by Lou Morgan
The rubble shifted abruptly beneath him and Mallory was forced to jump clear, his wings slowing his fall. Behind him, the rocks continued to move and judder apart, leaving a hole where he had been standing. He edged closer to it and found himself peering into a void, which gaped back up at him, dropping away to an ice-laden river far below.
“Really rolling out the welcome mat,” said a voice behind him. Vin sounded tired, strained, but at least he was standing. He leaned around Mallory and stared down into the gap. “That’s a seriously big hole.”
“Isn’t it? Red-carpet treatment. You see him?” Mallory nodded towards Azazel, and Vin’s eyes met Lucifer’s.
“No. Way.”
“Worst possible combination. Lucifer riding Azazel. Still, now we’re here it’d be rude to keep them all waiting. Especially when they’ve cranked out the standard.”
Mallory stared across the cliff-top at hell’s battle-flag. It had been a long time since he’d seen it – a very long time – and the years didn’t seem to have done it any favours. He remembered it being ragged, but now there was more hole to it than cloth. A scorch-mark ran across the top of the fabric; a souvenir from Michael. Mallory couldn’t recall which particular member of the Fallen had been the standard-bearer that time, but it didn’t really matter. He hadn’t lasted long.
“What do you see?” he asked Vin.
There was a pause, and Vin sniffed. “Purson playing stick-pin with my liver. Nice. You?”
“You don’t want to know.”
The standard showed you your fears, your nightmares, the very worst of your memories; everything you thought you’d boxed up and hidden away in the darkness, running to meet you. When you fought hell, you didn’t just fight the Fallen. You fought yourself.
“Got something for you.” Vin sounded subdued, which was not altogether surprising, given what he’d just managed to do.
Mallory looked round at him and folded his arms. “Oh?”
“Here.” Vin held out a small, L-shaped packet, wrapped in a carrier bag.
Mallory took it and turned it over in his hands, knowing full well what it was. “That’s a lot of effort you’ve put into the presentation.” He scrunched the bag up and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket then held the gun out at arm’s length, testing the weight and the feel of it in his hand. “What’s this in aid of?”
“In aid of? It’s in aid of maybe getting out of here alive. That and my being an exceptionally nice guy. Besides, I like you and I don’t really want to have to scrape you off the floor and carry you out of here. It’d ruin my coat.”
“I see.” Mallory held the two Colts – his, and Vin’s gift – side by side in silent gratitude. “An Uzi might have been nice.”
“Don’t like you that much...” Vin laughed, but his laugh tailed off as he looked out at the rows of the Fallen.
They were still there, waiting. And Lucifer’s red eyes still shone out from beneath the shifting standard, the flag writhing like a serpent. Vin opened his mouth to speak, to ask Mallory how they could possibly get out of this, but the other Earthbound was already striding away from him, back towards the massed ranks of angels. They were no longer a crowd. They had instinctively fallen into lines, columns, battalions. Heads raised and eyes forward, wings spread – they were ready for war. A single Earthbound stood to attention at the head of each column, waiting for their orders. Mallory stopped in front of Brieus, who grinned at him. “I take it that face means we’re not just going to be able to stroll in.”
“Hardly. Would you like the bad news, the worse news or the real kick-in-the-face news?”
“Hit me with it. But quietly.” Brieus glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were far enough from the first row of angels to avoid being overheard.
“There’s a whole army of them waiting, Brieus. They’ve brought out the standard – which, by the way, Azazel is carrying – and, as if that’s not enough, it looks like Lucifer’s come out to play.”
“Who’s he in?”
“Who do you think?”
“Well, that’s not exactly cheering, is it?”
“No.”
“You’re sure it’s the standard?”
“Of course I’m sure. What else do you think it’s likely to be?”
“I don’t know, Lucifer’s washing?” Brieus hissed, obviously aware that his voice had been rising. He stared at the ground for a moment, and when he looked up, his eyes were darker, emptier. “The standard. No quarter.”
“No quarter. They’re serious.”
“We should wait for the Descendeds. The Gate’s down, they’ll be coming soon.”
“Not soon enough.”
“Mallory...”
“I can’t make you go in, Brieus. I can’t make any of you, and I was very clear on that. If you want to change your mind, you can leave. But if you stay, you fight, or you die. Maybe both.”
“You know something, Mallory? Sometimes, I really don’t like you,” said Brieus, but he remained at attention, his eyes fixed on Mallory as he walked the line, his wings beating slow as a heartbeat. And it was the sound of Mallory’s wings which muffled his answer to Brieus, whispered soft and low.
“Neither do I.”
“I DON’T DO speeches,” Mallory said to the Earthbound in front of him: one he vaguely recognised, but whose name he had either forgotten or never known. “I’m not going to stand up front and give orders. But you listen to me, and you make sure you pass this on. The Fallen have raised hell’s standard. They will show us no mercy. You die down here, that’s it. Game’s over. There’s no coming back from it. But now the Gate’s down, the same applies to them. They have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide while they heal. Nowhere to limp back to and lick their wounds. If you kill a Fallen here, now, they stay dead. And they know that. So they’re going to fight like they mean it.” He paused, watching the angel in front of him turn pale, his shoulders sagging slightly. “Spread the word.”
He walked back to the breached Gate, his wings carrying him easily to the top of the rubble where Vin was still standing. “Any change?”
“Lucifer and Charon have been having an... animated discussion, but other than that...” said Vin, pointing at them.
They had been standing side by side earlier, but they now stood slightly apart; Charon had her back towards Lucifer, her arms crossed and her chin in the air.
“Is she sulking?” Mallory asked.
Vin pulled a face. “Looks that way, doesn’t it? I tell you what, though: I wouldn’t turn my back on him.”
“We already did. That’s why we’re here.”
Mallory lifted his silver flask to his lips and threw his head back to drain it, but as he did, it was snatched away. Startled, he straightened up to see Vin lean forward and lob it into the chasm beneath the rock and the rubble. It glittered as it fell, blue in the cold hell-glow, looking for all the world like a falling star as it spun towards the river far below. Too shocked to speak, Mallory gave Vin a murderous look and slowly pulled out one of his guns. He checked the magazine, the chamber, then flicked the safety off and aimed the barrel very carefully at a spot between Vin’s eyes.
Vin blinked back at him. “You’re going to shoot me over that? Go ahead.”
He lifted his chin slightly, keeping his eyes on Mallory’s. His wings bristled behind him. Still Mallory said nothing. Instead, he stared down the gun at Vin, who stared defiantly back.
The deadlock could have gone on, but a sudden roar from inside the shattered Gate made them both jerk their heads round to look at the Fallen. Not quite a cheer, not quite a battle-call, it was the sound of a thousand lost voices, maybe more, all crying out in fear and pain and hatred. Above all, hatred. It rushed past them, over them – through them – and Mallory lowered his gun, still glaring at Vin.
Vin glared back. “Don’t you give me that look! You want to take it out on someone, how about you start with them?” He waved his hand at the massed Fallen, but Mallory narrowed his eyes, and
still he said nothing.
The noise was rising; individual shouts broke through, some in the language of the angels, some in human languages, and some barely more than feral howls. And with the wave of sound came the smoke. Thick, black and oily, it clung to the voices like a parasite, carried across the Gate. Deep in the ranks of the Fallen, blue torches sprang to life, one by one, floating above the sea of broken angels.
Mallory’s face clouded further. “They brought hellfire. Oh, goody.” He jumped lightly down from the heap of rubble and started towards the ranks of Earthbounds, still patiently standing to attention. But after a few steps, he stopped and turned back to Vin. “Try not to die, alright?”
“That an order?”
“Would it make a difference if it was?”
“Nah.”
“Then consider it a request by a friend.”
“We’re alright, then? After, you know, me and the throwing...?”
“You brought me a gun, Vin. We’re alright.” Mallory winked and turned away again, leaving Vin on the pile of stone, staring out at the Fallen and trying to ignore the fact that even his wings were shivering.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Ixion
ALICE’S BREATH CAME in ragged gasps; her face was numb from pushing through the cold air as they ran. Her lungs were full of nails and the path was a river of swords beneath her feet. And Abbadona was still running.
She stumbled and caught herself, but her knees gave beneath her and she sank to the ground. “I can’t.”
“Alice, you have to get up. He could be right behind us. All of them could.”
“So? If the Twelve know I’m here, and they know you’re helping me, then we’re both screwed. And whether we’re screwed here or, I don’t know, a mile further down the road, we’re still screwed. But I can’t run any more.”
Abbadona sagged, and blew out a long, frustrated breath. “Fine. But that’s on your head, not mine.”
“As long as it’s not on my feet,” she groaned.
He sat down beside her and ran his hands back through his hair so hard that strands fell out, floating down to the floor. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
“You knew this would happen, Rob.” She didn’t even notice his old name, his false name, slipping out until it was too late. Either he missed it, or he didn’t care. All he did was stare at his feet, pulling at his hair and swearing under his breath. “Like that’s going to help? Get a grip.”
“Excuse me?” He stopped pulling at his hair and looked sideways at her.
“You’re seriously telling me you thought you, we, could pull this off without being found out?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, Alice, it’s a pretty fundamental part of the plan. I can’t take on the Twelve. No, scratch that. I can take on the Twelve. I’ll just lose. And die. Painfully.”
“You’re forgetting something.”
“What?”
“Me.” As she spoke, Alice picked up a small stone that lay next to her feet. It was rough, and it was cold in her hand. She tossed it lightly into the air, where it promptly burst into flames. A spiral of white smoke coiled up and away, and all that came back down was pale ash. It wasn’t entirely unexpected – after all, if she didn’t think something would happen, there would have been no point in trying it – but even so, the little flurry of ash made her uncomfortable and short of breath. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Abbadona; his eyes wide, his mouth even wider. She patted his knee. “Close your mouth, would you? Something’ll fly in.”
“How did you know it would do that?”
“I didn’t know, exactly. I just thought, you know, that it would.”
“You know something, Alice? You scare me.”
“If it helps, you’re not the only one.”
They both stared ahead of them, past the settling ash and back down the path they had come. Now they weren’t running, she could hear how quiet hell was. Or, rather, not hear it. Before, there had always been something: the noises of the other levels – creaking ice, or the whispering of the Plain; the scratching and moaning of the forest, and the voices of the Dark House. The voices. She would never forget those voices. But here, hell was quiet. Silent. The only sound was Abbadona’s breathing. Everything else was empty, cold and still.
A hand settled on her shoulder and she swiped it away. “Look, just because we’re able to have something approaching a civilised conversation right now, it doesn’t mean I want you touching me, alright?” She turned towards him angrily. Things were complicated enough without that. But as she turned, she saw his hands in his lap; saw his face, waxy and pale as he stared past her to a spot somewhere behind her. She saw the dark eyes behind him, and the sharp, shining steel at his throat.
The hand lifted from her shoulder, then casually, insultingly, it patted her head.
“You don’t scare me, Alice,” said Xaphan. “Nice display. But before you even think about trying any of your tricks, I should warn you: you’d better be sure you can finish me off. Purson over there too. Otherwise we’ll cut your little friend here into pieces in front of you.”
“What’s that to me?” She swallowed hard. There were sparks beneath her skin, scratching to get out. “He lied to me. He made me believe he was something he could never be. Why should he mean anything to me? He’s a Fallen.”
“But you’re not, are you?”
Xaphan stepped around to where she could see him, and gestured to Purson, who grinned and dug the blade he was holding into Abbadona’s neck. Blood spilled from the wound, but Abbadona did not flinch. He stared ahead, blankly. Alice, however, did flinch, and Xaphan saw it.
“I wonder, is it that you’re still fond of him, or is it that you’re just too human? The angels have great plans for you, but I wonder whether there’s angel enough in there to do what is necessary. There’s too much of your father in you, I suspect, and not enough fire.” He nodded to Purson again, who dragged his knife across Abbadona’s throat. It left a fine line like a necklace, oozing redly, and Alice turned her face away. “I thought as much,” he laughed as he leaned closer.
With so little distance between them, she could see the sweep of scar tissue that covered one side of his face: there were faint lines that ran across his cheek like a roadmap, and shiny knots of burn-tissue, some of it old, some of it fresh and angry. He blinked at her.
“So now I suppose the question is what we do with you...” Xaphan tailed off, his head tipping to one side as though he was listening to something a long way off.
Alice shivered. Not something, someone. Lucifer. She looked quickly towards Abbadona. Purson still had his knife at his throat, but although his chin was raised, his head tipping back, his eyes were fixed on her.
Whatever Lucifer had said, Xaphan was smiling. The scars on his face bulged and his teeth glittered and Alice fought to keep control of the fire that tore and scratched at her insides, looking for a way out. She could let it, she thought; let it out and it would burn them all. Including Abbadona. Could she let him die? More to the point, could she kill him? What would that make her? She squeezed her eyes shut and pictured the flames, and saw herself lost and alone in the middle of hell. Forever. Xaphan stepped around her and over to Abbadona, hauling him to his feet by the lapels of his jacket. Purson’s blade followed and still Abbadona kept his eyes on Alice. Xaphan stood in front of him and sighed.
“I really did expect more from you. We all did. He certainly did. And after all that time we spent together, after everything we talked about, I was absolutely convinced that we understood one another, and then you go and do something like this.” He snatched at Abbadona’s wrist, pulling the sleeve back and exposing the burned-off brand. “Clever. Clever, clever boy. Of course, Gabriel wouldn’t be dealing with a Fallen. And, no offence, dear chap, but if he did, it wouldn’t be one as insignificant as you. And none of his Earthbounds would risk it, which leaves his Descendeds. And that is interesting.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Not that it helps you much.
You see, you’ve rather over-extended our patience, and that’s not good news for you. Not good at all.”
“‘Our?’” snarled Abbadona, finally taking his eyes off Alice and meeting Xaphan’s gaze. “You’re getting ideas above your station again. I know he’s not in there, so just give it a rest. You don’t scare me.” He spat at Xaphan’s feet.
Xaphan frowned. “I thought you might say that. Still, it doesn’t make any difference. I’ve had my orders. It’s back on the Wheel with you, and this time you’re staying there.”
Alice saw Abbadona sag, just slightly. Xaphan had already turned away. “And you, Alice? You get to watch.”
She knew what they would do to Abbadona. She’d seen it already, and knew as well as he did what this meant. If she did it, if she turned the fire loose on all of them, it would be a mercy, as far as he was concerned. But he would still die, and he would die at her hands. And no matter what there had been between them, no matter whether he had lied, no matter what he was... he did not deserve to die in this place, and not through her. He had told her that she was his hope, and she could not let his hope be the one to destroy him. Besides, there was still time...
She felt a sudden chill, and a pain somewhere behind her – not quite a part of her, and distant. There was a lurch of vertigo, a flash of light and then, nothing.