Andy emptied two more shots into the dog, to no effect, and I opened the potions box, took out two more vials, and tossed them both to him.
He dropped the shotgun, grabbed both bottles out of the air, and smashed them together.
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.”