Page 83 of Commanding Flame and Shield
“Oh, you sound real confident in your boys there, dipshit.” Ansel spat. “Fifty on Packers. Thirteen-and-a-half-point spread.”
I observed from the sidelines, still shirtless after our run—so Alec could, in good faith, tell Ally we trained—as they both slapped cash on Aren's desk. Brody tossed me a blue and orange jersey, and I stared at it for a beat, smirking.
"What if I like Green Bay?"
Brody snorted, shaking his head. “You wantAlvara, and you’re seriously asking me that?” When I glared, he just barked a great laugh.
“Nah, nah, nah, leave him alone. He's got good taste,” Ansel countered.
“Well, I agree, but Ally won't.”
Aren caught his ball, and turned my direction, smirk dripping confidence. “Brody’s right, man. Trust me.” With a roll of my eyes, I slipped the slick jersey on. Aren planted his boots on the floor, rising to his full height and swiping a dark blue hat off his shelf before hooking it over my head. “You’re a Bears man now, kid.”
It turned out, that in addition to betting on sparring matches, calling counts, and demons dispatched, the coven had a fanatic love of all things sports. From summer rounds of baseball to the Super Bowl, they bet on anything and everything they could get their hands on. I flipped the cap around backwards, grinning.
“Alright,” I narrowed my eyes on Ansel, who mirrored the motion. “Ally’s a Chicago girl. So, I’ve got fifty on the Bears, thirteen-and-a-half-point spread.” They erupted in a chorus of jeers and cheers until my cheeks ached from smiling. Aren slapped me on the back as he led us out the doors and back to the hall.
Teams neck-and-neck, Ansel and Aren both braced their elbows on the bar to either side of me. Where Ansel's fingers seemed to have permanently laced together, Aren liked to talk with his hands, gesticulating as he explained the ins and outs of using my shield.
“Anybody trained that wields energy like we do, can—and will—break through a shield with a consistent attack, like a blade, or even hand-to-hand combat.” He knocked on the polished wood bar counter. "But a bullet—unless you are bone dry in the power department, those fuckers will just bounce right off." His eyes flicked back down to the field right as a server came into the suite, swapping one of the empty metal trays for a full one before silently slipping back into the hall.
“That's why we all wear our shields the entire time we're earth bound,” Ansel explained, his eyes locked on the field, as a white and green uniform went sprinting down the edge. His posture straightened until a blue jersey collided into the man with a crack audible over the speakers, both players flying out of bounds and earning a wince from Brody. "Christ," Ansel growled, rubbing his temples as Aren flew to his feet, his hands in the air.
“Fuck, yeah!” Aren and Alec high-fived as the crowd roared, while Brody swiped his beer off the light wood counter.
“Anyways,” Ansel continued as the commentator updated the stadium. “We like being proficient in a myriad of weapons, because they're helpful in different situations. Your work in the gun range has been great—really—and while demons in human bodies will drop with a bullet, you've gotta kill the spirit too. Blessed blades, holy water, take your pick. Only surefire way to end them in their true form is—”
“Rip his head off!” Alec roared, hands flying up to his mouth like they could hear him through the glass, clear down on the field.
Ansel snorted and shrugged. "What he said, but in a literal sense."
“Youdecapitatethem?” I blinked, peeling the label off my bottle.
"Only way to take ‘em down. And even then,” he shrugged a shoulder, “I've seen some weird shit.” He drained what was left of his beer, setting it on the counter with a soft thud, and swapping it for the bronze cigarette case he’d set aside earlier.
Aren settled back into his stool with a sigh, returning his attention to the conversation. “Most crucial part of the process is burning the bastards after the fact. Collect all the pieces and throw them in the fire. Don't leave anything for them to reanimate.”
“Reanimate?”
“Think zombie apocalypse—ARE YOU FUCKINGBLINDREF?!” Aren slammed his fist on the bar as Ansel rocketed out of his stool, chest bumping Brody in the same motion. “Dammit,” Aren growled. "I need a snack.” He rose, turning around my stool for the buffet arranged by stadium caterers, which no doubt cost more than my first car. With his broad frame removed from view, I smirked at Alec as he scowled at the field.
Hands laced behind his head, bouncing his chair back and forth with his toes against the wall, Alec mumbled, "Intentional grounding, my ass.”
“Anyways,” Ansel said again, running his thumb over the cross carved into the metal. “Aside from that, you really just have to learn how to dispatch different kinds of demons. Crawlers are easy—kinda fun, honestly—tormentors get a little trickier, and once you're up in the blood wolf category, it gets…gory.”
“Eh," Alec grunted, his glower still trained on the game. "Only if you let it. Tell you what, kid, if you ever get a chance to watch Aren snap their necks clean off, do it. It's fuckin’ wild.”
“Or your Alvara," Brody cut in. “She has us all beat. Just incinerates them. Lights ‘em up like the fourth of July. No mess left.”
“True,” Alec acquiesced. “Couple of scorch marks. Easy enough.”
Ansel elbowed me in the ribs, a subtle quirk to the corner of his mouth as he surveyed me. "YourAlvara. How the hell is that going, by the way?”
“Seemed a little less ice queen this morning. Has she forgiven you for sacrificing yourself yet?” Alec glanced my way, and I returned my focus to peeling the sticker off my bottle.
“Seeing as I still don't know why the fuck I would ever do that, I don't know.”
“Ally’s been through enough.” Ansel stated, turning his attention out the glass window. "She doesn't need to let her heart get sliced wide open again.”
