Blood and Feathers

by Lou Morgan

  It was Alice’s eyes, and the fire that spiralled deep in the darkness behind them.

  “WELL?” XAPHAN’S VOICE sounded rougher than she remembered. She nodded, mutely.

  “Florence? Are you there?” He hauled himself out from under the bench, dusting his clothes off as he straightened up. “Did you see which way she went?”

  “That way,” Florence managed, with a squeak. She pointed in the direction Alice had gone, but her hand shook so wildly she might as well have been waving. Xaphan tugged a slightly warped cupboard door open and produced a large bag, slinging it over his shoulder. “Good. Then we go this way.” He took Florence’s hand and pulled her gently towards another door.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Running. We’re running.”

  “Running where?”

  “Out. You heard Abbadona. The Gate’s down, the angels are coming, and we don’t want to still be around when they get here.”

  “What about Alice?”

  “She’s following orders. She’s been told to find my little toy and make sure it can’t open any more hellmouths. So that’s what she’s going to do.”

  “Shouldn’t we stop her?”

  “You want to get in her way, do you?” He let out a long whistle. “It doesn’t matter whether she destroys it or not. It’s done its job, and we’ve done ours. So now we get gone.”

  “Wait... I don’t understand. I thought the plan was to catch her, to hold her here.”

  “If it was as simple as that, do you really think Lucifer would have left it to me? Anyone could have done that. Even Purson, who I see has made himself scarce.” He led her out into a steeply-sloping corridor. “All we had to do was to push her buttons.”

  “By killing the ex-boyfriend?”

  “Something like that.” He was walking faster now, towing her along. “You see, you may not realise this, but Alice has a lot of issues. Issues like those, they generate all kinds of emotions, very few of them positive. I just gave her somewhere to focus them. Since the angels found her, her whole world has changed. She’s lost everything she cared about. Everything. And then there’s that gift of hers, which she can barely control. Trust me. I’ve been doing this a long time, and I’m very, very good at it. When someone’s on that narrow a ledge, all it takes is a little nudge.”

  From somewhere far above, there was a sound like a shout; a cheer. Xaphan broke into a run, his fingers still around her wrist.

  “Alice’s world has fallen apart, Florence. And it all began with the angels. So, tell me: who do you think she’s going to blame?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The Shadow of Death

  WHEN THE DESCENDEDS came, they brought the shadows with them.

  Mallory couldn’t remember who had begun the charge, or how, only that he had been running towards the Fallen, just as they were running towards him. It was a scrappy beginning, but it beat waiting any longer. His guns were in his hands and his wings were open, and suddenly he was sailing over the heads of the Fallen.

  He understood war. He always had. It was simple. There were two sides: yours, and theirs. If you wanted to stay alive, it was important your side won. Raphael knew this about Mallory. It was why he had been promoted as rapidly as he had. He might have a healer’s gift, but he was a fighter by nature, and the Fallen were afraid of him while the ranks respected him. It was Raphael who had saved his wings when Gabriel wanted to take them.

  He fired into the Fallen below, massed so thickly that he didn’t even need to aim. Another beat of his wings and he was down among them, shooting, kicking, punching. The Colts clicked, the magazines empty, and he dropped into a crouch to reload. By now, other Earthbounds were barreling into the fray, cutting their way through the Fallen towards one another; regrouping just as they always did in battle. Something at the edge of his sight made Mallory look up: one of the Fallen had spotted him and was charging towards him with a jagged knife held high, so intent on his attack that he had forgotten one crucial thing. Mallory’s wings, which snapped open again, sweeping him aside; muscle and bone and feather meeting flesh and knocking him to the ground as Mallory spun on his heel. He looked down into the face of the Fallen below him and met his gaze as he aimed the barrel of a gun at his heart and pulled the trigger. He was gone before the Fallen’s eyes closed.

  Knots of Earthbounds were forming amongst the Fallen, who fought alone and with little regard for strategy. They were disorganised, chaotic. Azazel might be carrying the standard, but he was far forward and no real focus for the morass the angels were sweeping through. The Earthbounds, however, were drawn to other members of theirs choir, both by instinct and by years of training. They clustered together, turning outwards to protect each others’ backs – the most basic of their battle tactics. Any Fallen who came close was cut down.

  Mallory, however, moved alone. He ducked a clumsy swing from a Fallen and came back up with an elbow aimed into his face. The Fallen dropped and Mallory forged on. It was easy, this. No thought, no emotion. Just movement; constant motion. Keep going, never look back. Only forward. Only ever forward.

  The noise was rising now. Cries and shouts echoed off the rocks around them, and the ground was becoming slippery underfoot. A horrible crackling sound followed by a scream somewhere off to his left told him that a clutch of Gabriel’s choir had found each other and were hard at work even as he kicked the feet out from beneath a dark-haired Fallen who rushed him with a flail.

  It really was very simple. Your side, or theirs.

  ACROSS THE FIELD, Vin slipped through the battle like a mist. He brushed past the Fallen, laying his hand on a shoulder here, an arm there; sliding his fingers around a wrist or across the back of a neck and moving on. And each of them that he touched found their movements slowed, their reactions dragging. By the time they noticed the grey fog creeping along their limbs, it was too late. On he went, deeper and deeper through the fight – never stopping, never waiting.

  He had lost Mallory early on. He was glad of it, in a way. To keep up with Mallory’s dervish-like dash through the Fallen would probably kill him quicker than the Fallen could. He caught sight of him every once in a while, and he could still hear his guns; it was enough to reassure him that the Earthbound was still alive.

  One of the Fallen felt Vin’s hand on his back and spun round, lunging at him with a nasty-looking blade. Vin leapt upwards, trusting his wings to lift him clear, but the Fallen grabbed hold of his arm and dug his nails into the flesh. Letting out a yelp, Vin tried to prise the hand off his arm, with little success. The Fallen locked his other hand around his free arm and held on with a steely grip. His wings straining to hold them both, Vin looked around him desperately, and spotted a narrow outcrop of rock, jutting from the side of the cavern wall. He stopped fighting off the Fallen, who was now holding on less in an effort to bring him down, and more in an attempt not to fall into the midst of the battle – and flew. The outcrop came closer, closer still, and with what felt like the last strength he had, as the rock came within reach, he swept sharply upwards, swinging his arms out as he did so. The Fallen smacked into the side of the rock with a thick crunching sound, releasing his grip and dropping away.

  Suddenly lighter, Vin soared up the rockface until he saw a small ledge. His wings aching, his blood pounding in his ears and throat, he settled there and looked down and out across the battlefield.

  From here, he saw why the Fallen had assembled where they had. The rock walls of the cavern protected their flanks, forcing the Earthbounds to meet them in a head-on assault. It was a simple, but effective, defensive tactic. Azazel might even have come up with that one all by himself. But they had positioned themselves in front of a cliff: the plateau was relatively narrow, and all it would take was a push from the angels to drive them back over it – not to mention that more and more of the Earthbounds were, like him, using their wings and taking to the air. Perhaps the Fallen had underestimated the amount the Earthbounds could fly, but that didn’t
seem likely. After all, the Fallen and the Earthbounds had been fighting for centuries. Just not here. So why, when they had the perfect opportunity, would the Fallen waste a home advantage?

  Vin stared ahead of him. Something didn’t fit. Even Azazel wasn’t that stupid. Probably. And if he really was in charge, what was Charon doing beside him, not to mention Lucifer? He scanned the field, tracking the Fallen below him, watching the way they moved. The hairs on the back of his neck rose even as he hurled himself forward, dropping back to the field with a single word on his lips.

  “Nets.”

  THERE WERE THREE Earthbounds in the air around Mallory when he heard Vin’s voice, faintly, from somewhere close by. He couldn’t quite make it out – there was too much noise, too many indistinct sounds screaming together into one. Ahead of him, a Fallen had pinned an Earthbound to the ground and was about to cut his throat, and that, thought Mallory, would not do. His guns vanished into his belt, and quicker than a heartbeat he was behind the Fallen, his hands around its neck and twisting. There was a snapping sound, and Mallory drew out his guns again as the Fallen toppled sideways, the other angel nodding thanks.

  What happened next took even Mallory by surprise.

  From somewhere far away, he heard a noise like glass breaking, but colder and harder and sharper and angrier. And then silence. Complete silence. It wasn’t just that the Fallen were quiet, nor that the other Earthbounds had all stopped to listen, too. It was more like the air had suddenly been pulled away, leaving them all in a vacuum.

  Just as suddenly as the silence, the sound came back in a rush. It rang in his ears and in his head, achingly loud. Screams and cries and shouts and dark, wet noises. And before he could wonder what had just taken place, the first angel landed at his feet.

  It was Domiel, his face empty, his body tightly curled in on itself. His wings were shredded. Blood oozed from the broken feathers, mottling the grey with heavy red. He was dead, and tangled all around him was a wicked blue net, woven from ice and anger and sharp shards that shone jaggedly out at Mallory. For a moment, all he could do was stare at the angel – but then he was reaching for the net, his fingers digging around the bonds even as they cut into him. It was useless; Mallory was powerless to help him, or even to try. The net didn’t break; didn’t slacken, and with another dreadfully solid sound, another angel was brought down.

  The Fallen, it seemed, had come up with something new.

  AT THE HEAD of the army, Azazel held tightly to the standard. He tried his best not to look at it: like most of the Fallen, his fears were darker than any Earthbound’s. He knew precisely what he would see across hell’s battle flag, and it was something he could really do without. He was alone now, in his head, at least. Lucifer was long-gone. By now busy bouncing from head to head, looking for an unguarded back, an exposed throat, an opportunity to do some damage. He had left Azazel with instructions, and company. Or a babysitter. Despite his insistence that Azazel carry the standard, it didn’t appear that he actually trusted him with it, which was why Charon was circling him, slashing and slicing at anyone who happened to come close (Earthbound or Fallen, which confused him more than a little) with a blade cut from ice. Some would consider the role of glorified flagpole during the greatest battle since the Fall to be slightly undignified. Azazel, ever-aware of the presence of someone else in his head, made sure it wasn’t a thought that ever crossed his mind.

  He had his orders.

  He waited.

  THERE IS NO time in hell. With no day, no night, no season other than the bitter bone-cold of endless winter, there is no way to mark the passing of ages, other than in heartbeats, in battles lost or won, in blood spilled and wounds healed.

  In hell, nothing changes.

  Except for when it does.

  Somewhere in hell, an iron sconce bolted to the wall burned with a cold, thin blue light. Beneath it, a sticky black puddle had collected on the stone, reflecting everything above it. It reflected the flickering of the hellfire, reflected it shivering and shuddering in a sudden draught that sprang from the end of the corridor; it reflected the flame as it tried to break free, to run from something it feared. And it reflected the darkness as the shadows raced through the passageways, as the Descendeds flooded into hell.

  CHARON’S HEAD SNAPPED up. Azazel watched as she dropped her blade and vanished in a cloud of ice-cold air.

  They were here.

  The torches dotted through the Fallens’ ranks flared, then blinked out, one by one.

  He lifted the standard high above the crowd of Fallen that had formed in front of him, driven back by the Earthbounds’ attacks, and balanced it on his hip, freeing up one of his hands. Keeping his eyes on the breached Gate, he fumbled behind his back until he found the small tube strapped between his wings. No more waiting.

  The tube unclipped easily and dropped into the palm of his hand. He snapped his arm round just as the first shadow spilled from the rubble of the Gate, leeching across the rock towards them. He lifted his arm and fired just as the darkness overtook him.

  All was noise and confusion and impossible, visible darkness, and at first he thought he had misjudged it, left it too late. But as he braced the standard, braced himself for the attack, his flare burned into life above, casting a strobing blue light across the field. One by one, the other torchbearers fired their own flares, and there was at least a kind of light to fight by. If the angels thought that snuffing out hell’s lights would help them, they were going to get a surprise. He smiled, and nodded to the closest of his comrades, who had caught his eye. “Let’s see what they do now,” he said smugly.

  “How about this?” whispered the voice beside him, and all he saw was a flash of metal as the other Fallen melted away before his eyes.

  Azazel dropped the standard, and drew his knife.

  ALL WAS NOISE and confusion and darkness, and Mallory knew that somewhere – somewhere – just ahead of him was the Fallen he had been hoping to see. The sheer gut-force of his hatred still surprised him, even now. Cropped dark hair, and those clothes... the Fallen weren’t exactly known for their dress sense. It could only be Rimmon. And this time, when Mallory caught up with him, he was going to stay dead.

  He knew that he wouldn’t be able to stay away, just as he hadn’t been able to keep away from the Gate. Just as he hadn’t been able to keep away from the Halfway when news of Alice started to spread. Of course he would be there, somewhere on the field, if only to be sure that Mallory would see him. Obviously, he hadn’t taken the hint, not even when Mallory tied him to the tree and shot holes in him. He was an itch that couldn’t be scratched, a fly that couldn’t be swatted. A splinter in the soul that dug in deeper with every attempt to remove it. Mallory had long accepted that Rimmon was just another part of his punishment, but he was also beginning to think that this was the one part he could do something about. It wasn’t revenge. Not really...

  He had only caught a glimpse – a fraction of a moment – but it was enough. The battle melted around him.

  And then the shadows came.

  It could only mean one thing, and for that he was glad. It was time the Descendeds put in an appearance. But in the darkness, he lost his prey, and although he forced his way forward using his elbows, his fists and his boots, by the time the Fallen had lit their torches, Rimmon was gone. He scanned the faces, searching for him, but there was no sign.

  So intent was he on his search that he didn’t notice the Fallen with a scar down one side of his face, one eye long gone, who saw him and grinned. He had a long knife in his hand, its blade cut with jagged teeth and notches, and he raised it as he stepped behind Mallory, the point aimed for the back of his neck. And all the while, Mallory was still, his eyes tearing the battle apart as the Fallen struck.

  THERE WAS A sound of the air splitting in two, and the faint smell of ozone, and Mallory spun around as Gwyn, armour-clad, tossed the bleeding Fallen aside.

  “You, of all people, I expected to watch your back.”


  “You took your time.”

  “On the contrary. My timing, as ever, was impeccable.” Gwyn sniffed, smoothing his hair back. “You can thank me later.”

  “I had him. I had him, Gwyn.”

  “Hardly. He almost got you killed, and he didn’t have to lift a finger to do it. He’s fitting right in, isn’t he?”

  “Don’t you have something better to do?” Mallory raised a gun and, for an instant, Gwyn wondered if he was going to shoot him. Mallory abruptly adjusted his aim and fired twice, hitting both the Fallen who were charging towards them.

  Gwyn scowled at him. “Status?”

  “Unknown. They’re chaotic: every man for himself. And there’s a lot of them. They’re using the walls to protect their flanks – no way round, unless we go airborne, which brings me to the nets.”

  “Nets?” Gwyn’s eyes snapped open as wide as they would go. “Tell me about the nets.”

  “Like nothing I’ve seen before. They won’t just bring you down; they kill. They wait until there’s a handful of us in the air and then...” Mallory stopped, glancing all around him; taking stock. “I can’t see where they’re deploying from. Maybe they’re firing them from down here, maybe they’ve got something up above.” He nodded upwards, and Gwyn followed his gaze past the pale blue flares hanging high above. “And don’t even get me started on those lights.”

  “So, in short, you know nothing?”

  “That’s pretty much the sum of it.” Mallory gave the closest thing he dared to a shrug.