Ash & Flame: Season One

by Geiger, Wilson

  “No, Kev—”

  “Get the fuck outta here, Anderson! They need you!” He pushed Anderson again, this time with both hands, and the man backed away. “I’ll find you later!”

  Kevin turned and sprinted around the hub as Anderson shouted at the others. He ran towards the row of buildings on the southern fringe of the compound, and didn’t look back. Anderson knew what had to be done, and he’d do it.

  A cloud of dust rose into the air, and he heard the giant angel’s rumbling shout for Ithuriel. Wood splintered, loud booms and cracks echoing throughout Haven. Kevin’s breath caught in his throat at the shrieking groan of metal, and he ran faster, his boots slapping against the cracked pavement.

  Abaddon stood on the other side of twin silos. Hartman backed away slowly as the Malakhi’s maul swept towards the closest silo. There was a reverberating clang and the silo swayed.

  Idiot! Kevin rushed towards Hartmann and grabbed the man by the arm. Hartmann swung around, his eyes wide and panicked.

  “Get to Anderson,” Kevin hissed. He turned Hartmann around and pushed him back towards the hub. “Go, before it’s—”

  A huge hand latched onto Hartmann’s head and squeezed. The man opened his mouth to scream and Abaddon hurled him away. He landed with a sick thud against one of the crumbling walls and slumped to the ground.

  “Blessed.” Abaddon stepped in front of Kevin, his chest heaving. His eyes were wild, his skin splotched and dark. A misshapen dent had collapsed part of his darkened breastplate, and lower, near his waist, a jagged hole had punched through his armor, dried blood trailing down his leg. “Where. Is. He.”

  Kevin could feel the seething anger radiating from the angel, and for the hundredth time today he wished Ithuriel were here. But he had to stall Abaddon for as long as he could. It might not be long, but it didn’t have to be. It just had to be long enough.

  “Abaddon, stop!” Kevin swallowed and stood his ground. Glancing at the unmoving form of Hartmann, he held his hand still, aching to grab Lahat. “You just killed him! What—”

  “The Spear.” The Malakhi’s nostrils flared and he reached for Kevin with a massive hand.

  Kevin darted back, his mind frantic, his heart racing. Not long enough for the others. Not nearly. “Listen to yourself, Abaddon! Look at what you’ve done!”

  Abaddon lifted the maul and Kevin ran. He felt the breeze as the weapon whisked past his head, adrenaline flooding his legs. He sprinted for the hub, not daring to look back. He set his jaw and crashed through the back door, jarring his shoulder.

  He rolled forward, spinning to his feet and facing the door. He shrugged his shoulder, wincing, and a section of the back wall flew inward.

  Abaddon’s maul punched a hole in the wall and he stepped through the falling wreckage. He looked down at Kevin, a mad grin on his face. He reached up and pushed against the ceiling.

  The ceiling exploded outward, splinters and debris falling all over the floor. One of the survivors fell through the gaping hole and landed with a crunch. Kevin scrambled back up to his feet, coughing away the dust that swam in front of his eyes.

  “Abaddon, stop!” he shouted. His hand closed over the pendant and he barked the sword’s name, Lahat flashing into his grip.

  The Malakhi froze and his heavy gaze fell over Kevin. “It has been a long time since a mere human stood before me as you do.” An amused, uneven smile spread across his face as he focused on the blue flames that licked over the blade. “Tell me, human, do you know who named that Blessed weapon?”

  The Unmaker’s smile fled as he whispered, and Kevin’s sword vanished from his grip. Kevin looked down at his empty hand, his mouth slack.

  “Shit.”

  Kevin turned and ran out of the remains of the building, jumping over debris, chips of cement and wood falling all around him. A wooden panel collapsed overhead, a corner smacking into Kevin’s back as he leapt through the double doors. He grunted and rolled to his feet, ignoring the burning pain between his shoulders.

  The last of the survivors were still making their way towards the northeastern fringes of the compound. A handful carried supplies over their shoulders, the stronger ones helping with the cots and the injured.

  Kevin had to give them more time. He took a heaving breath and veered towards the west, hoping Abaddon would follow him. He looked over his shoulder, a mocking shout on his open lips.

  Just in time to catch Abaddon’s massive hand as it swept toward him.

  The Malakhi’s hand caught Kevin in his ribs and he found himself lifted off his feet. The world twisted and pitched, his mouth open in a silent shout. He squeezed his eyes shut and cried out as he slammed into the earth, sand and muck splashing over him. He rolled with the impact and ended up on his back. He squinted his eyes open, the cloudy sky staring down at him.

  Heavy footsteps sounded nearby, trailing away. Kevin tried to sit up but his vision spun, nausea crawling up the back of his throat. He shook his head and could only watch, blinking away the fog, as Abaddon walked towards Ithuriel’s dome.

  The Unmaker stopped and looked up at the great dome. He spread his arms wide and laughed, deep peals of manic laughter, and then his head leaned back.

  “All this, for him, your precious Ithuriel?” he cried out into the sky. The laughter flipped off like a switch, replaced by his bellowing anger. “And what was left for me, Father? When I gave you everything?”

  His shoulders shook, his hands clenched into fists. “Your favored sons, Michael and Gabriel. Where are they now?”

  Kevin felt the sand and dirt on his back shift. His stomach churned, unsettled, and he scooted back away from the giant Malakhi. A sound rang in his ears, like the crash of the ocean, a rising tide that brought his hands to his ears.

  Abaddon’s wings spread and he leaned back, his fists balled at the heavens. “Where are you!” The ragged cry tore from his throat.

  The dome exploded outward, triangular sections flying everywhere. Steel bent and broke, beams cracking in two. The heavy door popped off its hinges and arced overhead, spinning past Kevin and slapping into the wet muck.

  Abaddon screamed again and the earth around the dome erupted into a shower of dirt, sand and twirling debris. Kevin heard a terrible grinding noise and the earth under his feet shifted. He rolled over onto his knees and pushed himself to his feet. He took a step and nearly pitched forward as the ground buckled underneath him.

  Kevin ran as fast he could, his gaze fixed on the trees to the north. He fell and clambered to his feet, scrambled on all fours, his heart thudding against his chest.

  He ran and ran, Abaddon’s quaking, booming laughter behind him, and waited for the earth to fall under his feet.

  ▪▪▪

  Before the Great Flood Azazel had given them weapons, shown them how to mold metal to their will. He had shown them dark secrets, forbidden and powerful, and what had humanity done to repay that debt? They had turned on him at the end, betrayed the Grigori.

  He had spent an eternity chained to the earth, under the tidal waves that broke against the world. Humanity had lived on, blessed by God, and they had forgotten Azazel, forgotten the gifts he had given them all. They let him suffer under a mountain of bedrock and forgot his name. What they had forgotten his wings had remembered, would always remember, unable to lift him clear of the earth. He, and the Grigori, were cursed to forever be bound to this earth.

  He didn’t want to rule over humanity, not like the other Fallen. He didn’t want to make them anew under his own image. That was too good for them.

  Azazel wanted to remind them what they had all forgotten, until it was seared in the ashes of their memory.

  He fed on them now, breaking their bones, ruining their flesh. They could run all they wanted, scream and beg and blubber, but they could not escape his judgment. He shattered their minds, flooding them with power and venom until they drenched the sand red.

  He finished with the last of them, savoring the echoes of anguish as the man’s wail
s were cut short. He took a deep breath of the fetid air and froze at the new scent that assaulted his senses. He closed his eyes and quickly located the direction of the foul odor.

  Satisfaction buzzed in his core, his insatiable hunger reaching out towards the source, so close, like claws digging into their prey. A Malakhi, one that had marked him earlier. Embarrassed him.

  The angels had watched as the Grigori drowned, safe on their perch in the Heavens. They sat and did nothing as their brothers and sisters thrashed hopelessly against the chains that bound them to the earth. The Malakhi beat their wings against the air and soared over the floodwaters, knowing that the Grigori would never fly again.

  Azazel opened his eyes and looked south, the name on his lips, on his tongue. His scaly wings spread wide, his talons clenching paired flails.

  Ithuriel.

  ▪▪▪

  Ren darted low, his knife aiming for Brad’s thigh, but the man was too fast. Brad sidestepped Ren’s swing and kicked out with his other leg. Brad’s boot connected with Ren’s side and he hissed in pain, stumbling off to the side.

  He spun around to face Brad, his body on fire in a thousand places. Bruises scored his ribs, ran up one of his arms. The gash across his eyebrow had reopened, clotting blood sticking to his eyelid, seeping down the corner of his eye.

  But he was still breathing. He was still alive.

  He held the knife in front, the tip of the blade centered on Brad’s chest. “Let her go. I’m not letting you take her again.”

  Brad’s eyes narrowed and his hand shot to his neck. He frowned and paused, before his other hand pulled a long military knife from a sheath strapped to his leg.

  “Lose your holy weapon?” Ren hadn’t even thought about it, not until now. Brad’s pendant was gone.

  Brad shook his head, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “No, I hid it away, so that your precious Ithuriel wouldn’t be here for you.”

  He leapt forward, mouth open in a snarl, and Ren barely jumped back in time. Brad’s long knife whisked past his cheek. He shifted on his feet and his other hand came up, his fist hammering into Ren’s ribs.

  Ren gritted his teeth and swung his knife in a downward slash. The blade bit into Brad’s arm, but Brad was already shifting again. His lead foot swept behind Ren and he grabbed Ren’s shirt, pushing him back over his leg. He carried his momentum forward and slammed Ren against the hard ground.

  The air rushed from Ren’s lungs and he gasped for breath, blinking back tears.

  He tried to thrust his knife up into Brad’s chest but the man brought his knee down, pinning Ren’s forearm under his weight. The blade fell from Ren’s fingers and he struggled to breathe, his mouth open wide.

  “Got me good,” Brad hissed under his breath. His free hand latched around Ren’s throat and he squeezed. “But you’re outta time now. Me and Emma got to go.”

  Ren’s free hand swept across the grass and churned up dirt, pausing as his fingers slid over a jagged piece of slate. He latched onto the rock and swung it across Brad’s forehead, wincing at the dull crack of stone impacting skull. The pressure on Ren’s chest and throat eased as Brad fell back, his eyes blinking. Brad touched his forehead, smearing blood across his face.

  Ren’s chest heaved as he took a huge gulp of air, and he pushed himself up, leaning on one side. He saw the glint of metal beside him, and his fingers reached out for the knife.

  Brad swatted the blade away, the knife spinning in the air, disappearing into the deep grass. He lunged forward, throwing himself on top of Ren. He drove his forearm down, pressing hard against Ren’s throat. His other hand rose over Ren’s head, the point of his gleaming knife aimed at Ren’s face.

  “This is over, Ren.”

  Blood dripped down Ren’s cheek. His eyes went wide and his heart lurched in his chest as Brad tried to force his windpipe shut. He was too late. How could he fight this? How could he resist such power?

  Power.

  He heard the whisper in his mind, Emma’s soft, sure voice behind it. The word repeated, more insistent this time, and somehow he knew. He whispered it to himself.

  “Potestas.”

  His eyelids twitched, and a chill ran down his spine. He blinked, the air in his lungs tingling. He felt…

  Brad frowned. “What?”

  Ren reached up and grabbed Brad’s knife hand. He twisted the man’s wrist and Brad cried out as bone cracked, the military knife slipping through his fingers. Ren twisted and rolled over to one knee, Brad flailing underneath him. He picked Brad up by the shirt collar, the hairs on his arms standing on end, and glared at the man who had tried to take his daughter away.

  “You’re right, it is over.”

  He shouted and flung Brad away with everything he had, letting loose all of his anger and his desperation. Brad sailed through the air and slammed into the ground with a puff of dirt. He skidded across the sand and rolled over the ledge of the pit with a strangled cry.

  Emma. Ren stared at his hands as he clenched and unclenched them. What had she done? How…?

  “Hey, Dad.”

  Ren turned around, and when he saw her he had to push back the tears that threatened to spill over his lids. “Hey, Em.”

  Emma was sitting up, leaning on her elbow. She wiped her nose. “Well, that changes things, doesn’t it?”

  Ren couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face.

  ▪▪▪

  Ithuriel swept over a jagged terrace of layered stone and beat his wings against the air, slowing to a stop.

  His Fallen target stood in front of him, waiting, a massive monstrosity, leather, scaly wings spread wide over his shoulders. He had tried to take his old Grigori form, but eons of corruption and hatred had warped him, his charcoal skin splotchy and cracked. His once-golden armor shone dully in the evening sunlight, scorch marks covering the Words that used to line the armor. Dark, wet hair ran to his shoulders, and he glared at Ithuriel with black eyes.

  “Ithuriel.” The Grigori spread his arms wide, darkened iron flails appearing in each hand. The tips of the flails, jagged barbs, hung just off the ground. “I have waited for you.”

  “Azazel,” Ithuriel said. He clenched his hand and the spear manifested in his grip. He glanced to either side. “Where is my Blessed?”

  “Oh, Lilith’s plaything?” Azazel laughed, his coarse voice echoing in the quarry. He leered and shifted his hands, the barbs of the flails ringing off each other. He lifted a finger and Brad’s pendant dropped to the ground. “If I had to guess, he has the girl right now. But then you already know that, don’t you, frater?”

  Ithuriel was not his brother, had not been his brother for a thousand, thousand years. Not since the Grigori had betrayed Father and nearly taken humanity with them.

  They had fooled him, and he had left Ren alone. He had left them both, and he knew the Grigori was not lying. Brad was with them, and Ithuriel couldn’t see him.

  “What do you want with the girl, Grigori?” He took a step sideways, balancing on the balls of his feet, his gaze on Azazel unwavering. “What is she to you?”

  “Salvation,” Azazel hissed. “But not yours.”

  He took a step towards Ithuriel and snapped one of the flails forward. The barbed tips lashed out, and Ithuriel jumped back into the air, hurling the spear in one smooth motion.

  Azazel stepped to one side and the other flail flashed, the barbs whipping across the spear, sending it skittering off into the dirt.

  Ithuriel dove, the spear flashing back into his hand. He thrust it forward, but not before Azazel’s flail caught against his wing. He grunted as he drove the spear down, the tip piercing Azazel’s side. Ithuriel landed on one foot and twisted with the momentum, slinging the Grigori free.

  Azazel spun away, the barbs of the flail ripping across Ithuriel’s feathers, and the Grigori landed on one knee, his boots digging into the sand. Black blood dripped down his armor, spilling against the dirt.

  Ithuriel roared as he charged forward, the
spearpoint glowing. Anger welled up within, at the eternal struggle, at Father. At this world, at his failures. He lunged, the spear a blinding arc that drove towards Azazel.

  The Grigori suddenly shifted, the angel’s spear driving into empty space. Barbs wrapped around the haft of the spear, and Azazel spun the flail around and flicked it out. The whipping flail forced the spear out of Ithuriel’s grip and he lurched forward as he reached for it.

  The other flail snapped against Ithuriel’s healing wing, and he cried out as the barbs yanked him back. A knee crunched into his side, and he gritted his teeth against the pain as he jerked away, the barbs tearing into his wing.

  He tried to jump away but the second flail drove into his other wing. Azazel pulled with both hands and grinned at Ithuriel.

  “Embrace me, frater.”

  “I…am not…” Ithuriel struggled against the barbs, the spear flashing back into his grip. “…your brother.”

  He tensed his arms, pushing against Azazel, trying to leverage any kind of advantage with the spear.

  He felt them, then, the baying, raucous cries as they galloped towards him. He felt them deep in his core, the vibrations as their hooves tore into the earth, the vicious, feral malice radiating from them.

  Daemons, lesser demons created by the Grigori to serve them, bayed his name. They were coming for him. He had to move.

  Ithuriel let the spear go. He growled and pushed against Azazel, going with the Grigori’s pulling momentum. He pushed and leapt forward, his hands gripping Azazel’s armor, carrying him up into the sky with him. Azazel’s eyes went wide, and he started to fight against Ithuriel.

  The Malakhi bit his tongue against the sharp bite of the flails, and willed his wings up and up. Feathers drifted back down towards the earth, blood streaked over white tufts as they fell.

  He looked at the sun, drawing on its warmth, Azazel’s hoarse roar in his ears. The Grigori’s wings hissed, smoke swirling from his exposed skin.

  The Fallen was more than just a name. The Grigori were chained to the earth, never again permitted to soar the heavens.