“Why aren’t we going back to Haven?” the angel asked, cutting Ren off.
“We can’t.” Emma stepped forward, standing beside her dad. “We have to go north. I have to.”
Ithuriel turned to face Emma, and she felt the heat of his stare. It was like he peered into her, right through her body and into her soul, judging her. She wanted to squirm away, but she held her ground and his gaze.
“I cannot allow that,” the angel said. “If the Grigori—”
“We’re going north,” Ren said. “I don’t think we can run far enough, fast enough, not anymore. We can’t keep hiding. And you can’t protect her, not by yourself. Look at you.”
Ithuriel paused, his gaze trailing down his pitted armor. Dad had cleaned him up as best he could, but dried blood and dirt still clung to his skin. He visibly sagged, dark bags under his eyes. The angel’s wings looked a tattered ruin to Emma, feathers torn or hanging loosely.
He straightened and turned his stare towards Ren. The spear flashed in his hand, its point softly glowing in the darkness. “And you, Ren? Can you protect her?”
Dad stepped in front of the Malakhi, his fingers hovering over the hilt of the knife jutting from his belt.
“What are you doing?”
Emma’s heart beat against her chest, and her pulse pounded in her ears. Then she saw the bead of sweat run down her dad’s forehead. She was feeling his nerves, mingling with her own.
Calm down, Dad. She bit her lip and focused on the thought, telling herself the same. Please.
“I…I don’t know,” the angel finally murmured, slowly shaking his head. He stepped back, wavering on his feet. He looked down at the ground, and the spear flashed out of existence, Emma’s ears popping. “I just need to rest, that…that’s all…”
Dad’s posture eased, and he relaxed. He tried to hide the low sigh that slipped from his lips, but Emma noticed. “Okay, then,” he said, looking back down the street. “Let’s find us a good spot to stop for the night.”
“Good.” Emma peered up at the moon, shivering.
Dad helped Ithuriel as they headed down the street, the angel limping along beside him. Emma caught the angel stealing glances at her as they walked, the skin on the back of her neck tingling. Her eyes would meet his, and he would tear his gaze away to stare off into the darkness.
She was about to ask him what was wrong when Dad stopped them near the end of the narrow street, pointing at a house to their left, cloaked in shadow.
“This looks good.”
A one-story brick house sat tucked against tall trees that cloaked the roof under their limbs. Bushes lined the front of the house, grown over and obscuring the tall windows, which all surprisingly seemed to be in one piece. A crumbling path led to a small front porch, and a white wicker chair lay on its side by the door. A round pool, the moldy panels sagging at the bottom, sat to one side of the house.
Dad was the first to crack the front door open, Emma a step behind. He peeked around the narrow opening, and Emma stood beside him, listening intently for anything inside the house.
“Wait here,” Ithuriel said. He barged past them, hurt and all, and swung the door open, ducking through the doorway. He disappeared into the darkness beyond.
Emma looked at her dad and shrugged. Dad shook his head. He had rules for this sort of thing, but apparently angels didn’t have to follow them. They waited just outside the door for Ithuriel to return, Dad constantly scanning the overgrown yard and down the street, tufts of ash like snow over the wild grass. He was exhausted, his eyelids drooping. He leaned heavily against the wall, blinking way too much.
After a couple of minutes Ithuriel’s head poked through the doorway, and he beckoned them inside.
It was hard to see in the near darkness, and it was even worse when Dad closed the door behind them.
Emma blinked until she was able to make out vague details of the front room, and a hall that led deeper into the house.
“This way,” the angel said, and Emma followed his voice. He paused by another doorway, the door missing.
Emma squeezed past her dad, and entered the room. She could just make out the edges of a mattress, which had been tossed against one corner of the room, leaning against a battered dresser. Trash had been heaped against the far wall, but she’d learned long ago to deal with that.
“Sleep,” Ithuriel said, unmoved, his massive shadow shifting in the darkened hallway. “I will take the watch tonight.”
“Maybe I’ll stay up, too,” Dad said, but there was no conviction in it.
“No, Dad, you need to sleep,” Emma said.
He nodded dully, and stumbled into the room, lying back next to the abandoned mattress. His eyes flitted closed, and he motioned to Emma. “You, too, Em…” His hand fell back against the floor, and his head flopped to one side as he passed out.
Ithuriel looked at Emma, his expression indecipherable. He nodded. “Sleep, child. You are safe.”
“Right.”
She waited for the angel to retreat back down the hall. She scrounged through the dresser and pulled out a faded t-shirt, nodding to herself. It would have to do.
Carefully, afraid she’d wake him up, she tried to clean Dad’s wounds, softly patting at the thin cuts that raked across his ribs. She wiped his arms clean, worried over the mottled bruises that seemed to be everywhere. The gash over his eye probably needed stitches, but that was out of the question right now, so Emma just cleaned the area around it the best she could.
She held his hand after she’d done what she could, afraid to go to sleep. Her fingers traced burn lines on his palm, and she wondered how he’d gotten them. So many cuts and bruises, so much her dad had gone through for her. Feeling the scars and wounds made it real.
Emma fought off a yawn. She laid down next to her dad, still holding his hand.
Maybe she was safe after all.
▪▪▪
Ithuriel stood by the front door, scanning through the window into the yard. In the room behind him he could hear the light snore of Ren, and the quieter breathing of the man’s daughter.
He had almost done it. He could have ended the child’s life with a flick of his spear, ended the Grigori’s quest. Even with Ren stepping in front of him, flush with whatever power the child had given him, it would have been so easy.
He no longer knew what to do. Everything that had seemed so clear was now murky. All answers had vanished like a wisp of smoke blown away by a breeze. He was a Son of God with no God, an angel stripped of purpose. Even the divinity he had known and felt for all of his existence was failing, now just an ember of the fading fire.
He was between worlds. He had no home, no place to call his own.
A part of him wished that he had died back in that quarry. It would have been so easy to lie there in the dirt and let the daemons have their way. The pain would have ended, the black pit in whatever soul he had would have overcome everything. He wouldn’t feel tired anymore, wouldn’t wonder what he was supposed to do. He looked down at his beaten body, at the cuts and punctures, and at the dried, crusted blood smeared down his legs.
Ren was right. Ithuriel couldn’t protect them. Not anymore, and perhaps never again.
He had been the Spear, bringing the light to this world, hunting the darkness that sought to bring down humanity. He had been a Malakhi, one of the numbered few, charged by God to protect His children. An Angel of the Light…
Ithuriel blinked, felt wetness tracing down his cheeks. His vision blurred, and he couldn’t contain the tears spilling over his lids. He sank to the floor, huddled against the door, his arms around his knees, and sobbed. His shredded wings brushed the wall, the pain little more than a hollow pang against the overwhelming anguish he felt inside.
He had never felt so broken.
He cried until the tears dried on his cheeks. He sat there for a while longer, his mind numb and blank.
His fingers absently rubbed against his knees, like a stranger had stepped into his skin.
&
nbsp; And, like a stranger’s, when they finally came, his thoughts surprised him.
Ithuriel pushed himself to his feet. Slowly he unclasped the joints of his armor, slipping the breastplate off. He set it down quietly on the floor. Strange how light he felt now, just in that one act.
He wiped his face clean, and walked towards the back room.
They were both asleep in a corner of the cluttered room. Emma lay curled up next to her father, an old, faded mattress behind her. Ren slept on his back, one arm stretched out protectively over Emma’s head.
Her guardian.
Ithuriel stood in the doorway for several seconds, just watching the two as they slept. All this time, and he still had not truly understood humanity. He had an inkling now as the emptiness spread inside him. They were much stronger than he could ever have guessed.
And now they were stronger than him. He had nothing left to give. He was a mere shadow, a symbol of the world that had passed away, and now it was his turn.
He stepped into the room, his footfalls careful and quiet, until he stood over them. He pulled the relic weapon clear of his belt, the pendant that Rachel had worn. He held the chain in his fingers, the pendant hanging loose, and looked down at Ren. The man had saved his life, even with the danger that had surrounded him. He had proven himself worthy, truly worthy.
Perhaps there was hope for the man after all.
And Emma’s secret, the reason the Grigori wanted her so bad. The reason they had hidden her with her unassuming father while the world fell apart. The girl was part of both worlds, two halves that strove to make her whole, and now Ithuriel knew that she would be the key to everything. And for all their plotting, the Grigori had dismissed Ren.
Ithuriel smiled. They would have to account for him now.
He lifted the pendant to his lips, and closed his eyes. He whispered a Word, the divinity ebbing as he spoke, and knelt beside Ren. He placed the pendant beside the man, and rose to his feet.
“May you be Blessed, Ren.” Barely a whisper, but it was enough.
He switched his attention to Emma, soundly sleeping next to her father. Such an innocent child, no matter what lurked within her. She deserved so much more than the world she found herself in now. But reality had taken care of that for her, hadn’t it?
Ithuriel only had one gift left to give. Another surprise for the Grigori, even if it took all of him to take their prize away. Even if he had to Fall.
“Goodbye,” he whispered under his breath, so quietly that only he could hear it.
The spear manifested in his grip.
▪▪▪
The dream slipped away into the fog of forgetfulness as Ren woke, the flutter of wings fading.
He stretched, his eyes blinking open. Daylight shone through the blinds overhead, motes of dust swirling in the sun’s rays. He sighed and stretched again, nearly crying out. Everything hurt, his muscles raw and sore, like someone had trampled all over him throughout the night.
Clearly whatever Emma had done to him had worn off while he was sleeping, and now he was paying the price for it.
Slowly he sat up, wincing as he gingerly touched the cut that ran across his side. His fingers froze as he spotted the glint of metal out of the corner of his eye.
He picked up the pendant, the one he had taken from Rachel. A word slipped into his thoughts as he held the chain, his skin tingling, the pendant dangling below his hand. Defensuros.
The breath caught in Ren’s throat as he recognized Ithuriel’s voice. Protect her.
“Emma?” He looked to his left at his sleeping daughter, and his eyes widened.
The angel’s spear jutted from the floor beside Emma. Ren leaned to peer past the open door into the dark hall beyond, but Ithuriel was not in sight. His heart raced, thumping against his ribs. He shook Em’s shoulder. “Emma, wake up.”
Emma stirred awake, yawning as she stretched her arms over her head. “Morning,” she said, leaning back on her hands as she sat up. She frowned over at the spear embedded in the floor, then looked back at Ren.
“I dunno, Em.” Ren shook his head. He looked at the pendant in his hand, nerves gnawing at his gut. “I don’t know what’s going on, either.”
Emma jumped to her feet, and walked towards the doorway. She paused there and called out for the angel, her voice echoing down the hall. She said the angel’s name again, more insistent this time, then glanced back at Ren, the unspoken question written on her face.
Ren hissed under his breath as he pushed himself to his feet. He pocketed the pendant, and ambled over to the doorway, his legs aching with each step. He leaned forward, listening for anything in the room beyond, but heard only his own breathing.
“Wait here,” he whispered, motioning for Emma to stay put, then he slipped quietly down the hall. He counted to three, and stepped into the front room.
The room was dark and quiet. A chair, its upholstery faded to a dull gray, still sat tucked into a corner, angled so that anyone sitting there could see out the front window, in view of the overgrown lawn outside. A side table stood beside the chair, a broken coffee mug spilled across its dusty surface.
The only sign that anyone had been here recently was the dented and scratched armor in a heap beside the front door. Ithuriel’s armor.
Ren knelt down and picked up the Malakhi’s chestplate, thoughts running through his head. Where the hell had he gone, and why would he leave Ren and Emma behind?
“Dad?” Emma’s call reached him from the back room.
Ren set down Ithuriel’s armor, and hurried through the shadowed hall. He grimaced, and pressed a hand to his lower back, wishing he had an icepack, or some Tylenol.
Emma stood by the Malakhi’s spear, staring at it. She reached out hesitantly, her fingers inches from the spear.
“Don’t, Em,” Ren said, wincing at the panic in his voice. He swallowed and entered the room, his gaze locked on his daughter. “Don’t touch it.”
“But I think I’m supposed to, Dad,” Emma said. Her hand dipped, and she glanced back at Ren. “I can hear his voice. It’s like he wants me to pick up the spear, like…I don’t know, like he’s giving it to me.”
“Hold on.” Ren dug into his pocket and pulled out the pendant, his fingers tingling as they brushed the cool metal. He had heard Ithuriel’s voice, too, when he’d picked up the pendant. If the angel had given him this, then would he also have given his spear to Emma? Even if some part of her was Grigori?
He remembered the scalding touch of the pendant when he’d tried to use it. He turned his hand over, the red burn marks still evident on his palm. Was this different now? Could he use it? Could Emma?
Ren squeezed the pendant in his hand, and whispered the word the angel had left behind.
“Defensuros.”
He nearly jumped as the weapon appeared in his hand, gravity sending the sharpened segments of the whip-like scourge twisting to the floor. The tendons in his fingers twitched, a flood of power rushing through his hand, and up his forearm. He snapped his wrist, and the tip of the scourge lashed out, slashing inches away from the doorframe behind him.
He couldn’t believe it. Ithuriel had given him a Blessed weapon. The angel had made him one of the Blessed.
“I want one,” Emma said.
Ren glanced over at Emma, and flashed her a quick grin, even though he still felt that something wasn’t quite right here. He opened his hand, and the scourge blinked away. He took the chain and slipped the pendant over his head.
Where are you, Ithuriel?
“I wonder if his spear has a name, too.” Emma reached out for the spear. “I bet it does. Probably something cool. What was Thor’s hammer called, again?”
“Em, be careful, I’m still not sure about—”
Her hand gripped the shaft of the spear and a brilliant, blinding light exploded from the weapon. Ren gasped and squeezed his eyes shut, flinging his arms to cover his face. A buzzing hum sounded, like an undercurrent of electricity, low at first, and then
a cascade of noise that brought Ren’s hands pressing hard against his ears.
He heard a scream behind the noise.
“Emma!” Ren reached out, fumbling blindly for his daughter.
▪▪▪
Fire crawled and leapt over Emma’s skin, blinding light and searing heat everywhere. She screamed and bit down on her lip. Worse, the fire was inside her, flames burning up her body from the inside out.
She tried to let go of the fire, tried to pull herself clear, but the flames held her there, searing heat cresting higher and higher. She couldn’t breathe, her throat scalded, the air from her lungs feeding the mystical fire.
Vaguely she felt something touch her, then a hand grabbed her wrist and yanked.
The fire stopped. She opened her eyes, blinking away tears as she took in the daylight. Slowly the brightness ebbed, and the room etched itself back into focus.
“Emma?” A hushed silence, her name hanging in the air, and then her father again, almost breathless.
“Em?”
He had one arm wrapped around her, and Emma eased his arm down.
“I’m okay.” I think.
She took a step closer to the spear, and her heart sank. She reached out again, ignoring her dad’s cry.
The spear couldn’t hurt her. It couldn’t hurt anybody.
Ash flecks fell from the spear, and the weapon crumbled where her fingers brushed against it. The shaft toppled over like a domino, and fell apart as it hit the floor, the remains rising in a cloud of dust. A crack ran down the spearpoint, part of it sloughing off like a miniature rockslide, a large chunk stuck in the floorboard.
“Em,” Dad said, his tone firm. He grabbed her by the shoulders as he knelt in front of her. “Look at me.
Are you okay? Anything hurt?”
“No, Dad, I’m fine.” She stared at him, bright spots clouding her vision. She blinked. “Really. I’m okay.”
She wasn’t sure if she was lying, not yet. She had no idea what had just happened. Did she do something wrong? Was she supposed to have said something first?
Dad got to his feet and looked down at the remains of the spear. He nodded to himself then glanced back at Emma. “Well, we can’t wait for him. Daylight’s burning, and we need to get going.”
Ash & Flame: Season One Page 19
