Page 32 of Night in a Waste Land

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ve had a makeover,” Beck deadpanned, his wings rustling. “As you can see.”

“Yes.”

They sized one another up like two tigers who’d crossed paths in the jungle.

The general said, “It has wings.” The man’s face was slack, but his eyes sparked with alarm. Surely he’d seen what they’d all seen in the last five years:a lot. The old rules no longer applied; whether they claimed to be good or evil, impossible creatures stalked the forests and streets of the world wearing human skin. Beck defied logic in much the same way – and was even more visually intimidating besides.

Beck turned his head a fraction to face the man. “It does have wings, yes,” he said, deceptively light. “And eyes and ears. And critical thinking abilities. Would you like a full inventory?”

The general hitched himself up higher in the chair with a disgruntled huff, brows slanting down in an expression that screamedI’m the general, damnit. “Captain Bedlam,” he said, sternly.

“Yes, sir.” Bedlam stood. “My knights, sir, of Golden Company. Sergeant du Lac, Sir Greer, Sir Gavin, Sir Gallo, and Sir Mayweather. They requested a short leave in which they could attempt a soul retrieval – the soul of Mr. Becket, here. As you can see, it was successful – in a way.” Her brows lifted on the last, in silent question.

“The procedure went smoothly,” Lance said. “Though there appear to have been some – side-effects.”

Beck’s wings rustled again. “Oh, now they’re side-effects.” He sounded faintly amused.

Rose touched his hand, briefly, comfort and reassurance. She couldn’t bring herself to censure him, not even in front of a general.

“How did you do this?” the general asked.

Rose hesitated, because she didn’t feel like giving away what felt like a secret. She imagined the military en masse, lined up outside the modest gray church in Wales, a line of requests; that great, swirling mist figure on his stag diving and reappearing, until the whole room was boiling and blue with his holy magic. The idea repulsed her, viscerally, even as she acknowledged her own selfishness. Weren’t there others, down in the pit, who’d left those behind who loved them and would sacrifice to get them back?

Gallo, of all people, spoke up: “It was Rose – that is, Sir Greer, sir, who knew how to do it. A saint, and an offering. The saint brought him back.”

The general’s gaze sharpened. “What was the offering?”

Rose said, “A few drops of my blood. And an artifact.”

“What sort of artifact?”

“A dagger. Forged in hell.”

Again, his gaze blew wide with shock – and again he tried to suppress it with bluster. “Where did you get it? Is there another?”

“No, sir. There was only the one.” She left the other question unanswered.

~*~

“General Waits is old-fashioned,” Captain Bedlam said, a few minutes later, when she had Rose and Lance seated opposite a desk in a tiny, cramped broom closet of an office. “He’s a good man, but all of this” – she made an impatient, all-encompassing gesture – “frightens him, I think.”

“Everyone’s frightened,” Lance said.

“Careful,” she warned. Then fixed Rose with a look. “Why the hell does he have wings?”

“I don’t know,” Rose said. “He hasn’t told us anything about his time down there.”

“And you haven’t asked?”

“No,” Rose said, firmly – more firmly than was respectful.

Captain Bedlam’s brows lifted. “Why not?”

“Because it washell. Ma’am. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.”

She held her captain’s gaze unflinching, until Bedlam’s flickered away, muscle in her jaw clenching. “Why the wings?” she asked again, to both of them. “Is he a demon?”

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