Ash & Flame: Season One

by Geiger, Wilson

  His legs wanted to give, but he pushed them forward. His chest heaved, his mouth wide open and dry. But Amy was closer now, her thin body only a couple of strides away. So close that he could see the freckles running down her neck.

  He reached out for her, his arm straining as the tips of his fingers brushed past her shirt. Amy glanced back over her shoulder, her mouth open. Her foot caught on something in the brush and she tumbled forward. She threw her arms out in front of her and rolled to a stop by a copse of thorns. She leaned forward, coughing, her chin covered in chalky ash.

  Amy pushed herself to her knees and started laughing.

  “A-Amy? Honey?” He crouched beside her and rested on his knees, wincing at the ache in his legs. It felt like he’d run for miles.

  He reached for her shoulder.

  “This is all your fault, you know,” Amy said. She sighed, and turned towards Brad. The laughing smile was gone. “You left me here, all alone.”

  Brad’s hand shook, his fingers hovering over her pale skin. “What? Amy, no, I—”

  “You did this to me.” Amy’s eyes flared. “You!”

  She shoved Brad with a growl, surprising him, and he toppled over onto his backside. Amy jumped on him, her legs straddling his torso. She scratched at his shirt, clawing at the buttons.

  She’d lost it out here, lost her mind, and Brad’s heart clutched in his chest. Because she was right. He’d done this to her.

  “Amy.” He grabbed her arms, struggling to push her off, and then her lips found his.

  She bit at him, her teeth yanking on his lip. She kissed him again, tenderly this time, and she leaned forward, pressing her body against his, her breath hot in his ear.

  “Amy…” Brad tried to push away, but she was so strong. So strong, and so…soft, and warm. And he needed her. He wrapped his arms around her. “I missed you so much.”

  Someone shouted for him, but they sounded so far away.

  Her fingers tugged his shirt free, her other hand dipping inside his pants. Brad moved with her, her shirt pulled over her head, her shorts flung off. He tore the pendant off his neck. He sighed, closing his eyes as her nails dug into his ribs, and tore across his shoulders. He lost himself in it, the pain, the feel of her skin rubbing on his, sweat and moans and shuddering flesh.

  He gasped, his hips clenched forward, her body on top of his, slick with sweat. He let out a quivering breath, his heart racing, and opened his eyes. He ran a hand through her hair and realized he didn’t even know her name.

  How could you love someone and not know their name?

  “Who are you?”

  She smiled.

  ▪▪▪

  Pain blazed through Ithuriel’s body. He struck one branch, the wood shattering in half, and then tumbled over another, leaves and twigs lashing at him. Abaddon roared in his ear, pushing against him, the Malakhi’s fingers digging into Ithuriel’s throat. Something snapped near his head, and blackness tugged at his vision.

  He beat his wings in a moment of freefall, clear of the trees, but Abaddon pushed down, and the other angel’s mass and strength were too much. Ithuriel grimaced, struggling to turn Abaddon over, the fibers in his forearms twitching. The spear was in one hand, pressed uselessly against the Malakhi’s lower back, the brilliant spear tip pointing up into the spinning sky.

  He shouted, pushing forward, but too late. He slammed into the ground, his shoulders blazing in agony, a sharp crack behind him. Everything went dark for a moment, searing pain tearing through his back, through his sides, his head ringing.

  The pressure on top of him relented, and his eyes opened, barely slits, patches of color above him. A dark shape knelt beside him, and he caught the cold glint from Abaddon’s armor.

  “I am sorry, brother, for the pain I have caused you.” Abaddon leaned over, his dark face blocking out the sky. His brow creased into a frown, and his nostrils flared. He pressed a hand on Ithuriel’s chest, and Ithuriel gritted his teeth against the jabbing strain in his ribs. “It is…necessary.”

  “Y-You…have gone mad,” Ithuriel said, his voice cracking, the word brother catching on his lips. No, not brother, not anymore. Now he was something else. “Abaddon.”

  “Hell will wait no longer,” Abaddon hissed. “I will wait no longer. My existence, the reason for my creation, has all pointed towards these final days. I will do what Father could not.”

  “Listen to…to yourself, Abaddon.”

  “If only you had listened,” the giant sneered. He grabbed the curved ridge of Ithuriel’s chestplate and tugged him upright. He pushed his face into Ithuriel’s, glaring at him. “You should be fighting by my side.”

  He spat and hurled Ithuriel over his shoulder.

  Ithuriel pumped his wings and cried out as a jolt of agony reverberated up his left wing. Searing pain flared between his shoulders, his broken wing hanging limply. His right wing feathered out as he tried to catch his fall.

  He tumbled awkwardly through brush and slid to a stop in front of a thin sapling. He slowly rose to his feet, gritting his teeth against the throbbing pang.

  “Even now they move on the hole you share with the humans,” Abaddon said, pointing at Ithuriel as he closed on him. “And this is why Father left us, because of our complacency, our unwillingness to act. The Archangel Michael was the instrument of our own doom.”

  Ithuriel paused. Even now they move…the Grigori?

  “Yes,” Abaddon said, nodding as if he’d confirmed Ithuriel’s thought. The maul appeared in his hand, the black metal glinting as he turned it towards Ithuriel. “Now I am that instrument, and I will visit that doom upon our enemies. Upon my enemies.”

  “I am not your enemy.” But even as Ithuriel spoke the words, he recognized the lie on his lips. Abaddon had turned on Michael, turned on the Malakhi, on his own brotherhood. Free will had shattered the chains that bound him, but now it had also broken him.

  The spear shifted in his hand, the sharp point a brilliant beacon against Abaddon’s black maul and his dark armor. He circled to his right, crouching, the spear held level, up by his chest. He slowed his breathing, focused on the giant angel before him.

  Only Abaddon wasn’t an angel anymore. He had wings, power, nearly unmatched strength, but he was no longer Malakhi. Ithuriel could no longer think of him as such.

  “Michael said much the same,” Abaddon said. He laughed, a harsh, mirthless bark that echoed through the trees. The manic grin was still on his face as he moved, his teeth bared as the maul swung up towards Ithuriel in a blinding arc.

  Ithuriel danced back, wincing at the pain in his ribs. He lashed out with the spear, but Abaddon shifted his stance, turning away at the last instant, the spearpoint glancing off his pauldron. The maul moved as Abaddon spun to the side, the blur of it passing just over Ithuriel’s ducked head.

  He stepped back again, measuring the range, trying to ignore the ache in his muscles. His useless wing burned, a cringing throb blazing through his shoulder with the slightest motion.

  Abaddon surged forward, pressing his advantage, the ground trembling at his feet. The smile on his face had been replaced with a mask of rage, a dark storm that promised violence.

  Ithuriel parried another swing, the shock of the maul jarring him to the bone, rattling his arms. Abaddon’s open hand swept around, his fist clipping Ithuriel’s chin. Ithuriel swayed on his feet, the world a haze of black and swirling grays.

  Another roar, and this time Ithuriel couldn’t dodge the blow, couldn’t even make out what was coming until the shadow was right on top of him. The maul veered down, the flat of the weapon twisted to face him, and the black metal smashed into his upper arm.

  He blinked, spitting out grass and dirt, dully realizing that somehow he had ended up on his back. His fingers clenched, finding a clump of dirt rather than his spear.

  “Don’t make me destroy you, Ithuriel. Will you join me, frater?” Abaddon’s voice, a low growl seeping through the fog in Ithuriel’s head.

  Somet
hing heavy pressed against his chest, smothering his breath, and his cry dissolved into a wheezing cough. He reached up, his fingers brushing the hard sole of Abaddon’s boot. Abaddon’s dark, scowling face came into view, the veins on his neck standing out.

  “Answer me!” he snarled, spittle flying from his lips. He lifted the maul over his head with both hands, the jagged edge of the black metal glinting in the fading light of the sun.

  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 leere
d 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.