‘Weapons?’ Tristan asked dubiously. Jet gave him a withering look.
‘Yes, weapons. I hope you’re a quick learner.’ Jet put a hand on Tristan’s arm and began to send instructions. Tristan tried to follow them but the sword he formed was weak and slow to appear. Jet sighed.
‘Can’t you just make one for me?’ Tristan whined.
‘No!’ Jet snapped. ‘You’ll never learn!’
‘Ever considered that I don’t want to learn?’ Tristan retorted.
‘Of course I have you stupid brat. But you can’t tell me you’ve never been curious how to use your powers. I’m giving you the chance to learn how to use them. So take it. Fucking learn already!’ Jet growled. It was true. Tristan cursed Jet in his head and Jet looked taken aback at the teenager’s fury. ‘You’re a volatile one. I could get to like you if you stop being such a dick and start paying attention. Watch me.’ Jet kept his hand on Tristan’s shoulder and let Tristan watch the process from mind to physical reality. A sword formed in his hand, silver coating the blade. He shot magic through it and the metal glowed red and turned black briefly, returning to shining silver. The whole thing took only a minute to form. He let go of Tristan and swung the sword at the railing around the roof.
He watched as Jet’s sword slit through the metal railings as though it wasn’t even there. His eyes widened and as Jet turned back to him, he tried to wipe the gormless gawping look from his face, though the awe lingered in his eyes. Jet smiled.
‘Your turn.’ The demon said. Tristan recalled Jet’s instruction and channelled all his concentration into forming something equally powerful.
‘I can’t do it!’ Tristan gasped after a while.
‘It doesn’t have to be a sword. Try something else. As long as it’s effective, it doesn’t really matter.’ Jet said, sensing the form was not coming naturally to the teenager.
‘Could’ve said that before.’ Tristan grumbled, rubbing his temples.
‘I did.’ Jet pointed out. ‘You just weren’t paying attention. Tristan sighed; there was no point in arguing. He had to admit, Jet was being patient for a demon. Tristan pictured a bow and arrow. He had taken archery lessons. His teacher had not hidden his awe when Tristan got a bull’s eye nearly every time. This time, the weapon came almost perfectly, the silver tipped arrows drawing themselves across his back, contained in the quiver forming like a sketch being brought to life. Jet grinned triumphantly. Tristan pulled an arrow from the quiver, took aim and fired at the railing. The arrow went through the steel with a ringing thud. Jet nodded approvingly at Tristan and led the way into the building.
The two figures walked in tense silence. Jet was unable to wipe the sadistic sneer from his face and Tristan was struggling to keep himself from turning away and fleeing. They descended using the stairs after checking the entire floor. There were fifteen in this building. They were already down to the seventh. Jet paused in his steps, Tristan crashing into him, not paying attention again. He listened out as Jet was doing. Sure enough, he heard voices down the corridor. Jet threw out a brief mental search, revealing himself for a second. The voices stopped. There were ten on this floor. Ten below. Twenty on the ground floor.
‘This is gonna be fun,’ Jet tried to hide the laughter in his voice, but failed. Tristan looked away, disgusted. He was doing this for his mother. To save her. So she could be released. Jet wasn’t listening to his thoughts; he was listening to the voices that had started back up along the corridor.
‘Did you feel that?’ a female voice asked.
‘Yeah... I think he found us...’ A male voice replied. Jet dropped his glamour and revealed both his and Tristan's presences. He charged down the corridor and burst into the room where the angel’s sat, tense and unprepared. The male angel that had spoken roared as Jet entered and a fixed expression of surprise took his features as Tristan followed, half reluctantly. He could feel the angels from the lower floors coming up to meet them. He swallowed hard and began to shoot at the angels. He swallowed the fact that he was shooting at half of his heritage and pushed his guilt aside.
Jet cut and nicked at his adversaries, maiming them and filling them with pain before leaving them to die on the floor, trampled by their own allies. The ten from the bottom floor piled into the corridor in a confused mass, shrieking as Jet scattered the crowd of perfect beings. The next twenty arrived as the last angel drew his last breath on the floor. They looked at the mess of blood, flesh and cloth on the floor and looked at each other questioningly.
‘JET!’ the woman at the front shouted. He stopped, amused. He would listen. For now. ‘Listen to us! We don’t want to fight!’
‘That’s no fun is it?’ Jet growled, angel blood dripping from his obsidian form.
‘You’re not listening Jet!’ she yelled at him. ‘We don’t want to have to fight; we should be able to exist side by side without a war. Your own sins consume you! Cleanse what’s left of your soul and retreat, Jet. Heed our warnings. Our army is growing stronger. We will raise arms against you. You cannot win against the strength of God Herself!
‘Boring.’ Jet yawned and stretched, waiting for the woman to get the point. ‘Tristan?’ He smiled at the bloodied teenager beside him.
‘Jet.’ He said wearily.
‘You know what to do,’ At Jet’s words, Tristan raised the bow, aimed and fired. He shot the woman that had spoken in the chest. This fight would be more interesting. These were the few military angels that had survived, the others before had been messengers and useless servants. A few swords flashed in the group and angry mutters rose between them.
‘You don’t want to be doing that, Hybrid. Don’t shoot at your ancestors.’ One of them said. Tristan looked up, his expression hurt.
‘Do you think I want to be?’ He asked quietly. ‘I have no choice, do I.’ It wasn’t a question, just a statement and the angel knew it.
‘Enough talking.’ Jet grunted, throwing himself into the group. Blades clashed against his hard skin, the usually liquid like substance now diamond hard.