Free Web NovelChapter 5: Chapter 5: Miasma
The last thing Amon wanted on a day he couldn’t even cuddle with his wife was a white-haired angel on his doorstep, and an old man glaring at him like he was hiding something shameful.
"Stop glaring at me. I’m loyal to your daughter, Pasang." Amon leaned back in his chair. The white-haired, golden-eyed beauty sat across from him, radiant even in irritation, while the old man wedged himself between them like a wall.
"Then who the hell is she?"
"Ahem." Ureil cleared her throat. "Please don’t take it the wrong way, sir. I am only a friend. A very, verrrry old friend." Her eyes cut to Amon. She knew he wouldn’t act out with his people nearby.
She knew his weakness, the humanity he carried, always.
"Stop staring at me," Amon muttered. "Drink your tea and leave. I don’t need my wife throwing things at me."
Ureil sat still, taking a measured sip, then turned to the old man. "Sir, could you give us a moment?"
Her eyes glowed faintly. The old man, who’d been bristling with suspicion, softened like snow in sun.
"Ye...yes," he murmured, voice distant and gentle, and he stood without another word.
Ureil flicked her wrist. The door swung open on its own, cold mountain air rushing in, and the old man walked out as if led by a string. The door closed quietly behind him.
"So." She folded her hands. "Where were we?"
Amon’s golden eyes settled on her, steady, piercing. Ureil held his gaze for a moment before looking down, suddenly uncomfortable.
"You know what you just did." His voice was low, rough as gravel.
It struck her before he even finished the sentence. He wasn’t angry about the display of power itself. He was angry because she’d used her divinity on someone he knew. Someone in his life.
"I...I’m sorry," she said quietly.
He nodded once, then poured himself another measure of alcohol.
"All right. You’ve been following me. You came all this way. What is it?" He swirled the glass. "I thought archangels had something called pride."
That landed harder than she expected. She was pride. She was the sword, the heavenly fire. And here she sat, doing errands. But she swallowed it down.
"Yes," she said simply. "My pride can go straight to hell if it means you’ll help us." She leaned forward, but something in her snapped, taking in his attitude.
"But what about yours? Have you no shame, golden immortal? Sitting here, raising a family while the world burns?"
Amon said nothing.
"While thousands die, no, millions die, you sit here and drink. I know the truth of it." Her voice dropped. "You’ve been drunk for decades."
She watched the shame bloom in his eyes like something long buried.
"If Adam had your gift. If Eve had your gift, it would have been—"
"Shut up." Quiet. Warning.
"—it would have been—"
"Shut up—"
"—different—"
"SHUT UP!"
His roar shook the walls. The sheer force of it pushed Ureil back a step, the drunken haze in his eyes burned clean away by fury. He was on his feet before the echo died, crossing the room in two strides until his hand closed around her throat.
"Say another word," he said, his eyes blazing gold, fingers pressing like iron into her neck, "and I will send you back."
"But..." she whispered, voice thinning. "You...can make things right. Save the world...once more. And all of it...all of it will be forgiven."
His grip tightened. Her face began to change color, violet creeping up her cheeks, her eyes wide but fixed on his with a strange, stubborn calm. She didn’t struggle. Didn’t fight. Just stared at him while the air left her, seconds from the edge.
He kept squeezing.
She kept looking.
Silence owned the room.
Then Amon exhaled, a long, slow breath, and let go.
Ureil dropped, gasping, both hands braced on her knees as she dragged air back in. She coughed hard, tasting life again while Amon walked to the window.
God, I miss my wife.
He stared out at the cold air beyond the glass. The white-feathered angel wasn’t going to leave him alone. He could see that clearly now. He already knew what Nyima would say if she were here. Her soft heart wouldn’t let her turn anyone away.
Hear her out, then.
He turned.
"Fine. Tell me. What is this great apocalypse that even angels can’t handle? Is hell opening again? Demons raining from the sky?"
Ureil was still on the floor, breathing carefully. She looked up at him and almost laughed despite herself, then straightened, rose, and met his eyes.
"It’s..." She paused. "It’s far worse than that, Amon. The gods. They’re trying to wake that thing up."
"What—"
They both stopped.
Both of their eyes went wide at the same instant, the same cold recognition hitting them at once. It came before the sound, before any sight.
The smell. The heavy, rotting miasma. Ancient and unmistakable.
"Demons."
"Demons."
Both of them said it at once.
****
Four hundred thousand dollars.
Cheering repeated the number quietly in his head as he checked his gear. That check would clear the debts, get them out of the cramped stone hut, and let Lhamo stop risking her neck on tourist runs through the high passes.
All he had to do was finish the job clean, hand over the package, and walk away.
He zipped the duffel shut and stepped out into the thin mountain air. The ancient temple complex spread across the ridge below, stone buildings clinging to the slope like they had for centuries.
Prayer flags snapped in the cold wind. He’d been here three weeks already, waiting on the final contact. Today felt different, though. Too quiet.
Down at the trailhead, a group had gathered, fifteen tourists, mostly European, a pair of Chinese businessmen by the look of them.
Expensive jackets, boots that would blister before the second hour. Their guide was easy to spot: his wife, Lhamo, in her red Sherpa jacket, rope coiled over one shoulder, already moving through the group with calm efficiency, checking harnesses and handing out water.
He watched her from a distance. She hated big groups. The money was why she did it. His sister Nyima, active as ever. Already talking with the tourists.
He had his own route to take later, a solo climb to meet the buyer at the abandoned monastery.
For now, he stayed out of sight on a higher trail and tracked the group through his binoculars.
The first two hours were uneventful. Nyima led steadily, pointing out safe handholds, calling out loose rock. Tashi and Pemba, the two younger Sherpas, brought up the rear with the heavy loads.
Then the mood changed.
Through the lenses, Cheering watched a tall blond man lean in close to Nyima and say something.
She stepped away quick while the man laughed and reached again, gripping her arm. Another tourist moved in, crowding her against the rock face.
Their voices carried on the wind, ugly laughs, crude English broken up with something worse underneath it.
"Wait, what are you doing?"
Tashi yelled as he tried to step in and got shoved hard. One of the Chinese men produced a knife, holding it openly like a dare.
"Keep moving," the blond called to Nyima. "Or we make this climb very uncomfortable for you especially."
Cheering’s grip tightened on the binoculars. He was already moving, boots sliding on scree, but he was twenty minutes out at full speed.
That was when he heard flaps of wings, and a white haired lady appeared.
She dropped from the ridge above like she’d simply stepped off solid ground. Black tactical coat, no harness, no rope. She landed between Nyima and the blond without a sound, and the group froze.
"Hands off." She said. "You don’t know what you’re messing with." She muttered.
The blond sneered. "Who the, back off. This doesn’t concern—"
Bang!
