Divine Misdemeanors

If Barinthus hadn’t been so bloody spectacular in physical appearance it might not have worked, but it was hard to stare up at a seven-foot-tall man with hair every shade of blue of the world’s oceans and elliptical pupils in his blue eyes like some deep-sea creature and not understand just how much magic was standing in front of you.

Bittersweet came whirring down from the balcony that looked out over the huge open living room. It was one of the biggest great rooms I’d ever seen. I saw her past Rhys’s shoulder as he and Barinthus tried to talk Steve Patterson into lowering the gun.

She had a bloody knife in her hand almost as big as she was, and just from the look on her face I knew she was Bitter, and not Sweet. We were about to meet her Hyde face-to-face.

“She’s coming at our backs, Rhys,” I said quietly.

“I’m worried about the gun,” he said between smiling lips as he tried to calm Patterson down.

I turned to face her, and yelled out, “I’m here to help you be able to make love to Steve.” It was the only thing I could think of that might get through the bloodlust I saw on her face.

It did make her hover in the air on her furiously beating wings. Blood dripped heavily and thickly off the tip of the improbably long knife. It had to have a wooden or ceramic handle around all that metal or she wouldn’t have been able to hold it.

“They’re here to help us, Bitter. They’ll help you be big enough for everything we want.”

She blinked again as if she heard him but couldn’t understand. I wondered if we were too late for reason. Had her mental illness eaten her to the point where bloodlust was more important to her than love?

“Bittersweet,” he said, “please, honey, can you hear me?” I wasn’t the only one worried about her.

“Bittersweet,” I said, “do you want to be with Steve?”

Her tiny face screwed up with concentration and then finally she nodded.

“Good,” I said. “I’m here to help you be with Steve the way you want to be with him.”

Her face was emptying out or filling up. The rage was leaking away, but more personality was coming into her eyes, her face. The knife fell from her hands to clang on the floor and spatter blood so that some droplets hit my skirt. I did my best not to flinch. It wasn’t the blood; it was the thought of it being Julian’s.

Bittersweet looked at her hands and the fallen knife and wailed. That was the only word for it. It was one of the worst sounds I’d ever heard come from someone. It held despair and torment and utter hopelessness. If the Christian Hell exists, then people should make that sound there.

“Steve, Steve, what did I do now? What did you let me do? I told you not to let me hurt him.”

“Bittersweet, is that you?”

“For now,” she said, and she looked at me. There was weariness in her face. “You can’t make me big, can you?”

“I might be able to, but the Goddess would have to bless us.”

“There is no blessing here,” she said. “The Goddess doesn’t talk to me anymore.” She landed on the floor and looked up at me. She was nude, but there was so much blood I hadn’t been able to tell until she got close. What had she done to Julian? Were Doyle and the others inside the house? Were they rescuing Julian?

She held her hand out to me. I knelt down. Rhys said, “Merry, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Put the gun down,” Barinthus said.

The men danced their three-way gun dance, but for me the world had narrowed down to the small blood-drenched figure on the carpet. I offered her my hand and she wrapped a small hand around one finger. She tried to call her glamour and roll me as she could some humans, but she truly didn’t have enough power. It was as if she’d gotten the appearance of her demi-fey father, but her magic was brownie. It was so unfair.

“You can’t save us,” she said.

“Bittersweet, she’ll make you big. We can be together.”

“I know there’s something terribly wrong with me,” she said, and she was calm as she said it.

“Yes,” I said. “I think you’d get an insanity plea pretty easily from any jury.”

She smiled, patting my finger, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “I can see into that other part of my mind now. It wants to do such terrible things. I’m not sure what I’ve done and what I just dreamed of doing.” She patted me again. “That other in me wants you to make her big, but once you do she’s going to cut the babies out of you and dance in your blood. I can’t stop her, do you understand?”

I stared at her, trying to swallow past my pulse. “I think so.”

“Good. Steve doesn’t understand. Doesn’t want to believe.”

“Believe what?” I asked.

“That it’s too late.” She smiled that sad, weary smile and then it was a totally different smile. She bit my finger and I reacted by jerking my hand, sending her flying skyward with my blood on her mouth. She went for the knife on the floor and a lot of things happened at once.

Steve yelled something and the gun went off. It was thunderous in the enclosed room and I was partially deaf as I watched her pick up the blade and come straight at me with that evil smile on her face. I didn’t try to draw the gun and shoot a target so small and so fast. I called my hands of power, my hand of flesh and my hand of blood. She slashed at me and I gave her my left arm to cut while I touched her legs with my other hand, the hand of flesh. A knife came from above and spitted her through the back, pi

I turned toward Rhys and Barinthus and found Barinthus on the ground bleeding. Rhys had his gun out and pointed. The other man was on his back on the floor.

Doyle leapt from the balcony where he’d thrown the knife from, and landed in a crouch on the balls of his feet and his hands. He came to me, taking off his shirt to wrap my bleeding arm. It didn’t hurt yet, which meant it was probably going to be deep.

Bittersweet’s body was dead before my magic began to roll her flesh inside out. She ended as a ball of unrecognizable flesh curled around the bisecting blade. The full hand of flesh could melt a body into a mass and the worst thing was that it didn’t kill the immortal. You could stop them, but for death you needed a blade. I was glad she’d died first.

“I’ll live. See to Barinthus,” I said.

Doyle hesitated, then did what I asked. Rhys was checking for a pulse on Patterson. He made sure the gun was kicked away from his hand, but when he turned and saw me looking, he shook his head. Patterson was dead.

I heard sirens. The neighbors had called because of the gunshots. Of all the times for someone in L.A. to call the cops.

Doyle helped Barinthus sit up. The big man winced and said, “I’d forgotten how much it hurts to get shot.”

“It’s not fatal,” Doyle said.

“It still hurts.”

“I thought you gave me the lecture about how the sea can’t be hurt,” I said.

He smiled at me. “If I hadn’t said it, would you have let me come?”

I thought about it. “I don’t know.”

He nodded. “It’s time I pulled my weight,” he said.

Cathbodua flew from the balcony, her raven-feather cloak looking more like wings than ever before. She knelt by me. “How bad is it?”

“Not sure,” I said. “Is Julian …?”

“He’ll live and he’ll heal, but he is hurt. Usna is with him now.” She held pressure on the makeshift bandage. Doyle was applying pressure on Barinthus’s side, and Rhys had put his gun out of sight and had his detective’s license out in plain sight when the police hit the door.

They didn’t shoot us, and they didn’t arrest us. It helped that we had so many wounded and that I was Princess Meredith Nic Essus. Every once in a while it doesn’t suck to be the celebrity.