The Book of Miranda | gxg | ✔︎

(40) Justice For The Fallen

Ashcroft-Mastema—he's Mashcroft now—blinks slowly, all over his body. He doesn't seem to know how to respond to my question.

"Or what about hot peppers?" I continue. "Or salt? Have you ever, y'know, scattered salt by accident and ended up crying all over your own clothes? Or what happens if you need glasses?" I look him up and down. "I didn't think they designed those so... creatively."

The demon's face is darkening. "Foolish mortal," rumbles a voice from nowhere and everywhere, deep enough to shake the grass around me. The sun seems to flicker. "Bow, and I might find a use for you outside the fires of Hell."

Normally, I'd freeze in the presence of such overwhelmingly imposing authority. This time is different. Maybe it's the presence of Exie beside me, or the students behind us both. Maybe it's a manifestation of my waning sanity. Or maybe God is really on my side. I can't see Clarice in my periphery anymore, and with so many eyes on me, I don't dare look. Even if most of the eyes belong to a single entity.

On the ground behind the demon, something moves.

I cross my arms and shift stances in mock bravado, just to draw more teachers' eyes. Those close enough for me to see their faces wear expressions ranging from befuddlement to horror. I wonder if they also carry the souls of ancient cultists, or whether they're just brainwashed. I guess if we survive this, we'll find out either way.

"I guess Hell-smoke would be pretty bad, too," I say. If this doesn't work, I'm probably trashing my survival chances, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and I can't think of anything I'm better at than insulting people. "Did God at least send you down with eyedrops when she kicked you out of heaven? Or was that cursed pool enough?"

That's one step too far. The demon lifts an arm, and all my breath and courage desert me. I stumble backward as his claw-hand turns, ready to pluck the soul from my body like a child picking flowers. Half-formed prayers tumble through my mind. My tongue seizes. Not a pious word has left my lips when a gunshot splits the moment. Mashcroft staggers, his eyes all wide. Everything slows.

A second shot. The sky responds, lightning tearing open smoky clouds like those in Mastema's angel painting. The eyes floating where the demon's wings should be begin to wink out one by one. The ones across his body falter. Teachers turn in slow motion, some falling back, some reaching forward. They're all too late.

A third shot.

The demon falls. Behind him stands Clarice, stolen gun in hand, its barrel wreathed in gleaming silver chain. Her cross with angel wings dangles just beneath the smoking muzzle.

No sooner has Ashcroft's body hit the ground than that ground begins to rumble.

"Grab them!" I bellow over my shoulder. Students surge past me. Strong ones tackle the remaining teachers, none of whom match Ashcroft's stature. Clarice falls back, unscathed. I run to her, and catch her as she sways.

"We did it," I say. "I can take the gun."

For a moment, she just looks at the weapon in her hand, like she's not sure how it got there. Then she hands it over. It's a three-barrel pepperbox, now out of ammunition. I don't know which student originally loaded it, and now's not the time to find out. The gun's too hot to pocket. I flag down a nearby student that I halfway trust and tell him to take the gun to Exie. He dashes off.

Clarice is still markedly unsteady, and pale enough that I worry she'll pass out at any moment. I guess firing on a demon will do that to you. I offer her my shoulder, and we walk her back to Exie, who's mobilized the student body with the efficiency of an wartime General. She dispatches groups of them to hold the teachers, collect the judged students as they wake up one by one, and scout the landscape for a better place to hide. She spins to us as we join her.