Ash & Flame: Season One (11 page)

"Far too late, I would think." She rolled her head in Azazel's direction, fixed her large eyes on him with a casual air of authority. "Would you fetch her for me before they truly understand what she is?"

Azazel strode over to where she stood, pausing beside her. He leaned close and ran his nose along her neck, taking in the musky, intoxicating scent of her. He closed his eyes and sighed. "Anything for you, my sister."

Lilith smiled and turned her attention back to the dying man nailed to the cross before her. Azazel watched over her shoulder as she worked. He loved to watch her, and he found himself curious how long this toy would last.

"Do you know what this place needs, baby doll?" she cooed into the man's ear, her fingers trailing delicately through his matted hair. "The walls are drab. Boring, like ash and smoke. Not at all what a girl likes."

A slight moan escaped the man's lips, a line of drool trailing down his chin through the streaks of crimson. Lilith dipped her index finger into the pool at the man's feet, and she brought it to her lips. She laughed and flicked her finger at the man's terrified face, spattering blood on his ashen skin.

"What this place needs is more color."

▪▪▪

Ithuriel soared the skies overhead, letting the sunlight wash over him, letting it dry his tears. The wind licked at his skin, blowing past his face, reminding him of the day he'd flown through the rift after the Accord had been shattered. Three years ago the horns had sounded, sonic booms that blasted across the skies, and he had been loosed into the war below. He had never felt as free as he had that day.

Even as the innocent died in droves, humanity torn asunder.

It had not been his place to save them, not in those first days. Ithuriel was Made an angel of war, his very purpose to hunt and destroy those of the great Enemy, his Fallen brother. And he had done so willingly, even at such an expense that now made him weep.

Until his Father had abandoned his throne. Then everything had changed.

Grunting away the thought, the Malakhi spotted the spit of land below, a forested island that jutted from the Mississippi river, miles to the southeast of Haven. He wondered if perhaps it was only coincidence that their meeting place had been named Liberty Bar.

The spear manifested in his hand, and he dove towards the bar, the trail of light behind him a signal of his arrival. Something flashed below, on a ridge of sand on the far side of Liberty, sunlight glinting sharply in Ithuriel's eyes. He bared his teeth, and swooped towards the ridge, cresting over the trees.

His brothers awaited.

Ithuriel's wings shifted, and he landed with a thumping crouch on the sandy beach, a pile of sand and dirt splashing into the grimy green of the river. He turned to face the Malakhi standing by a fallen tree, and his eyes widened.

One of his brothers stood there, but not the one he'd expected. And this brother, he would have preferred anywhere else but here.

The angel strode towards Ithuriel, his leather boots crunching in the sand, a Malakhi so thickly muscled and tall that he easily dwarfed even Ithuriel. Over a brown shirt, he wore a chestplate, dark bands of plate that overlapped each other, framing his powerful chest, and thick pauldrons attached at the shoulder. His wings twitched irritably over his shoulders, a deep-set frown on his face.

Abaddon the Destroyer looked every bit the warrior he had been created to be.

"Abaddon, my brother," Ithuriel said. He stepped forward to meet Abaddon, and reached out a hand. "I had expected Michael, or perhaps Gabriel."

The giant angel clasped Ithuriel's forearm, and nodded. "
Salve
, Ithuriel. Greetings. Michael has been...delayed, so I am here in his stead."

"And Gabriel?"

Abaddon shook his head. "No idea. But you have called, and I am here. Talk."

There was a tense silence as Ithuriel considered his words. There would be wisdom and knowledge from Michael, understanding from Gabriel. But from Abaddon, the Unmaker? Like Ithuriel, he had been made for war, for destroying the enemies of God.

Unlike Ithuriel, he had little interest in much else. Ithuriel had watched him once, as he had launched himself at a horde. Humans, demons, Grigori, it had made no difference. He had laughed and grinned all the same, blood and flesh spattered on the ground at his feet, streaking his armor, his face. He had reveled in the wanton destruction.

"I can feel it on you, you know," Abaddon said, his voice like gravel. He took a step forward, a dead branch snapping. "Your doubts, the divide between you as a Malakhi and your touch of humanity. What troubles you,
frater
?"

Brother
. Ithuriel’s eyes narrowed.

"I need to speak with Michael," Ithuriel said. He clenched his fingers into a fist, then relaxed them. This was a mistake.

"Michael is not here." Abaddon took another step, standing an arm's length from Ithuriel, the hard lines of his face hidden in shadow. "He will not be here. Tell me, Ithuriel. Tell me, so that together we can crush our enemies, and win this war."

Ithuriel backed away. A sense of disquiet had struck at his nerves, an unease at the way Abaddon regarded him now. A madness that hung on the fringes of his gaze, in the hollows of his eyes. "Are you alright, Abaddon?"

"I have bade my time, brother," Abaddon said. His face had gone dark, and his eyes shone with a cold light as he pointed at Ithuriel. "Like you, I am not meant to be a steward of humanity. I am the Destroyer, the Unmaker, and I would bend the very gates of Hell right now. Father is gone, and the task has been left to us. We must not dally."

He took another step, the muscles in his legs twitching. "You must tell me." A long-handled maul manifested in his hand, the black metal head of the weapon glistening darkly, both flat ends tipped with a spike on each corner. "You will tell me."

"Where is Michael?" The question hung in the air, and Ithuriel's heart lurched in his chest. He already knew Abaddon's answer. His hand ached to reach out for his spear, but he forced the instinct down.
Not yet
.

"I am the Unmaker." Abaddon smiled, his lips spreading wide, revealing his glinting teeth. He shifted on his feet, lifting the maul.

Ithuriel reacted, the spear lashing out as it appeared in his hand. The point dove towards Abaddon's chest, but the Destroyer brought the maul up, twisting it effortlessly, the spear point ringing off the black metal, sparks flying.

Abaddon spun his weapon in his grip overhead, ready to bring it down like a sledgehammer on an anvil, but Ithuriel knew him, knew what was coming. He gripped the spear with both hands and met the downward swing of Abaddon's maul. He grunted with the impact, gritting his teeth against the weight of Abaddon and his maul, momentum pushing him to one knee.

He shifted under the maul, but could only open his mouth in surprise as the Unmaker's boot suddenly kicked out, driving the air from Ithuriel's lungs. The impact sent him flying backwards, and he landed on the edge of the ridge, his arm splashing into the river. He rolled over into a crouch, coughing, his trailing boot digging into the wet sand.

"Ithuriel, this is folly. You cannot—"

I know
. Ithuriel took a quick breath and brought the butt of his spear down, slamming the shaft into the earth, the spearpoint blazing like a sun. He pushed off hard with his legs and soared upwards, the light of the spear carrying him into the sky. He risked a glance down at the sand ridge.

Abaddon's eyes shone with madness, even from the sky above. His wings spread wide, and he shouted, pointing up at Ithuriel with his maul. His wings pumped and Ithuriel turned away, willing his wings faster.

He didn't know where to go. Not Haven, not now, that much was certain. If Abaddon was going to give chase he could hardly bring the Unmaker to the compound. So he flew west, away from the river. Maybe he could lose—

Something hard slammed into his ribs, and he heard a crack. He gasped, squeezing his eyes shut against the sharp pang in his side, tumbling over in the air.

He blinked and looked over his shoulder.

Too late he spotted the dark shape careening towards him out of the corner of his eye. He caught sight of a powerful thrust of wings, and then Abaddon was on him, the collision sending another wave of agony through his ribs. He hissed as vice-like fingers dug into his shoulders, and together they spun to the earth.

The spear flashed in his grip, and he drove the shining point forward. Abaddon caught the shaft in his hand, and bared his teeth, the veins on his neck bulging as he pushed the spearpoint away. Ithuriel flexed his hand, the spear popping out of sight. He started to close his hand into a fist, willing the spear back into his grip, but too late.

Abaddon's other hand closed around Ithuriel's throat, fingers clawing, squeezing his neck. He pressed in, and glanced over Ithuriel's shoulder, his smile twisting into a sneer.

Ithuriel looked back. Too late, he knew, as the trees loomed before them, and the Malakhi rushed to meet them.

He squeezed his eyes shut and set his jaw, his hands gripping Abaddon's wrists, struggling to break free.

Too late.

EPISODE THREE

Brad crouched, leaning back against the thick bulk of a tree trunk. He paused there, listening to the surrounding woods, scanning past the tree line.

A thick layer of clouds obscured the sun, the dark cover casting long shadows into the clearing ahead. The sharp, angular silhouette of the small, two-story farmhouse cut across the yard, the roof sagging over the front porch, windows cracked and dirty. A rusted truck sat in the driveway, and Brad caught the glint of a tall pole standing on the far side of the driveway, the metal rim and backboard of a basketball hoop leaning to one side.

Amy had always wanted to live out in the country. But Brad had that great job in metro St. Louis, and he hadn’t liked the idea of a long commute. Traffic was already bad enough, he’d told her, and he hated the idea of tacking on another thirty minutes to an hour. But, like with everything else, he couldn’t refuse her, and he’d finally given in.

Eventually he’d gotten used to the idea of living in the rural area southwest of the city. They’d gone about their lives, and it wasn’t until the world had fallen apart that he realized just what a mistake it had been to give in.

Maybe if he had stuck to his guns, and they’d stayed closer to his work. And maybe if he had left the office just a little bit earlier that day, or called in sick. Or if he’d driven faster, weaving through the chaotic traffic with everyone fleeing the red haze that swept over the city. Maybe if he had been more desperate.

Too many maybes, though. He wished he could get them all out of his head. It wasn’t his fault.

Even if it felt like it every time he thought of her.

Brad swore to himself.
Knock it off, you got a job to do
. Haven needed food and supplies. He wasn’t here to reminisce.

He wrapped his hand around the pendant hanging from his neck, and glanced back over his shoulder at Rachel crouched by a bush several paces back. He caught the glint in her eyes, and flashed a quick signal over his shoulder, pointing towards the farmhouse’s porch.

Rachel nodded, and returned a thumb’s-up.

Brad acknowledged the sign, and forced himself to focus. He leaned his head around the tree and checked again for any signs of trouble past the farmhouse. The breeze picked up, the cool draft chilling his bare arms, eddies of ash swirling over the front yard of the house.

He let out a quick breath and scrambled ahead, ducking behind a row of shrubs that lined the edge of the driveway. He counted to ten, and moved behind the bed of the truck. He paused and peeked past the rear bumper.

The front porch stood only a few paces away, the white, chipped paint fading to a dull gray. A large pot stood beside the steps, a withered plant hanging over the brown ceramic. The window to the left of the front door had been smashed, a red curtain obscuring the interior of the house.

He peered over the row of bushes and spotted Rachel as she ducked behind the tree he’d stopped at. He waited until she looked and waved his hand forward. He counted silently to three and moved forward, creeping up the steps, his focus on the shattered window. He paused at the top of the stairs and waited until he heard Rachel’s footsteps, then he hurried to the wall beside the front door. He leaned with his back against the grimy paneling and took a deep, low breath, his heart pounding in his chest.

So far so good
.

Rachel quickly moved up the porch, and stopped on the other side of the door, kneeling on one knee. She put her hand up to her ear, and looked at Brad. He shook his head. Outside of their own noise, he hadn’t heard a peep.

Brad peeked over the open window frame and glanced inside the darkened house. A table leaned against the wall, books scattered on top. He pushed back the curtain, squinting as he caught details in the shadows of the room. A couch had been pushed up against the far corner, and on the far side he saw what looked like a woodburner. A living room, he guessed, but beyond that he couldn’t decipher much of—