Shadowstalker wrote:Glad to hear you are fine, and as Bert said what happened next, and do we still have to deal with Azrael?
“Fine” being . . . a relative term.
Ron Caliburn wrote:I wish I was back in DC to keep tabs on all of this.
Somehow, I’m not entirely certain about the tone meant behind that statement . . . .
I’ve never been skydiving before. So falling off the top of a building was a new experience for me. The ground was a rough cushion for my fall; jagged edges of the sidewalk kneaded into my back like the knuckles of a masseuse’s hands. To consistently disobey nature, to survive actions that would kill an ordinary woman without even feeling the pain; it’s a sensation difficult to describe to vulnerable mortals.
Best not to try to find the time to describe it; especially since Azrael had jumped down after me. I could see the glowing blade of amber being directed right between my eyes, Azrael following through the attack with a deadly pile drive, both hands clasped about the hilt, arms raised overhead so he could use the full momentum of the incredible fall and his awesome strength.
There has recently been a thread about those moments experienced where time seems to stand still. I have had a few, and with my keener senses, time always seems to move slowly for me anyway. But never have I had an experience of the sort as drastic as this episode, watching Azrael literally bearing down on me from the heavens. It was surreal; time lengthened perceptibly and became as tangible as the mists of London. I could see the triangular tip of Deathkiss glimmer with its mystic glow; the strain of Azrael’s toned muscles beneath his antique vestment; the contrast of his impassive face and the fevered intensity of his eyes.
And just like that, time snapped back into motion. Azrael’s booted feet hammered at my sides; Deathkiss came down like a bolt of thunder. I clapped my hands together, catching the flat of the blade between my palms. The blade stopped inches from my throat; Azrael strained to complete the blow, but my palms adhered to the blade with relentless force. The man’s muscles tensed with his effort to impale me; the veins at his neck were revealed in sharp contrast as the blood rushed to his face. He bent his entire weight behind the attack. The expression to his face remained absent, save for the fervent heat behind the flinty storm clouds that were his narrowed eyes. But the blade did not move.
I was the stronger of us two.
A shove of my left wrist bent the angle of the blade away, and the vibrant point skewered the ground. Azrael sank nearly to his knees before he could reverse the pressure. But by then I was shoving myself up by my right hand, grasping his sword wrist with my left hand and kicking out with both feet, smashing into his temple. The immortal shuddered with the strike, but was secured into position by the imbedded blade and my hand over his. For the briefest of instances I had him. He took the pain caused by my hits stoically, focusing on wrenching the sword free. But it wouldn’t budge, and his half-hearted attempts at parrying me failed. I countered a jab to my eyes and returned it with a palm strike to the side of his head. I leaped over a sweeping foot to trip me and smote him behind the ear with the heel of my foot.
But Azrael had not survived the centuries by being inflexible and slow. He grabbed my leg even as he staggered and hurled me across the alley. I crashed into the wall and pounced to my feet; he had pulled his weapon free and was charging me once more. A roundoff carried me free of his first swing, but a backhand to my cheek sent me across the alley in a disoriented pile; the flak vest skidded dully against the cement and gravel, flaying apart with the supernatural beating it was taking. I rolled to my feet, shaking my head quickly and plying my senses for my foe.
Azrael was coming through the alley slowly, Deathkiss held protectively before him; we had learned to respect each other’s abilities in short order. I cautiously fell into my Taekwondo stance; he continued to approach, weighing his next attack carefully even as I weighed in mine.
This time I saw his feint coming. He shifted quickly ahead and to the left as though preparing to come at me from a diagonal angle, widening the room for a wide swing. But dropping to his knee so quickly for a moment I lost sight of him completely, he started his attack at nearly pointblank range. But instinct saved me, and I pounced back with the speed of a twinkling even as the blade came up in a deceptively low strike, an arcing stab he had hoped to finish by driving the sword up my navel and through my heart. The miss was so miniscule I felt the heat of the sword’s magic wave my clothing underneath and tickle my skin with static. The flack vest front was shorn completely in half; he twisted Deathkiss in an effort to cut off my arm at the shoulder, but managed only to nick my skin. I shoved him aside and let loose a shin kick.
He retreated a step fitfully, his pace limping for the first few steps as he thought out a new attack pattern. That came a moment later, his blade flashing through a complicated web of thrusts, feints, and maneuvers. But outside the confines of the alley, I was able to utilize my agility to its full potency. We exchanged blows with the rapid-fire intensity of a strafing Gatling gun. But the speed of our attacks proved too much for the both of us. I parried the flat of his blade on my wrist; he swept aside my kick with his elbow; I dodged a chop for my head; my knuckle punch grazed his shoulder; and then luck finally seemed on my side. His lunge turned his back to me, only inches away. Acting on swift instinct, I shrugged free of the tattered flack vest and brought it over his head, wrapping it about his throat and bodily hurtling him over my shoulder in a motion designed to snap his neck.
“Whoo-hoo!” a voice hollered out. “Your shirt next, babe! Take it all off, honey!”
I started at the unexpected encouragement. My foe, struggling impossibly to his hands and knees, was staring, too. Suddenly, I realized why the battlefield had been so open. We were fighting on the sidewalk. The fight must have taken us clear across the other side of the alley. A small knot of people had gathered to watch the spectacle of our fight, crowding in so close I could see their individual faces in the streetlight’s glare.
And they were applauding.
And I wondered how Azrael would take it.
