Ash & Flame: Season One (13 page)

The sun.
The sun
.

Ithuriel clenched his jaw and wrenched Abaddon’s foot with both hands, ignoring the lashing current of pain that seemed to be everywhere, a silent bellow on his lips. He twisted hard, and the pressure of Abaddon’s foot lifted off his chest. Abaddon’s black maul swung over his head, ready to smash Ithuriel into nothingness.

The Unmaker stepped back, off-balance, and Ithuriel moved.

“
Illuminet
.” Ithuriel spun to his feet, the spear appearing in his grip, and slammed the butt of the spear into the ground.

The spear’s point blazed with the power of the Word, a swell of light and gleaming brilliance that shone in Abaddon’s face. Like a thousand suns, so bright that even Ithuriel had to squint, his head cocked to one side to avoid the worst of the glare.

The giant shied away, his eyes squeezed shut, shielding his face with one arm.

Ithuriel shifted to his left, the light of the spear dimming, and he brought the spear around in a wicked curve, aiming for Abaddon’s exposed side. Abaddon reacted a split-second too slow, sweeping the maul across his body, turning to face the impact, and Ithuriel took the opening.

He flexed his hands open, the spear vanishing, but he kept the momentum of his hands. He crouched, and the spear twitched into his grip, now aimed at Abaddon’s torso.

The spearpoint flared as he arced it forward, and he let loose his own shout as the incandescent tip of the weapon slid into Abaddon’s side.

The giant grunted, and stepped back, the maul slipping from his fingers. His gaze fell on the spear jutting from his abdomen, the light within casting his flesh in a mottled, yellowish hue.

He pushed down against the spear with both hands, the butt of the weapon digging into the dirt, a dark splotch spreading over his shirt where the spearpoint had pierced his torso just under the armor.

The shaft of the weapon strained against the giant’s weight, electricity arcing over Abaddon’s hands, smoke swirling from his burnt flesh. He ignored the spear’s lashing feedback, pushing and twisting the shaft with a roar.

“Abaddon!”

Ithuriel’s breath caught in his throat. Abaddon meant to break it. He was going to shatter the spear into a thousand splinters.

Ithuriel flexed his fingers, the spear vanishing from sight with a sick pop. Abaddon’s wound streamed blood, dark red rivulets falling down his leg, spattering against the grass.

Abaddon looked back up at Ithuriel, a twisted grin on his face. “You know that will not stop—”

But Ithuriel was already moving, even before the giant had said a word. Grunting against the pain, his screeching sides on fire, his left wing flopping lazily, he bolted forward, ducking low in front of Abaddon. This would hurt. This would hurt a great deal, but he only had one chance to get this right.

“
Lacertus
,” he whispered. The Word surged through him and he reached down.

He didn’t think, just grabbed the handle of Abaddon’s maul with both hands. The shock of the maul’s touch rippled up his wrists, tracing up his arms like fire, like the skin was being flayed from his body. He set his jaw and swung with everything he had, the Word’s power and strength infusing his limbs. He twisted his hips, the maul whipping around him, electricity crackling in his ears, over his skin.

The spear wouldn’t stop Abaddon, but his own maul might.

Abaddon just had time for his eyes to widen. The head of the maul slammed into him like a thunderclap.

The impact cracked against his chest, the maul’s momentum driving Abaddon hurtling into the air. He flew backwards, spinning through a knotted tree branch, his momentum suddenly halted by a thick trunk. He landed with a sick crunch, the tree groaning, leaves shaking free and drifting down towards the ground. Abaddon didn’t move for a moment, his body frozen against the trunk, armored plates and limbs embedded in the tree. Bark cracked and split, and the Malakhi fell backwards into a layer of scrub.

The maul vanished from Ithuriel’s grip, and he slumped to the ground, his chest heaving. Tendrils of smoke drifted from his skin. The feedback from the maul had scorched his chestplate, left it a charred mess. His heart raced, beating like a hammer against his aching ribs. He lifted his hands and tried to work some movement out of them, but his fingers wouldn’t respond, stiff and numb, the tips blackened.

A wave of nausea washed over him.
Abaddon, my brother
.

He forced himself up onto a knee and nearly toppled over, dizzy, the churned up grass a rolling tide in his vision. He had to get up, had to keep moving. He needed to get back to Haven, needed to prepare them.

He took a deep, quivering breath and rose to his feet, his head pounding. Everything hurt. Every breath, every twitch of muscle, like countless unseen fingers, razor-sharp, plucked and jabbed at him.

His broken wing hung from his shoulder at an odd angle, feathers torn, some laying at his feet. He reached back, wincing as his fingers brushed the ridge of his wing, and he nearly cried out once he found the break. He bit his tongue, stifling the pathetic groan on his lips.

Closing his eyes, he reached for the divine, but he was so weak. Such an unfamiliar feeling. So tired, and miles from Haven. And he couldn’t fly, not like this.

A twig snapped behind him. Abaddon’s body shifted, one hand reaching out, pawing at the scrub.

Ithuriel winced and stumbled north, through the trees. Soon enough the strength of the
lacertus
would leave him, and he didn’t know if he’d even be able to walk when it did. He should have a head start, at least.

Haven needed him. Whatever was left.

▪▪▪

The storm raged, and Brad crouched underneath its wrath.

Brad couldn’t get the thought, the very idea, of Lilith out of his mind. She was everything, before and after, and he only wished that she would have found him sooner. All the pieces clicked now, like he’d spent years running in place, and the chains that kept him rooted had finally been snapped.

Lilith had saved him.

He knelt behind a tall oak and checked the blade holstered at his hip, rain slapping the leaves overhead. He ran the edge across his finger and watched a spot of blood pool on the tip of his finger. He tipped his hand over. Blood dripped from the cut, but the brief pain was only a reminder.

She had promised his life would begin anew, and he knew she was telling him the truth. He no longer had to fear death. Just bring the girl to his Lilith, and his life would be complete. He wouldn’t ever need to leave her side again.

He slipped the knife back into its sheath and peeked past the edge of the tree. Haven looked so different to him now, like he’d never truly seen it before. So stark and white, the grim people inside incapable of looking past their own walls to the beauty that lurked just around the corner.

But it wasn’t their fault. No, that blame lay at the feet of Ithuriel. The
Malakhi
had lied to them all, kept them penned inside their prison.

That, too, would change, just as Brad’s life had.

He heard movement beside him, and he felt a heavy, domineering presence surround him. His chest grew heavy, and he forced himself to take a deep breath, his hand moving unconsciously towards the pendant at his neck.

“The time has come, son of clay,”
a deep, grating voice whispered.
“You need only concern yourself with the girl, understand? The father is mine.”

Brad nodded, his stomach churning at the Grigori’s presence. He didn’t turn to face the voice.

He heard others behind him, voices and grunts. Movement flashed through the trees to his right, and he saw the glint of metal on belts, slung over shoulders. A face leered from under a tree limb, the man’s skin daubed with streaks of ash. Others ran by the man and his face slipped away, joining the throng of rushing invaders.

They called themselves the Ashen, he remembered. Cannibals and savages, their faces and bodies painted in ash to seek the favor of their new gods.

But Brad knew better. A little white paint wouldn’t grant them the favor they sought.

“Good.”
The voice rumbled over Brad, and his skin itched.
“Go fetch her, then, but only after Ithuriel’s fools are engaged.”
The presence shifted behind him.
“Do not disappoint me.”

Brad smiled as he got to his feet, and stepped into the clearing, the downpour cool on his head and neck. He wouldn’t disappoint Lilith. What else mattered?

He skirted the edge of the forest, running east towards the bloated river. Lightning lit up the sky, thunder booming a second later. Dark storm clouds hovered overhead, seemingly within reach of his fingertips, blocking out the late afternoon sun.

He glanced south, towards the compound. A mist had begun to form and it swept down through the trees, reaching like thick, hazy fingers for Haven.

Brad jogged down the steep hill, his boots digging into the rocks near the shore. Choppy waves slapped against a sand bar that reached out into the river, rain hissing as it came down. He ducked low, racing south along the long-abandoned railroad tracks that wound past the compound. Rusted barges sat chained to the shore, rubbing and bobbing with the river’s current.

A railcar sat to one side of the tracks, leaning heavily on its side. He crouched behind it and looked past the finger of land, his eyes on the guard post, a small square tower that overlooked the coastline. A railed pipe, meant to run from the roof all the way to the central buildings in the compound, instead ended in a crushed ruin a few feet out, the rest buried in sand.

Brad recognized the woman standing on the roof, one hand on the railing. She held a rifle slung over one shoulder, rain slicking down her hooded parka.

Bad day to be on shift. Bad luck for her.

“Evie,” he called, as he stepped around the wreckage of the railcar, making sure she could see his face. “Evie!” He leaned over, a hand on his knee as he waved towards her, and collapsed in the mud.

He heard a muffled curse and smiled, his fingers reaching for the knife at his belt. Evie’s boots splashed in the mud and she knelt next to him.

“Help me up,” he said. He reached up with his open hand.

“Shit, Brad, what happened to you?” Evie took his hand and pulled him up with a grunt.

“Bad day to be on shift,” he said. Lilith’s face smiled at him, and he smiled back. So close now.

He drove the knife up, and Evie looked at him with shocked eyes, her brow knitted in confusion. She peered down at the hilt stuck against her chest, then back at Brad again. Her mouth opened, but she only wheezed, the words dead on her lips.

Her hands shot to the knife, gripping the hilt, but she slumped against him, her eyelids drooping. Brad let her down softly, fog washing over her still body.

He scanned the eastern compound, the mist moving in, the rain and haze obscuring Haven’s interior. Shadows moved on the fringes of the fog, and Brad heard chittering sounds, like teeth gnashing. Something growled, low and guttural.

It was going to be a bad day all around, for all of these people. To think he used to be among them.

Move now
, a voice whispered in his head.
Now
.

He focused on why he was here, remembering what was promised him, the thought driving him forward. He left Evie’s lifeless corpse behind, and sprang towards the inner compound, sprinting past an abandoned dome made of concrete, half the top caved in.

A narrow gulley cut across the field, and he scrambled into it, his boots splashing just beside the standing water. The mist shifted ahead, and he spotted the shack about twenty yards off, across a pressed dirt road.

One sentry, leaning against the platform’s railing. That was it, all that stood between him and the girl. All that stood between him and Lilith. All this for
her
.

He grinned, felt the savage glee as he grasped the pendant in one hand, and whispered its name. Even seeing that the sentry was one of the Blessed wasn’t enough to dampen his excitement.

The sickle sword flashed in his hand, the curved edge a deadly glimmer. He crossed the road, the sickle held low, the Blessed guard’s back to him.

The mist approached the shack now, and the Blessed stood up, his attention focused towards the thickening fog. He jumped over the railing and crept towards the mist

Brad fought the urge to cry out as he leaned forward, the sickle drawn back past him. He was strides away when rifle shots rang out in the distance, echoing across the compound. He heard cries and panicked shouts, the telltale signs of struggle. The Grigori had sent the Ashen in to attack, the timing nearly flawless.

The man must have felt the movement behind him, or he’d reacted to the echoes of conflict, because he spun around, his hand still on his pendant.

But, by now, it was much too late. The sickle was a blur, an instrument of death that could not be stopped, the edge so sharp that flesh, gristle, and bone had no chance against it.

The man’s name came back to him then.
Logan
. He’d been young when Ithuriel had called his name, even younger than Brad.