Kicking It

The smell of roses and incense filled the air, and something else, something as sharp as knives and as soft as feathers . . .

And the light around the dog rose up into a column, twisted, spread into wings, and as the dog snarled and snapped at it, it took on a breathtaking form. I could not exactly comprehend it, or see it directly, but the impression of wings and light and the stab of a golden spear burned through my closed eyelids.

The dog gave out a howl that pitched higher and higher into a scream, and rolled over and over on the floor, struggling to free itself.

It ripped loose of the light, and I saw its bloody eyes fix on me.

Beware the dog, Portia had said.

I had nothing else to fight it, but I wasn’t going down easy . . . not even to this hellhound. As Andy dove for the shotgun, I backed up to the wall, braced myself, and as the dog launched itself for my throat, I kicked.

The sole of my work boot met it right in the center of its broad, snarling face.

It yelped, landed awkwardly, and scraped claws on marble as it was pulled back into the blazing, sanctified light.

It went down hard, and lay there, pinned in place by what I could only think was . . . an angel. An avenging one.

Andy didn’t seem too impressed, even by a manifestation of heaven. He walked to me, opened the potions box, found what he was looking for, and poured it into the barrel of his shotgun.

Then he walked back to the pinned demon dog, put the barrel to its head, and fired.

The dog vanished in a cloud of greasy, filthy-smelling smoke. The angel faded with it, as if it couldn’t exist without its opposite; the smell of roses and incense lingered, though, after the terrible stench was gone. “Andy,” I said slowly, “we . . . we didn’t just kill an angel, did we?”

“Can’t kill either one of ’em,” he said. “But they’re both gone. That’s all that counts. Now come on. Lyons will be waking up.” We ran fast, dodging broken benches and fallen ceiling beams. The walls were black with mold, and roaches swarmed in dull hordes ahead of us.

We came to the end of the hall, and there, lying in the center of a ruined rotunda, lay Pete Lyons. He was still in his fine suit, flat on his back on a sleeping bag, and his battered cowboy boots were standing neatly together by his stocking feet.

He was already awake, and as we came to a stop, the circle of stone around him flared with hot red light. It looked poisonous, and Andy halted before he touched it. He extended the shotgun—and it hissed and melted where the metal touched the glow.

“You killed Fido,” Lyons said. He sounded different—hollow, somehow, and weak. Portia had been right; this was where he was vulnerable. But there wasn’t any way to reach him that I could see. The circle was an unbroken dome of crimson around him and the boots. “I’ll fucking eat your eyeballs for snacks.”

“You named it Fido?” Andy said. He tossed the melted shotgun aside, and I set the potions box down between us as he crouched to open it up. “Demons ain’t got much imagination. At least call the damn thing Spot.”

He combed rapidly through our bag of tricks, pulled out something, uncapped it, and poured. The silvery liquid sizzled and vanished on impact. No good.

Lyons was reaching for the boots. We had to break the circle.

Andy drew his pistol and fired. The bullets disintegrated on contact.

I tried another potion, then another.

And then I saw one tucked in way at the back—a mistake, really, jammed in with the high-powered attack potions.

Holly’s Balm: Andy’s calming brew, meant only for bringing peace to troubled souls.

I grabbed it, uncapped it, and poured the fluid on the surface of the red shield . . . and a white streak ran down where it touched the red. It had a glassy shine to it, and I yelled at Andy and pointed.

He fired at it, and the hardened shell . . . shattered. Popped like a red blood bubble, leaving spatter on the walls and on our faces, and it smelled foul. I wiped at it with my sleeve, but didn’t pause as I jumped the line.

Lyons had one boot in his hand and was fitting it on his toes. I almost reached for it, almost, but something stopped me—the memory of that feeling of snakes slithering on my skin. Fangs gleaming and ready to strike. If I touched it, it would own me, too.

Instead, I shifted my weight and kicked, hard. I broke Lyons’s fingers in the process, most likely; the boot flew off to smack against the far wall. I kicked its mate over to join it.

When Lyons tried to crawl after it, Andy stepped up, cocked his pistol, and put it to his head. “I wouldn’t,” he said. As always, he sounded way too calm. “Unless you want to see what’s on your mind, friend.”

Lyons froze, breathing hard, and I grabbed my potion box and ran to the boots.

They were moving. The pointed tips turned to face me, and worked into that battered leather was something living, a reptilian, vile face that stared back at me. Something that needed to go back to hell fast, because I knew it was capable of moving on its own now . . . capable of touching me.

And if it did . . .

I fumbled in my case and found what I was looking for; it felt hot to the touch, and I pulled the cap and threw it like a grenade, straight for the boots that were striding inexorably closer to me.

The potion ignited on contact with magic, and I reeled back from the fireball as it exploded . . . white-hot, a fury that held power of its own. The color changed, from white to a clear, fierce blue, and inside it the boots jittered, danced, kicked, and turned into snakes that writhed and bit each other in a frenzy of rage as the fire ate them slowly away into tubes of gray, inert ash.

“You bastard,” Lyons whispered. He was weeping, but it wasn’t in grief—it was bone-deep anger. “You fucking bitch. I don’t need the boots. I don’t need anyone else to take you down. I’ll burn every witch in this town, every one in this country. I’ll build a mountain out of your bones and piss on it—you hear me? I’ll end you!”

Andy took in a deep breath, then let it out. “That turquoise you got there on your bolo? It ain’t demon- touched. Only things you had to give you power were your knife, your boots, and your hate. Guess I’ll leave you the hate. You go out and try to make your case to people without those other things. We’ll see who wins in a fair fight.”

“You’d better kill me, witch!”

Andy holstered his gun. “Mister, you ain’t worth the powder it’d take.”

But he wasn’t above kicking Lyons right in the face when the man tried to lunge for him, and left him moaning in the fetal position on the floor with his broken teeth scattered around him.

“Fine job,” he said to me, and I smiled at him as I shouldered the weight of the potions box.

“You might just have to teach me to shoot for next time,” I said.

“Now, let me keep some advantage,” he said. “What with you not needing me for much else but—”

I kissed him. “But that?” I wiped some of the rotten red liquid from his cheek. “Never mind. I know what you mean. You’ve got demon crap on you. Maybe later.”

Lyons was still trying to make threats, but lying there in his blood and picking up teeth, bubbling tears and snot, he just looked like an angry, beaten old man.

Andy and I walked out into the clean, clear Austin evening, and drove home.

* * *

The protesters were gone. They’d left behind a mess of broken signs and rocks and glass, and spray-painted DIE, WITCH in red on our house, but none of them had lingered. I opened the garage door, and we parked the car. Andy took the potions case inside, and I went out to survey the damage.

The neighbor from across the street was on his porch. As I started to pick up some of the trash, he went inside, then came out again, walked over, and silently handed me a pair of work gloves and a trash bag.

He helped me clear it up. Not a word spoken until the very end, when he said, “I’ll be over tomorrow to help you clear that paint off the door. Can’t have that kind of thing in the neighborhood. Leaves a bad impression.” As if it were just gang graffiti.

I gave him a nod, fighting back tears. It was the briskest kindness I’d ever received, and the most meaningful. “Thanks,” I said.