Consecration

by Ira Robinson

  The keening wail vented higher still as Azazel tossed his head back, his jaws open wide as Carver's vigor coursed through him, the ancient thing embedded with the holy power of the Hallow. All of Carver's energy passed into it, feeding off of the pain, the horrible misery, as Carver's own mouth widened and he tried to suck in a breath through the fetid air. Swampy sweat, crawling skin as the flesh beneath gurgled out sulfur and brimstone, it caught in Carver's throat and he gagged, a liquid bile cutting off his cry.

  He pushed deeper, his arm taken up to the elbow inside of Azazel as the power within him began to ebb. He swallowed as the demon gripped him tighter, the mouth beginning to emit a glow that washed over the ceiling above them all.

  Then the arms slackened and Carver fell from Azazel, his body crashing to the floor on his back, sliding away as the demon prince thrashed. The hilt of the blade was gone, buried somewhere, but through the hole in his gut, the azure luminance poured out.

  Carver had no time to look at his hand but the pain there was like acid, the flesh burned so deep it blistered, but now that he was away from the demon it, too, began to ebb. His palm was dark and he was close to passing out, the breath in him a jagged scraping of nails.

  He held on long enough to see the skin of the demon begin to crack apart, the innards pouring as the blue light and his own consecration energy tore Azazel to shreds. The demon had no chance to speak, no cries of vengeance or threats to the existence of them all.

  He broke into pieces, gobbets of flesh falling and sizzling on the floor, the metal reddening to a heat that, too, melted. Smoke rose in wafts from the flooring as the demon's skin spread further and he began to fade away, one atom at a time.

  The sword sank to the ground as the demon burst, black vapor and soot, gouts of ebony ooze tinged with green and red, flew in every direction and a rush of hot wind sloshed through the room, scattering debris and the people there away.

  Carver's head fell backward, impacting the floor beneath him as he passed out, the darkness consuming him.

  Chapter 30

  A tiny tingle of awareness fluttered at the edges of Carver's perception. It was like a glimmer of an expression so distant he could barely hear it through the darkness.

  It appeared again, waves of sound and misery triggering a deep sigh before his eyes shot open with the agony in his side.

  "Daddy, please wake up!" Lisa's voice scrabbled into his consciousness, and the blackness around him began to fade, replaced by the blurred lights and the stench of decay and rust, sulfur and blood.

  He coughed, and the ragged choke of his breathing caught in his throat as the bitterness in his chest flared again. He crossed his arm over his chest as Lisa's face entered into view, leaning over him with a a concerned expression, the lines of her nose crinkling with a frown.

  He took in another lungful, slower this time, more steady, avoiding bringing it in too far to flare his broken rib again as he put pressure on his side.

  He could not remember ever hurting so much or being so exhausted, drained of everything he was and barely aware of what was going on as his body feebly moved.

  "Oh, daddy, I've been so worried." Lisa bent over and pressed her head into his chest, gouts of tears streaming down her cheeks to the fabric of his shirt and the cloak still stretched around him. He winced as the weight of her fell into him, not realizing he was injured.

  He gritted his teeth and hissed through them, closing his view again for a moment as he dealt with it, the warmth of his daughter feeling, in strange ways, satisfying against the wound.

  "I'm..." he tried to say, but it was difficult. "I'm okay." The words came out in a gasp, and she lifted herself from him, cheeks pale and wet.

  "Are you hurt?" she asked, staring into his reddening face. She sniffed back the tears, closing her eyes for a brief second and squeezing them as she put her hand to his shoulder.

  "A little," he said, wincing as he shifted to try to sit up some. He managed his elbows but did not move from there. The pain was intense but was, as the seconds passed, getting better as his body started the healing process.

  Her hands were unbound, with none of the rope wrapping her wrists. He caught a glimpse of it past where Jessup was spread, his standard dog form returned. He was licking the wounds on his side, still seeping blood. He seemed, for all that, intact and otherwise uninjured, his tongue lapping in and out without wincing as he cleaned.

  The sword that had fallen from Azazel's insides was only a few feet away, covered in blackish ichor, and near that was the remnants of Indris, his limbs at an odd angle where he died, the pool of blood coagulating and staining the metal floor.

  Lisa's took him in again, gentler this time, and he was able to use one of his arms to return it, taking her warm body against himself. Her nightgown was shredded in so many places it hung limply on her frame. He started to let her go so he could take off his cloak and cover her with it.

  "Isn't this a sight worthy of praise," a voice intoned.

  Carver's head turned, and he braced himself to shift for whatever attack might appear. Near the doorway to the room, Biel's form crossed from the shadows into the light, his eyes full with a gleeful grin. His long, Romanesque nose nodded over and over as he took in the three before him, opening his arms wide.

  Jessup jumped up and moved between Biel and Lisa, growling, the specks of blood on his teeth wet and glossy.

  Carver tried to make his legs move, to reach under him so he could stand, but his weakness would not allow it, kicking ineffectually against the metal floor, catching on a few burned holes from where Azazel's blood dripped. He did get himself to a sitting position, off of his elbows with a grimace as his rib protested the jiggle, while Lisa scrambled away from her father and grabbed the sword. She held it before her like a gladiator, but the fear was in her eyes, wide and gleaming.

  "You've done so well," he said before Carver had a chance to open his mouth to do more than wince. "I wasn't sure if you'd be able to do it, but it's proof Father wants all of this to happen."

  "What do you want?" Carver spat out, still trying to heave himself off of the floor. The cold steel of the blade in Lisa's hands trembled as she stepped a pace closer.

  The being before them shimmered, a scintillation of colors and shapes conglomerating around his form as the dark skin faded into something else, a mother of pearl shade that shifted to others as the body went from thin and gaunt to much more significant. The suit, too, disappeared, as feathered white and gray wings burst from his back and spread open, so much as Azazel's had done just a little while before. Unlike the leathery reptile wings of the demon, this being was like an eagle, and the body grew with it, the clothing changing to convert into more of an armor, shining in the light surrounding it.

  The demon-become-angel heaved a breath as he shed the illusion of the malevolent thing he had been to the gleaming representation of the holy, the light of heaven in his eyes as his gaze fell down once more upon Carver laying on the ground.

  The sword at his hip began to glow, almost violet but so bright at that moment it could have been any color of the rainbow. Then it subsided to turn into just a saber hanging from a scabbard, one more glorious thing to complete the harsh reflectiveness of the rest of the clothing he bore.

  "What do I want?" he asked, his voice deepening as the muscles of his arms and chest heaved, his flexing of the air as he adjusted himself to his new-old form, the glamour of his transformation gone. "I want for Him to be praised. It's all He has ever wanted, and what He deserves."

  Carver's mouth was wide with awe at how powerful this being seemed, the easy carriage of the musculature and the thick plate mail armor he wore awesome-looking; it gleamed so brightly he strained seeing everything clearly. He could not help the shake in his hands as he tried, again, to bring himself to his feet. "He who?"

  "Father!" the angel said, his face darkening slightly. "Don't you understand? It's been for Him."

  "Who are you really?" Carver managed to ask as he
gave up struggling to right himself, the exhaustion from his fight with Azazel and his minions too extreme for him to break. His throat was parched, his head pounded with the throbbing in his ribs, and he knew if this angel, if Barachiel, decided to attack them, he couldn't do squat to protect them. Far too much had been taken out of him. He had nothing left, no reserves of power, nor the strength to pick up the sword his daughter currently had in her young hands, desperately seeking to come between the angel and him. Jessup was still his small form, too weak, as well, to even transform into his dire wolf self, but did his best to shift Lisa away from the angel and the man.

  "You've done as I asked, Hallow, and I am grateful." He knelt, the tips of his fingers touching the toe of one of his shoes. Lisa moved but with a glance, and the whisper of a word Carver could not catch, Lisa halted in place, the sword outstretched. "It's okay, child," he said toward her, "Your predecessor and I have unfinished business."

  The sight of his daughter locked edged some of a reserve Carver did not know he had to force himself to move, to try to back from the touch of the angel and deliver himself up, but all he managed to do was to get to his knees.

  Barachiel sidled, a smile coming to his face as he saw the position Carver had been forced to take, shaking his head. "No, I am not the one to praise, human. That belongs to Father only."

  He took a few steps across the chamber, his wings dipping a little as he strode, the smooth gait of a being of massive power and grandeur passing through the dingy steel gray and grimy metal warehouse, abandoned so long ago perhaps no one remembered what it had once been used for. He crossed to the body of Indris, sprawled limbs laid out in a strange design in the last throes of his evil life.

  "Poor, confused man." Barachiel's voice seemed almost compassionate as he bent to look closer at the body, the blood beneath his feet not hitting it somehow, elevated over it just enough so the coagulation did not stain his shimmering armor.

  "He had so much potential when he was young." The angel shook his head, the long billowing hair caressing the air as it shifted across his shoulders. His wings dipped further, one feather gently touching the form of Indris on the arm, again avoiding any blood. "He was once a great king, and could have led the world into a new era of peace and praise of the Almighty, but he fell into the trap as so many others do."

  "What's that?" Carver asked, hoping to keep Barachiel talking as the strength in him slowly seeped back.

  "Thinking they are righteous when they're not. Letting pride touch their souls and reaping the benefits." He stood erect again and turned to Carver. "It's a tempting door..."

  He crossed the room again, saying, "You've brought an end to the ones who were standing in the way of the path, Hallow, and I thank you for it."

  "What path is that, angel? What's your plan?" Carver scooted himself closer to Lisa, the sword still extended and Jessup, as well, frozen beside her, his teeth bared. Apparently, Barachiel caught him in whatever spell he had enchanted her with, too.

  "With Azazel gone," Barachiel said, his voice lowering, almost conspiratorially, "there is only my little Lucifer to stand in defiance of what I have to do."

  "Which is? What?"

  Barachiel's face twisted to Carver, and he fell into the blue eyes, the depth of them so hard he could not look away even if he wanted to. "To step in as king and fling the gates of hell wide open."

  Carver's breath snagged, and his stomach lurched. Barachiel turned from him again, beginning to pace slowly around the room and breaking the scintillating effect Carver had been trapped by momentarily.

  "Why would you want to do such a thing?"

  "To show this world it needs its Father. To give them all the reason humans need to come to Him. To worship him, praise Him, to make them beg for Him to keep them safe."

  He whirled and snapped his hand down toward Carver. The man winced, jerking himself unconsciously in a flinch. "They will come to Him, as he so justly deserves, and I will do everything in my power to make sure that happens."

  "You're crazy!" Carver shouted, his voice echoing through the emptied room. "You've lost your mind..."

  Barachiel seemed not to hear him but came forward. "Go home, Hallow. Rest. You've done well, but there is so much more I have for you to do."

  His wings shimmered, the feathers becoming translucent as they dipped toward him. They shone so intensely Carver had to avert his eyes, casting them on Lisa and the hard stance of her body.

  Gently, almost as a mother's caress to her child before sleep, Barachiel's wing slid across his face, wiping the dirt and dried blood as it did. His lip, cracked open and swollen, healed instantly as the wing came from him, its blue-white light trailing behind for a moment as Barachiel turned.

  The angel raised his hands above him, his face taking on the same glow as his wings, a beatific look of rapture passing through his features as the smile once again appeared. They flit, once, twice, then another more powerful than the last. The air in the room swept out in a vacuum as Barachiel shot upward, crashing through the ceiling above with a crackling of steel and mortar breaking apart, screaming in protest at the invasion.

  Debris fell in great swaths as Carver tried to scramble aside, Lisa breaking out of the spell with Jessup as soon as the angel was out of sight.

  The sword dropped from her hand, clattering to the floor silently in the crush of parts of the structure falling into the tortured place. She screamed as she grabbed her father and held on tight, Jessup joining in with a howl.

  Lisa helped him drag himself to the corner of the room as the building vibrated with the force of power Barachiel exuded as he flew away. Carver's eyes watered with dust and the girl cried as she kept hold of him.

  Oh, God, what have I done?

  Chapter 31

  Jessup snorted in his sleep.

  Carver glanced over at him, his dark body laying next to Lisa on the couch, paws hanging over the edge slightly twitching as he dreamed. Was his skin darker beneath the fur than it had been before? Was there something in his orbs now that was more... wild? Maybe it was just a result of the wounds he received from the blade Indris plunged into his side during the fight.

  A soft giggle from Lisa disturbed Jessup a little, and she laid one of her hands on his spine, settling him down.

  Carver smiled at his daughter and turned back to the television, the movie they watched together humming softly through the room. His view was on it, but his thoughts were not.

  They were on those last moments with Barachiel, the way the angel had seemed so sure he knew what he was doing, confident that, somehow, his grand plan to bring people to God was correct and even sanctioned by the Almighty.

  Carver could not wrap his head around it. There was no way God would be behind this kind of thing, not when there was so much to risk. Would He?

  The cherub was crazy, lost in the haze of being the assigned protector, the guardian of guardians, the intercessor for the prayers of those who needed help. How could he have warped things so badly to think going after Lucifer, himself, and opening the gates of hell was how to force humans to worship God? To beg for forgiveness? To seek Him out?

  He shuddered a little as the thoughts spun in his head, disturbing Lisa to the point she pulled away from him and stared into his face.

  "It's okay, honey," Carver covered. "I'm just tired."

  She kept her gaze on him for a moment longer, not sure if he should be believed, before turning back to the movie with a nod. She, too, was so different, now, than she was before.

  He was tired. Perhaps more than he experienced before. His body, though recovering from his endeavors, ached in ways he would give anything to see end, his side throbbing every time he moved. But as each hour passed, he gained stability, and the aching ebbed ever so slightly.

  The scars still lined his body, the healing process in place, and with his repair and his gaining of strength, it seemed the flow of his power returning. It all meant he, somehow, remained the Hallow. Barachiel had not taken tha
t away from him.

  The angel said, after all, there were things for him yet to do, and Carver could not help but think of the night he destroyed the succubus and the feeling he had missed the point entirely. Barachiel gave him the address, sending him on a mission unknown. Was it really to destroy the demon-woman?

  Or was there another reason he had been sent?

  The movie flashed on the screen, his little family intact and mending, if slowly, from what they had been through. Lisa, capable as she was, had woken from nightmares three times the night before, and probably would for a long time to come, her mind trying to cope.

  But that, too, would heal with life.

  Tomorrow he would have to replace the window on the side of the home. The glass and shards of wood had been cleaned up, with difficulty, and Jessup, the darn dog, had slept through all of it, letting the humans fend for themselves.