoed through the garden like the lone songbird, calling all who could hear to its location.

“Over there!” someone shouted.

I rounded the greenhouse, coming alongside Balthus and lowering myself down. Through the paned glass, I could see two shadows approaching from the main path, moving quickly. The stolen blade hung off my belt, and it would take some maneuvering to draw it in my position.

Balthus silently reached over to one of the pots, producing a small trowel from the dirt and clutching it to his chest. He gave me a look that told me he understood fighting was the only way either of us were getting out of here. I only wished I could have spoken, could have told him that his son was out there. That if we could somehow make it through the next few minutes, he could see him again.

“Come out of there,” the commanding voice ordered us.

Neither of us moved.

“Angle thirty-two degrees east,” the voice continued, speaking so softly I had to strain to hear them. “Fire in three, two, one?—”

A sharp whistling, and the greenhouse walls imploded. Glass rained down on us, thousands of tiny daggers slicing into our skin and burrowing where they could. Without the cover of the greenhouse, we could see the two soldiers standing just a few yards away and further down the path, some sort of contraption on wheels, smoke billowing from the end of a long barrel.

Mustering the last bit of strength, I pushed myself from the ground, drawing the blade from my belt. The handle was slick, and I realized it was my blood oozing from the dozens of cuts sprawling across my hands. Balthus took his place beside me, giving me a solemn nod as we accepted the fate ahead of us.

How fitting it was that I would die beside the man whose life I had destroyed. A sort of cosmic karma, trying to balance the infinite scales of reality. It brought a moment of eerie calm to me at that moment. To know that my life was nearly over. Maybe if I was quick enough, I could make sure Balthus had the best chance to escape.

It was the least I could do for him now.

The soldiers eyed us, their wariness fading by the second, replaced by a foolhardy confidence. One of them raised a device to their mouth, speaking into it.

“Prepare another round, same coordinates. Fire in three, two, one?—”

Balthus and I braced ourselves, and I wrapped whatever dregs of magic I could pull into my aura around him, hoping it would be enough to keep the damage from being lethal.

But the shot never came.

The soldiers turned to look back at the weapon, and then one of them swore, a fresh rivulet of blood pouring down his cheek from a slash across his face. He reached for his weapon, but the shimmering image of Azzy flickered into reality as he struck, his clawed hand wrapped in violet light as he dug into the soldier’s chest, ripping out a chunk of flesh. The man collapsed to the ground, moving no more. The other soldier moved to strike, but Azzy was faster, knocking them off their feet. As he knelt down to deliver a slash across the soldier’s throat, Balthus let out a whimpering breath.

“Azrael?”

The Unseen man looked up from his kill, flicking his wrist to rid his claws of the bits of flesh that clung to them. His eyes widened as they fell on his father, for what I knew was the first time in decades.

“Papa?”

Balthus moved to greet his son, but then a whistling filled the air, and all I could do was watch as the older man shoved Azzy off his feet, the bolt of light striking him squarely in the chest. He hung in the air for a moment, his hand still outstretched, reaching for his son. Then he crumpled to the ground.

I couldn’t think. Couldn’t process what happened. My body moved of its own volition, running for the weapon, fingers gripping the bloodied handle of my blade as I drove it into the back of the soldier who clung to it as weakly as he clung to life. He uttered his last breath, and then the garden was quiet.

So, so quiet.

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