Crossed (3 page)

“What won’t I do?” I demand into the surprised silence. The room is bigger than I expected, the long back wall dominated by a stained glass window you’d expect in a church. Instead of burning martyrs and pious saints, however, the figures are of great thinkers. Aristotle, Archimedes, Newton, Galileo (though I suppose he was nearly a burnt martyr, in his own way). The rest of the room is wood-paneled and dominated by a huge table and chairs that look more like thrones.

Despite the large room, the fifteen Crusaders cluster at one end. I look for Graff. I don’t recognize him at first, his appearance has changed so drastically. He used to be well-kempt, polished, the kind of fit that requires a gym so expensive they call it a health club. Now he’s gaunt; deep hollows are dug under his cheekbones; the bags under his eyes are bruise-dark. The upright posture is still there, but it no longer looks like the natural manifestation of arrogance, rather mere rigidity. His fancy suit is replaced by black jeans, though his shirt is still collared—a polo. Where there once was an elegant CEO, now there’s a used-up investment banker—the kind that stands on his desk hugging his stapler and screaming about manifestos until security drags him into early retirement.

He’s the first one to speak. To my surprise he looks perfectly happy to see me. “Good, we can just ask her and get it over with.”

“Get
what
over with?” I ask.

“Art—” warns a balding Crusader with a cane. “We haven’t settled anything.”

“We don’t have time,” snaps Graff, startling me with an uncharacteristic loss of control. I’d never seen anything crack his frosty, calculated façade. “You think she should be able to decide.” He jabs a finger in my direction, “so let her decide.”

“Decide what?” I demand. “Wait, ‘
should
be able to decide’? Hey, we had a deal—’

He looks at me. “I’m the only one in this room that wants to let you in on the secret Melange, so maybe shout at someone else for once.”

I do. “
What secret
?” I shout at the room at large.

“Art, I don’t think—” the Sarge begins in warning, but it’s too late.

Without the slightest hint of flourish, Sargent Graff steps to the side, revealing the wasted shape of Armand Delacroix.

Shock roots me in place.
It can’t be. He’s supposed to be dead.

He’s leaner than when I last saw him: his cheekbones are more prominent, the veins and tendons in his arms and the definition of his muscles are more conspicuous. His hair has been shaved and a long line of stitches runs just above his ear, but, much as I wish otherwise, it is unmistakably Armand.

He opens his glittering eyes. “Hello, Meda.”

Hello, Meda.

He’s supposed to be dead. Why isn’t he dead?

While shock holds me immobile, not so much Jo. She lunges with a bellowed “son of a bitch”—ironically, probably the only thing Jo’s ever said that Armand would agree with—and slams into him. The chair to which he’s bound flips backwards and they crash to the floor. Jo’s arm works like a piston and I hear meaty thuds as her fists connect with any part of Armand she can reach.

Someone should probably do something.

Hello, Meda.

Why didn’t the Crusaders kill him? I did everything but put a damn bow on his head.
The old saying’s true—if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. Though, Jo, given a few more minutes, might finish the job.

The Sarge is the first to snap out of her surprise. “Beauregard, get off him!”

Jo ignores her. The opportunity to kill Armand herself is an oft-spoken wish finally come true and she’s not about to let it go easily. As for the other Crusaders, they seem more amused than anything. The well-being of the demon in their midst is hardly a priority. The Sarge reaches into the flailing pair and hauls a screaming Jo off him.

Jo struggles in her arms, still shrieking. “You almost got us killed, you f—”

“Beauregard, enough!” the Sarge orders but Jo’s too busy with her hissing wildcat impersonation to pay attention.

“Melange,” snaps Graff in my direction. “Call her off.”

At the sound of Graff’s voice, Jo whips around. “And
you
.” The vitriol she manages to fit into those two small words is more startling than her attack on Armand. At least to me, but then I’m well-acquainted with her opinion of Armand. “Don’t get me started on
you
.” Her face is flushed a furious red.

The Sarge lets Jo’s feet touch the ground but doesn’t release her.

Graff ignores her. “Melange, call her off,” he repeats.

“She’s not my dog.”

Armand snorts from his position on the floor and that’s enough to send Jo lunging at him again. The Sarge’s grip holds her back.

Fed up, the Sarge jerks her chin at two other Crusaders whom I don’t recognize. “You two, throw her out.” Her tone is matter-of-fact. That catches Jo’s attention.

“What? Wait.” She stops struggling. “I’m fine. I’m calm.” But she doesn’t take her glare off Armand, whose chair is being lifted back up to its feet. The Sarge raises a brow that says her patience is up.

“I am,” Jo says. The Sarge releases her with one more warning glare and Jo straightens her shirt.

I take advantage of the few minutes of inattention to study Armand further. The months since we last spoke have not been kind to him. His battered appearance says this wasn’t his only beating at the hands of the Crusaders. Jo’s attack opened a cut on his eyebrow and red runs over his swollen eye and down his face, dripping from his chin. His clothes fit him poorly, not only because he has lost weight, but also because I suspect they weren’t his to begin with. This is probably not the first outfit of his that will need replacing due to bloodstains.

I can feel his eyes on me as I make my perusal. I can feel him straining against the chair, leaning forward in anticipation. Finally, I give him what he wants and meet his gaze.

His eyes are the same, dark brown and long-lashed, but filled with anger, hurt, rage, concern, longing, fury, all underplayed with a hint of madness. It’s as if he’s hoarded his emotions, just waiting for a chance to talk to me, to explain. And now, after months in the Crusaders’ brutal care, is the closest he’s come to an opportunity, strapped to a chair, bleeding, and surrounded by my allies. Perched on his bloody lips are a hundred questions, a thousand explanations. He searches my face, trying to suss out where we stand—whether I am his only hope in a room full of enemies, or whether I'm the worst of them all.

I meet his eyes and give him . . . nothing. I return his frenzied stare with a dispassionate one of my own. Whatever I’d felt for him died chained to a post in the Acheron.

I am not his hope, nor am I his nemesis. Rivalry requires passion, energy, a tacit acknowledgement of the other person’s equality. He is not my rival; he’s the small team in a sporting event that would rush the field if he ever beat me, whereas I’m the team who says “who?” at the mention of his name. He is nothing; less than nothing. He has been ruthlessly burned out of the fabric that is Meda. Discovering he is alive is like feeling an itch in a limb that’s been long amputated: surprising, uncomfortable, inconvenient, but ultimately inconsequential.

So I meet his eyes. I allow him to plunder their depths at will. I want him to see; I want him to know. I watch my complete disregard settle upon him, slide into his chest and squeeze the hope out of it.

I wonder how many minutes he’s spent thinking of this moment. He spent none of them predicting this.

Hello, Meda.

My eyebrow lifts and I let the corner of my mouth quiver with a contained smirk. An expression that says I find amusement in his pain, comedy in his hope.

His eyelids slide shut and he falls back into the chair as if he has lost the strength to keep his battered body upright. He shakes his head, a mere twitch, then his lips bend in a self-deprecating smile and I know he understands. I’ve won.

Again.

When his eyelids come back up, his expression is carefully blank. Shuttered. Not his eyes, though. Eyes can only hide so much, if you know where to look.

And I know where to look in Armand.

“Why isn’t he dead?” I ask, my tone as cold as my words.

There’s a pause while the Crusaders decide who—and what—to answer. “We wanted to ask him some questions.” Graff says.

“Demons can’t talk about hell. They’re forbidden.” I leave off the obvious “duh” that belongs at the end. The Crusaders are, after all, the ones who taught
me
that demons are prohibited from speaking of certain topics—as in literally physically unable—as part of their pact with hell. Even under torture.

Armand lets out a bitter laugh. “Their questions were about
you
.” I look at him sharply, then at the Sarge. She frowns but doesn’t deny it. “Our…” he pauses meaningfully, “
association
.”

“Can we get this over with?” Graff’s voice cuts in.

“Get what over with?” I ask the room without taking my eyes off Armand.

“You rejecting this plan so we can move on to something else.”

Now I turn to Graff. “How do you know I’m going to say no?”

He doesn’t dignify that with an answer.

“Hey, I resent that. I've changed. Really grown as a person.” I’m fighting for the Crusaders. I was almost sad Isaiah died. I haven’t taken revenge on Sergeant Graff for possessing me (though I haven’t really had time given, yanno, the whole war thing. But hey, I didn’t make it a priority. That should count for something). “Why don’t you just tell me and let me decide?”

“I’m not really sure . . .” says the cultured voice I’d heard before, a Judi-Dench lookalike. No one else offers and opinion. I look to the Sarge to gauge her reaction, but if she has strong feelings either way, she doesn’t let them show.

Graff waves a hand. “Why not? We don’t have the time to prevaricate.”

I shoot a look at Jo. “Bullshit,” she mouths in translation.

“Good.” I clap my hands. “We’re in agreement then. What is it you want me to do?” I spare Armand a cold stare. “Torture him?”

Armand laughs without lifting his head where it’s tipped back against the chair. “Something like that,” he says.

I look around the room for an explanation. There’s an awkward silence as the Crusaders decide who among them is going to break the bad news. In the end, it’s none of them.

Armand lifts his head from the back of the chair. I realize, too late, that his previous smile wasn’t a self-deprecating one; it was in anticipation of his own little victory. “Isn’t it obvious, my dear?” His little smile teases into something wider. Something with teeth. “They want you to marry me.”

THREE

“Nope.” I turn on my heel and stalk out.

It takes Jo a minute before she swings around to jog after me. I hear some rather maniacal laughter over the explosion of conversation behind me. Armand.

“Meda . . .” Jo says, when she catches up.

“Well, that was easy,” I say.

“Meda.”

“We should have plenty of time for some TV before bed.”

“
Meda
.”

“And maybe a bath.” I sniff my armpit and reconsider. “
Definitely
a bath.”

She grabs my arm. “I think we need to at least hear what they have to say.”

“
You
do, Miss Punches-First-Asks-Questions-Later? If it was up to you, he’d already be dead.” She doesn’t disagree. “What does it matter what they say? It’ll just waste a lot of time—and not just any time. Bath time. Fluffy-bed time.”

“They wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

“That’s great. Let one of them marry him.”

“Meda, stop.” She halts, grabbing my arm. “Aren’t you at least curious?”

“Don’t confuse your desperate need to know everything with a regular human’s mere curiosity.”

“Since when are you a regular human?”

I tsk. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Look, I know it’s got to be hard to see him.”

“No one likes running into an ex unexpectedly,” I say lightly.

“‘Running into an ex’?” Jo and her damn air-quotes. She jabs a finger back towards the room. “
He
tried to sell your soul to the devil;
you
chained him up and left him to die.”

“All relationships are complicated.”

She snorts. “Be serious. Let’s at least find out what they’re thinking.”

“Knowledge is power,” I mutter, and then wince when I remember that Armand had said the same thing to me, months ago.

Jo misses my reaction—or, more likely, pretends not to see it. “Exactly. It can’t hurt to just listen.”

I let out a long, moaning whinge—long enough that Jo is already dragging me back towards the dean’s suite before I’m done, then into the conference room. Then shoving me into a seat. Then through the Sarge asking what the hell that ridiculous sound was.

“I just want to be sure Jo understands where I stand on the issue,” I explain when I finally run out of air. The Sarge shakes her head. Armand no longer smiles, but rather leans back against the chair as if resting. The narrow gleam under his lashes betrays him; he watches us.

Crusader Puchard shuffles forward. I’d completely missed the diminutive form of the Crusaders’ magical expert in the crowd. It isn’t hard to do; beyond his gnome-like stature, his personality has all the force of a damp tissue.

While everyone else looks worn down and exhausted, older than I remember when I last saw them, Puchard looks exactly the same: a bald, speckled head, creased brown skin that looks like a crumpled piece of paper someone tried to iron smooth, watery eyes, enormous behind thick glasses. He probably looks the same because the only “older” available to him is “dead.”

He rubs his fingers together, the dry skin of his hands rustling like dead leaves. He taps his lips together with a thoughtful sound, a faint
pah, pah, pah
, as he considers how best to approach situation or, possibly, tries to remember where he is. Finally takes a few shuffling steps forwards and tugs one of the chairs away from the table. It takes him three tries to drag the heavy chair far enough back to slide around it but no one does him the insult of offering to help. Once he pulls it back far enough, he eases himself into it slowly, as if his hind-end is made of glass. Once seated, he paws through the piles of paper on the table, still
pah-pah-pahing
, until he either finds what he’s looking for or remembers that we’re all waiting for him to speak.

Already I regret my decision to listen.

Just when I'm about to give up, he finally speaks with the practiced projection of a life-long educator. “Free will is a crucial tenant of our faith. God is all powerful. He could control us if he wanted, but he wants us to
choose
goodness. Voluntary oaths are powerful, and our blood oaths are binding, because they are the product of our deep-rooted commitment. All Crusaders must voluntarily swear themselves into our service, and we trust their commitment to us and to our cause to guide their decision-making.”

He looks at me. His drooping eyelids and thick glasses give him the appearance of a scholarly hound dog. “Demons, too, require a voluntary selling of the soul. It can’t be forced or done during possession. However, once the soul is sold, the demons do not allow for free will. Quite the opposite.”

I’d already learned this in my short term at the Crusader school. Demons aren’t known for their loyalty—rather the opposite—so hell relies on magic to coerce their followers into obedience.

Puchard pushes his enormous glasses back up his nose. “Because voluntary oaths are so powerful, we think we may be able to use a Crusader oath to break a demonic bond. If they were in direct contradiction, then the voluntary oath must win out.”

I point out the obvious hole. “But he’s not a Crusader. How could he swear a Crusader’s oath?” But even as I say it, I figure it out. “Anyone who marries a Crusader becomes a Crusader,” I murmur, and Puchard grins, revealing largely empty gums.

“If we can break that bond,” he taps his fingers together, “the demon’s won’t be able to control the subject.” His faded eyes meet mine. “He won’t be bound by them anymore. We can get information from the demon—abilities, troop movements, names of their leaders . . .” Thanks to spell that limits what a demon can talk about, the Crusaders know pathetically little about the demons. Puchard smacks his paper-dry lips, practically salivating in scholarly lust. “Who knows what else we could learn?”

I glance at Jo. Her eyes glow. I’m not sure who’s more excited—her or Puchard.

Not good.

“Has any one does this before? Broken the bond?” I ask.

“Not through marriage, no, but . . .” Crusader Puchard purses his lips. “It used to be that demons could be redeemed—could stop being a demon and become a human again.”

“Used to be?”

“Yes, it hasn’t happened in a long time. Since long before I was born.” I make a little sound of awe. It’s hard to imagine a time that distant. “It required a sincere change of heart. It’s quite beyond our magic, but not His.” He points an arthritic finger upwards.

“A
change
of
heart
?” Jo sneers, looking at Armand. He doesn’t open his eyes. “How can you change something you don’t have?” she scoffs. “It’s a myth.”

Crusader Puchard turns his owl-like eyes at her. “And how much research have you done on the subject, hmmmm?” Jo returns his hmmmm with a hmph, but says no more.

“Why did it stop?” I ask.

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Puchard says unsatisfactorily.

I point at Armand. “What about his soul? Will he get it back?”

“No.” Puchard shakes his head and I fear his last remaining marbles might roll out. “We can’t save his soul. He swore it away voluntarily. The rest, all impositions put on him by the demons, yes.” He taps his fingers together. “Or, at least, we hope. But we can’t break his oath.”

“So, just to be clear,” Jo cuts in, loudly. “He’ll still burn in hell for all eternity?”

“Yes.”

Jo looks in Armand’s direction. “Good.” Now he does open his eyes and returns her sneer with a grim little smile.

I cut in with some questions of my own. “You’ve never done this before, how could you possibly know the ramifications? Will he be a human? What happens?”

Pah-pah-pah
, goes Professor Puchard before answering. “No, we don’t think so. He will remain just what he was, alive again.”

“So you’re saying he’ll be a Halfling again. A Halfling
and
a Crusader. Like me, you know, only the most magically powerful creature on the planet.”

The lack of horrified surprise suggests they already thought of that possibility. “Perhaps not,” Graff responds, unperturbed.

“
Perhaps not
?”

His mouth thins to its usual sour line. “It’s a risk we’ll have to take. After all, powerful though you are, you’re hardly invincible.” Jo’s hiss says I’m not the only one to catch the not-so-veiled threat. “We’ll keep a close eye on him.”

“You’ll ‘keep an eye on him’? Gee, that makes me feel better.” I turn back to Crusader Puchard. “If it’s so easy, why haven’t you done this before?” I ask. There’s a long silence that doesn’t bode well.

“We’ve never had a demon agree before.” Graff, again, is the one who answers. The Sarge shoots a look in his direction, but doesn’t add anything. Not a lie, but, I suspect, not the whole truth either.

I study the demon in question, wondering what he is getting out of it. His head is tipped forward, his chin almost to his chest, and his hair falls over his face. His arms are twisted behind him, forcing his muscular, rounded shoulders to jut forward uncomfortably. I notice for the first time that his legs, too, are chained to the chair. He watches me back, his expression still wiped clean, but for his eyes. His eyes burn.

I smile. A pleasant I-don’t-give-a-damn smile.

There’s a brief widening of his eyes; then he barks a laugh. Everyone in the room jumps at the harsh sound, except me. My eyes haven’t left him, as his haven’t left mine. His mouth is stretched into a crazy grin so wide it splits his damaged lip. Blood runs down his chin.

I turn my gaze back to the Sarge. “Anyone can be made to agree to a wedding,” I say. “It’s called a shotgun.” Then I recall the time Jo shot Armand. “Or holy blade in his case.”

“It’s a holy vow, Meda. It has to be made willingly,” the Sarge explains. ‘That’s the point.’ To her credit, she does not add the “duh” on the end that I deserve.

“And if I marry him, I can’t later get rid of him.” It’s more statement than question. I know the rules. I just want her to have the discomfort of copping to them.

“Well, no. Divorce is impossible.”

“I wasn’t talking about divorce.”

The Sarge almost smiles. “Well, no, you can’t kill him, either. Not without agony. Possibly death as well.” She flicks a look at Puchard for clarification, which he offers.

“Just agony,” he confirms.

“Gee, is that all?”

“Yes. Though the last Crusader killed herself to escape it.”

“Fantastic.” I look back at the Sarge. “Can
you
kill him?”

“Well, no. I mean, we could, but you’d be complicit—the result would be same.”

“And so I'm stuck, basically in his presence until we die.”

She has the grace to look abashed. “You have to spend certain amounts of time together, yes.”

“How do we even know he’ll talk once I marry him?”

“Torture.”

I brighten. “Oh. Well. That’s starting to sound better.” I look back at Armand, who still wears his slightly deranged smile. “So I can’t kill him, can’t divorce him, but I
am
allowed to torture him?”

“It wouldn’t be marriage,” says the Judi-Dench lookalike wryly, “if you weren’t allowed to torture each other.” A couple of smothered snorts are cut off abruptly by well-placed elbows from their partners.

“It’s a human relationship,” Graff says with dignity. “They all have their flaws.”

Armand snorts.

Jo’s hand grips mine. “Think of the possibilities,” she breathes, staring at Armand with undeniable hunger. “Everything we could learn from him.” Her grip on my hand tightens until it’s painful. “Finally,
finally
, we could even the odds.”

“Jo—” I say warningly, but she doesn’t seem to hear me. Too busy daydreaming about pulling demon secrets—and fingernails—from Armand. So much for
let’s just listen to what they have to say, Meda.

I expel a breath. “Was this his idea?” I see a few nods. “Yeah, thought so.” I expel another breath. “So, let me get this straight. The demon,” I point, because that’s what they do in all the courtroom dramas when condemning the bad guy, “has volunteered to give up his demon superpowers in a move that will motivate you guys to torture him, but you’re not going to be able to get his soul back from hell and can’t figure out exactly what’s in it for him. Do I have that right?” No one actually agrees, but their awkward silence is answer enough. “Yeeeah. And you don’t find anything, oh, I don’t know,
suspicious
about that? Anything at all?”

More awkward silence.

“So, the last time I fell for one of his tricks, I was dragged to the gates of hell, hunted by
two
super-powered armies and nearly sold my soul to the devil.” I may insist on learning things the hard way, but once I do, the lesson sticks. I point back at Armand. “Repeat after me, ‘Evil Mastermind.’”

“I told you she’d never agree.” Graff’s voice carries over the sudden argument that erupts over my unpopular decision. Jo looks a bit like a child whose candy was taken away, but with a scheme-ier edge.