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Authors: Daniel Arenson
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lay her head upon his fur. Her tears filled that fur now, as blood had just a day before.
"Volkfair," she whispered, "I can't do this anymore."
He licked her cheeks, and Laila hugged him.
"All I ever wanted was some peace," she said. "A home. Friends. People to love me, people who I might love. Is that really too much to ask for?"
Volkfair stared at her silently, and Laila knew he could understand her. She could see it in his yellow eyes.
"I'm sick of being so scared all the time," she said. Volkfair licked her tears and nuzzled against her. "I'm sick of always being so lonely, of being so hurt, of running, of hiding. I can't do this, Volkfair, I just can't. I can't live this life."
There were ways to die, she knew, even for her, even for a being of her power. She could march back to Beelzebub and let him kill her. She could dive under the sea until the salt water drowned her pain. Yet where would she go in death, a half-angel, half-demon? She was outcast from both Heaven and Hell; if she died, where would her soul go? She could not become godlight like dead angels, ascend to Heaven and glow among its meadows, a being of peace and beauty; Heaven would be barred to her soul, even in death. Nor could her spirit travel to Hell, become hellfire like the souls of dead demons, burning forever in tar and lava. Hell's gates, too, would be locked to her spirit, the spirit of a half-angel. Her soul would eternally wander, a haunted shell of fading memories, lost and seeking a home that could never be.
I am Lucifer's daughter. The news still made her tremble, filled her stomach with ice, sent shivers along her arms. I am Satan spawn. Laila shut her eyes, bloody tears on her cheeks. Could she truly usurp Beelzebub, take Hell from him, mold it into that home she had always sought?
Laila hugged Volkfair. Tomorrow she would go with Michael to Caesarea. She would go underground.
"And if Angor kills me, so be it," she whispered, the moonlight upon her, tears in her eyes.
Chapter Five
Laila rode her motorcycle along the highway, the wind blasting her face, thudding against her wings, and streaming her hair. The bike bumped over every pothole and crack, threatening to toss Laila onto the pavement, but she did not care. At a hundred miles an hour she rode, the beach to her left, the hills to her right, dead burned lands and lurking horror ahead and behind. The bike growled and trembled beneath her, this bike she had found a year ago and repaired and maintained. Over the ruined plains of the Holy Land she rode, dawn rising around her.
It was only on these mornings, when she rode upon cracked highways at full speed, that she could find some relief. There weren't many roads left in this land—most were now cracked and weedy beyond use—but Laila made do with what she had. Driving like this, she felt free, more than when she flew, or drank, or fought. She needed to ride on this humming hunk of metal, over this broken road, and when cracks in the pavement tossed her aside, she did not mind. It would take more to kill her, and bruises and cuts only helped dull the pain within her soul.
When the sun had risen, she turned the bike around, heading back to the Crusader fort that stood fifty miles south. Riding like this, roaring over asphalt, ripping across the land, she didn't even mind the sunlight, and she wished she could ride forever. Yet still she returned, roaring up toward the fort, smoke rising behind her.
Today her journey began. Today she took her first strike against Beelzebub.
She screeched her bike to a halt outside the fort, a cloud of dust rising around her. Michael and a host of angels stood outside the fort gates, clad in filigreed armor, spears in their hands. Laila took some satisfaction seeing the dust cover their polished breastplates. She stepped off the bike, bared her fangs, and spread her bat wings wide. Her halo burst into flame, crackling. She smiled seeing them tighten their lips, tighten their grips on their
"Volkfair," she whispered, "I can't do this anymore."
He licked her cheeks, and Laila hugged him.
"All I ever wanted was some peace," she said. "A home. Friends. People to love me, people who I might love. Is that really too much to ask for?"
Volkfair stared at her silently, and Laila knew he could understand her. She could see it in his yellow eyes.
"I'm sick of being so scared all the time," she said. Volkfair licked her tears and nuzzled against her. "I'm sick of always being so lonely, of being so hurt, of running, of hiding. I can't do this, Volkfair, I just can't. I can't live this life."
There were ways to die, she knew, even for her, even for a being of her power. She could march back to Beelzebub and let him kill her. She could dive under the sea until the salt water drowned her pain. Yet where would she go in death, a half-angel, half-demon? She was outcast from both Heaven and Hell; if she died, where would her soul go? She could not become godlight like dead angels, ascend to Heaven and glow among its meadows, a being of peace and beauty; Heaven would be barred to her soul, even in death. Nor could her spirit travel to Hell, become hellfire like the souls of dead demons, burning forever in tar and lava. Hell's gates, too, would be locked to her spirit, the spirit of a half-angel. Her soul would eternally wander, a haunted shell of fading memories, lost and seeking a home that could never be.
I am Lucifer's daughter. The news still made her tremble, filled her stomach with ice, sent shivers along her arms. I am Satan spawn. Laila shut her eyes, bloody tears on her cheeks. Could she truly usurp Beelzebub, take Hell from him, mold it into that home she had always sought?
Laila hugged Volkfair. Tomorrow she would go with Michael to Caesarea. She would go underground.
"And if Angor kills me, so be it," she whispered, the moonlight upon her, tears in her eyes.
Chapter Five
Laila rode her motorcycle along the highway, the wind blasting her face, thudding against her wings, and streaming her hair. The bike bumped over every pothole and crack, threatening to toss Laila onto the pavement, but she did not care. At a hundred miles an hour she rode, the beach to her left, the hills to her right, dead burned lands and lurking horror ahead and behind. The bike growled and trembled beneath her, this bike she had found a year ago and repaired and maintained. Over the ruined plains of the Holy Land she rode, dawn rising around her.
It was only on these mornings, when she rode upon cracked highways at full speed, that she could find some relief. There weren't many roads left in this land—most were now cracked and weedy beyond use—but Laila made do with what she had. Driving like this, she felt free, more than when she flew, or drank, or fought. She needed to ride on this humming hunk of metal, over this broken road, and when cracks in the pavement tossed her aside, she did not mind. It would take more to kill her, and bruises and cuts only helped dull the pain within her soul.
When the sun had risen, she turned the bike around, heading back to the Crusader fort that stood fifty miles south. Riding like this, roaring over asphalt, ripping across the land, she didn't even mind the sunlight, and she wished she could ride forever. Yet still she returned, roaring up toward the fort, smoke rising behind her.
Today her journey began. Today she took her first strike against Beelzebub.
She screeched her bike to a halt outside the fort, a cloud of dust rising around her. Michael and a host of angels stood outside the fort gates, clad in filigreed armor, spears in their hands. Laila took some satisfaction seeing the dust cover their polished breastplates. She stepped off the bike, bared her fangs, and spread her bat wings wide. Her halo burst into flame, crackling. She smiled seeing them tighten their lips, tighten their grips on their
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