Page 51 of Torn Between Two Worlds

“Ci, I had no idea. I mean, wow.” He offered her a hand to help her stand which she grasped onto weakly and all but relied on him to tug her up.

“Dale, I don't want to talk about it, okay?”

“Done deal, Ci. But come on. It's time we taught you more about your own heritage and figure out how to keep you safe, while you explain why your Guardian can't.

Stryder felt her pain. Somewhere off in the distance, he could still feel Ciara. Almost four weeks, almost, and his body wasn't the least bit battle worn. Scarred, bloody and beat to shit, sure, but he felt as if he could go on forever.

Cleaving the head of some idiot from his body, he turned and grinned, flashing fang at Fasheem. Fasheem had been released from his summons, famine apparently not an issue in that day and age where there was so much food stored. In fact, his brother had come to him almost immediately. He could've gone home, but he didn't. He had come to fight.

Demarcus had cursed him each time he’d appeared, and this was no different. “God dammit, Stryder!” His eyes flashed black, and his fangs reflected the setting sun. “Stop fucking killing them, or I'll be stuck here until after the fucking apocalypse.” He growled low and flashed out.

Stryder wasn't in control at that time. He was curious how Demarcus seemed so in control, but let it go when War pushed through their link and launched him away from an exploding grenade. Fasheem helped him up, and as they went to take down even more lives in the senseless fight, he swore he heard his brother praising the nations that had found peace.

So, the fighting wasn't everywhere.War thrashed at the thought, but Stryder didn't. He was tired of being a fucking vessel, and he was terrified of the two times he'd felt Ciara in danger and couldn't do anything.

27

Weeks slipped by, and Ciara had no idea what was up and what was down anymore. She'd spent her time between meeting in Washington with Dale and work. Her knowledge of the world she played in shifted each day.

They'd formed a friendship as they'd worked together. She could write and still keep the doorways closed. When she read, they stayed together and dealt with the aftermath. Dale had helped her learn the barriers of her gifts from Alcott. She could indeed play with the elements, and with a lot of focus, with gravity as she’d had done with Stryder the day in his house. But that was pretty much it. That and some of Stryder's demon traits were what they used. Dale was useless in a fight power wise unless she read next to a full tub of water, but he could heal them both, and damn if that wasn't needed.

She'd almost finished Demarcus' book, and it worried her. Stryder's was next. Would she read it? Did she even care anymore if he found someone else? How did that work? Was she mysteriously written into the book or not because Stryder remained as nothing more than a name on a page when she wasn't reading or being his Word Speaker?

It didn't matter. She'd given up. After more late nights crying on Gina's shoulder and plenty of practice session with her powers with Dale, she had pushed him away. Stryder wasn't coming back, and she, of course, couldn't seem to find the mysterious man who played with them like chess pieces to ask if he was still going too.

Rubbing her eyes, she shook some of the sleep from her mind. “Dale?”

“Hmm?” His head popped from the kitchen to the living room but didn't stop cutting the steak he'd made them.

“I'm really sleepy. I have to get back. Early day shelving new releases before the store opens.”

Dale looked a little put-off, and she was reminded he enjoyed his work and was pretty well off, as a computer programmer for Square Enix games. As they'd grown more comfortable with each other, he had offered to help her with rent in exchange for her reminding him that he didn't need evil to feel powerful.

“It's cool. I was wondering how much longer you could hold a block while you read. You look tired. Go do your little doorway thing and leave. Who knows, maybe your Guardian will be ready for some love making.” He waggled his brows, and she laughed and cursed him as she did just what he told her too.

It had been him seriously trying to comfort her at first, but it had become just a joke. She was beginning to wonder if she read a different book, is she would she get another Guardian and be able to banish Stryder from her heart. With a salute, she stepped through the portal back to her own state and couldn't help but think about just how awesome she really was. She'd never need a plane ticket again.

Stryder’s body ached. It had been over five weeks since the damn summons, but it was over. Heaven and Hell had settled their little pissing match. The apocalypse that could start from a balance shift was averted, for the time being. This shit happened every three-hundred years or so when some moron decided they were going to do some cataclysmic event to get the ball rolling. However, this had had help, and he swore he'd kill every Initiative member one by one for it.

He couldn't remember the last time they'd been occupied for quite such a long period. Usually, between the four of them, they could take down whatever moronic event was being planned, no problem. This one should have been a cinch job. Seven suicide bombers had teamed up, one for each continent. The problem was it was seven Initiative members trying to draw them out into a fight. A perfectly executed plan on their part and Stryder hated admitting someone else's battle plan was better than his. It didn't stop him from being annoyed that they had been summoned to stop a fight that the Angels may have known about since the Initiative had started it.

That was how the summoning worked. Something happened that tipped the scales in the favor of the Apocalypse starting, and then they were drawn to stop the event since only the fight between Lucifer and God could be the real catalyst. Everything else was just human casualties.

Stryder's mind was addled. He couldn't even remember all the things they'd used against him anymore. Pain was pain. It didn't matter what blunt force object, sharp, shiny knife, or skin-ripping bullet did the job. Do enough of it at once, and even the best of bodies would feel it.

He walked into the bathroom of his house, stood with his back facing the mirror and craned his neck over his shoulder to look “Damn, completely sliced.” Blood was no longer dripping, but there was a large gash from a whip from a few days before. The thing was infected if the yellow coloring was any indication.

Blood dripped into his eyes from a crack to his skull where he'd been slammed into a rock in the last wave of the attack. He pushed his nose and snarled as it snapped back into place. It must have been punched in at least ten times since the battle had begun. Difficult to win something quickly and wound free when his opponents had been devising the plan for what seemed like years with all the thought it appeared to have.

When it had finished, the four of them had been left standing in a warehouse in Cairo. Many leaders had been taken down, but he hadn't seen Jonathan there. Many innocent humans had been caught in the fight as well, as was with all wars. But not Jonathan. That little prick was a pain in his side, and he was damn tired of dealing with him. Once they'd realized the setup, he had scanned each and every human for the little prick. No luck.

Running the water, he carefully washed the blood out of his eyes and cursed. His poor vision wasn't from the blood. He'd been slashed and shot at with so much of their specially angel made poison that he was dizzy from it and more than annoyed that they'd been fighting both the problems created by the Initiative as well as the group themselves. He'd need a brother and from the feeling that was rocking through him, fast.

His cell had been obliterated in the attack, and he didn't want to use the landline, but he was in no condition to flash himself to Paris where Jameson lived. His youngest brother was always the least damaged out of them after a fight. They speculated it was because he could kill with a single cough in someone's mouth, some evil power he could call when merged with his horseman.

Stryder rested the bulk of his weight on the kitchen counter while the phone rang. “What's up, bro? You need some juice?” Jameson's voice sounded damn stable, considering.

“You could say that. Can you get here? I can't leave. Took it worse than I thought.”

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