fall, but cannot become mortal. Demons can ascend within Hell, but cannot become ethereal. Mortals must not possess immortality, and a human that is born without mixed blood must remain human. This is The second law of the Treaty of Dis.”
More shifting in the stands. Someone in the stands muttered, “So mote it be.”
James waited for an explanation, but the guard only stepped into the shadows under the stands again.
“But I haven’t broken any laws,” he said.
The judge spoke once more. “This is our accusation: you have tampered with fate, turned yourself from a human into a demon, and now possess immortality. Your blood is impure. You are charged with violating the Treaty of Dis. How do you plead?”
James’s head spun, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the smoke, the heat, or the accusation. “Innocent,” he said. “I’m innocent. I’m not a demon.”
“Then we will collect the full Council, and you will go on high trial.” A hand rose from within the robes. It looked like a human hand, just like any other, but the skin was pale and the fingers were delicate. “Take him to the prison.”
III
DECEMBER 2009
I t was almost midnight on a cold, snowy evening, and Gary Zettel was patrolling the Union warehouse’s perimeter. Leather gloves and a black scarf protected him from the chilly wind, and his gun, vest, and slacks blended in with the darkness of the night. Only the white, six-inch letters stamped on his chest in reflective tape caught any light.
He shifted his grip on the gun to keep his fingers limber as he headed down the south side of the fence. The dirt had been packed down and laced with pressure-sensitive wire that could pinpoint the position of an intruding mouse, but beyond the barbed wire was nothing but wild, unguarded desert. Sagebrush and sparse trees made formless shadows that Zettel could imagine as a hundred hostile beings—a mob of angry human survivors, possessed demons, or some other foe they had yet to face.
But the night was quiet. An icy breeze whispered through the sagebrush. His footsteps crunched on the dirt, and his leather gloves creaked as he checked his gun’s safety yet again.
Zettel reached the corner of the fence, swiveled, and headed in the other direction.
His aspis, Allyson Whatley, hurried out of the building. She was bundled in a heavy jacket zipped to her chin. He felt her approach an instant before he saw her; he always knew where she was, even when they were in different states.
Her square face was triumphant. “I did it.” She faced the cold desert as she spoke, and she barely moved her lips. “I finally did it.”
Zettel turned off his earpiece. “Let me see.”
She removed a scrap of cloth from her pocket. A complex symbol was embroidered in the center of the white linen square and stained by a bloody thumbprint. From her other pocket, she took out a folded piece of paper on which she had drawn the same symbol.
“Watch,” she said, and she flicked the paper in the air.
It burst into flame and turned to ash in her hand. The paper was gone so quickly that Zettel almost didn’t believe that he had seen it.
Allyson had finally replicated written magic.
“Does this mean you can make the wedge?” he asked, pulse speeding.
“I’ve already started.”
Zettel struggled to suppress his excitement, but the implications of this were dizzying. He punched his fist in the air. “Yes,” he hissed. It was the only moment of celebration he would allow himself.
“I’m going to finish it,” she said. “You can contact HQ when you’re ready. But…quietly.”
He nodded. Yes, quietly. Nobody could know what they had found. Not yet. And especially not his commander.
“I have two hours left on my shift,” he said. “Do you think you’ll be done by then?” She hesitated, and then nodded. “Good. Great. I’ll see you in two hours.”
“We’re so close,” Allyson whispered.
He nodded stiffly as she stuffed the cloth back into her
More shifting in the stands. Someone in the stands muttered, “So mote it be.”
James waited for an explanation, but the guard only stepped into the shadows under the stands again.
“But I haven’t broken any laws,” he said.
The judge spoke once more. “This is our accusation: you have tampered with fate, turned yourself from a human into a demon, and now possess immortality. Your blood is impure. You are charged with violating the Treaty of Dis. How do you plead?”
James’s head spun, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the smoke, the heat, or the accusation. “Innocent,” he said. “I’m innocent. I’m not a demon.”
“Then we will collect the full Council, and you will go on high trial.” A hand rose from within the robes. It looked like a human hand, just like any other, but the skin was pale and the fingers were delicate. “Take him to the prison.”
III
DECEMBER 2009
I t was almost midnight on a cold, snowy evening, and Gary Zettel was patrolling the Union warehouse’s perimeter. Leather gloves and a black scarf protected him from the chilly wind, and his gun, vest, and slacks blended in with the darkness of the night. Only the white, six-inch letters stamped on his chest in reflective tape caught any light.
He shifted his grip on the gun to keep his fingers limber as he headed down the south side of the fence. The dirt had been packed down and laced with pressure-sensitive wire that could pinpoint the position of an intruding mouse, but beyond the barbed wire was nothing but wild, unguarded desert. Sagebrush and sparse trees made formless shadows that Zettel could imagine as a hundred hostile beings—a mob of angry human survivors, possessed demons, or some other foe they had yet to face.
But the night was quiet. An icy breeze whispered through the sagebrush. His footsteps crunched on the dirt, and his leather gloves creaked as he checked his gun’s safety yet again.
Zettel reached the corner of the fence, swiveled, and headed in the other direction.
His aspis, Allyson Whatley, hurried out of the building. She was bundled in a heavy jacket zipped to her chin. He felt her approach an instant before he saw her; he always knew where she was, even when they were in different states.
Her square face was triumphant. “I did it.” She faced the cold desert as she spoke, and she barely moved her lips. “I finally did it.”
Zettel turned off his earpiece. “Let me see.”
She removed a scrap of cloth from her pocket. A complex symbol was embroidered in the center of the white linen square and stained by a bloody thumbprint. From her other pocket, she took out a folded piece of paper on which she had drawn the same symbol.
“Watch,” she said, and she flicked the paper in the air.
It burst into flame and turned to ash in her hand. The paper was gone so quickly that Zettel almost didn’t believe that he had seen it.
Allyson had finally replicated written magic.
“Does this mean you can make the wedge?” he asked, pulse speeding.
“I’ve already started.”
Zettel struggled to suppress his excitement, but the implications of this were dizzying. He punched his fist in the air. “Yes,” he hissed. It was the only moment of celebration he would allow himself.
“I’m going to finish it,” she said. “You can contact HQ when you’re ready. But…quietly.”
He nodded. Yes, quietly. Nobody could know what they had found. Not yet. And especially not his commander.
“I have two hours left on my shift,” he said. “Do you think you’ll be done by then?” She hesitated, and then nodded. “Good. Great. I’ll see you in two hours.”
“We’re so close,” Allyson whispered.
He nodded stiffly as she stuffed the cloth back into her
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