Gods of Death

19 : His First Skyscraper

"That's four, who's next?" Victor stood a stride's length before the three Gods of Death and spat out the question before any of them had a chance to speak. Emma fwumped behind his head, but was otherwise silent.

"Well, aren't you eager?" needled Three with a pointed look at the imp. Victor ignored him.

"Just give us our orders and we'll get going. I thought there was a time factor on this deal."

Two leaned forward. "You've changed your tune," he mused. "How was Zadkiel, anyway?"

Victor looked at the fat God, his face filled with hatred and malice. Seconds passed during which no one spoke, the only sound the rhythmic beating of Emma's wings.

"f**k this," Victor said suddenly. He pulled the sword from its scabbard with a practised ease and swung it at Two, cutting through the air with a light keening sound. The sword connected quickly with the old man's rotund belly.

And stopped.

Two looked at Victor with a flicker of pure evil in his eyes and then punched him in the nose. Pain shot through his brain as his nasal bone shattered and a mixture of cartilage and blood exploded across his face. He staggered back, gripping the sword tightly.

"You f*****g i***t, do you think we could really be hurt by our own sword?" One shrieked, his voice octaves higher than its usually solemn monotone. He took his staff and struck Victor on the back of the skull. Something cracked and Victor fell forward onto his knees.

"Do you think we'd willingly pass you something that could kill us?" One shouted again, each word punctuated with another rap from his stick. Victor sobbed through the pain.

"I should f*****g kill you," added Two. He kicked Victor almost casually in the face.

"Now we will punish you," declared One. "Your defiance this far has been amusing, but no longer."

"Not him," Three spoke for the first time this meeting, "No." The small God knelt before Victor and cupped the man's chin with his hand, lifting it until their eyes met. "We are going to keep her for a while, to play with," he said, "this one you do alone. You can have her back once Raphael is gone."

He pushed Victor down and the floor melted. Victor felt his stomach heave.

Victor's face was a mess. He pulled himself up from the chill tiled floor and gazed into a bathroom mirror. Blood covered his features but his eyes focused on the area where his nose had been. It looked like the inside of an under-cooked pie. Victor vomited, a mixture of teleportation-queasiness, fear and personal despair.

He was in an elaborate public bathroom where marble counter-tops met gleaming sinks. A pile of soft towels rested to one side and Victor swabbed his face with one.

The pain was extreme and he staggered against the door just as it was pushed inward. Victor took a step back.

"My God!" the man who entered the room stood in shock and looked at Victor. His eyes dropped to the sword still tightly gripped in Victor's right hand and he turned and ran. Victor heard shouts from the room on the other side of the door and the sound of chairs clattering and footsteps running.

They're clearing out, he realised, they're running from the crazy sword-wielding man in the toilet.

He opened the door, staggered through into a sunlit room and dropped to his knees, unable to keep himself on his feet. The room was an open-plan office; massive windows let in the sun on all sides, making the space feel bright and airy. Wheeled chairs and desks holding laptops filled the main space, each left active in the wake of a sudden evacuation; some of the chairs still spun where their owners had hurried away.

There was a cough to one side, Victor turned his head to look at a short blonde woman. She smiled.

"The others left in a bit of a hurry," she said, her tone making the statement an apology.

"It's fine," Victor assured her, "I must look a bit of a mess."

"A little," the woman agreed. Her accent was an American one, but Victor wasn't well-versed enough to identify where. "Would you like some help?"

Victor nodded and the woman came over, carefully helping lift him to a chair.

"What happened?" she asked.

Victor laughed. "I got punched in the face," he said, "and then smashed on the back a few times by an arsehole with a stick."

The woman tried to smile but it didn't properly come. Victor shrugged apologetically.

"How did you get into the toilet," she asked.

"You wouldn't believe me."

"I might," she offered.

"It's some sort of teleportation. Makes me feel sick."

"Oh," she said. Victor wasn't sure if she believed him or not, it didn't matter. He looked out the window. They were very high up. The view was spectacular, looking over a city constructed in neat squares. It was his first skyscraper, he noted in the back of his mind.

"Do you have a name? I'm Sal."

"Hi Sal. Victor." Victor looked at the sword he still held in his right hand and held out his left by way of greeting. She touched it lightly with her own hand but made no move to hold it.

There was the sound of a door opening. Both Victor and Sal turned to see the slight young man who came into the room. He walked confidently, his loose cotton shirt wafting in the breeze from the air conditioning. "Thank you, Sal," he said in the tone of a man used to having others obey his orders, "you should go and join the others."

Sal scrambled upright and began walking straight away. "See you soon," she said to Victor. Victor nodded and watched as she shut the door behind her. He looked into the newcomers face and smiled.

"Raphael?" he asked.

The Archangel nodded, his golden halo blossoming gently behind his shoulder-length light-brown hair. Raphael reached his hand forward to touch Victor gently on the forehead and the pain was instantly gone. Victor could actually feel his nose rebuild itself.

"We need to talk," Raphael said, sitting on an armless wheelie chair identical to Victor's own.