Ash & Flame: Season One

by Geiger, Wilson

  “Volare, Grigori,” Ithuriel said. He reached back and wrenched the barbs free of his wings, holding them up in front of Azazel, blood dripping from the tips. “Fly.”

  Ithuriel let Azazel go. The Grigori’s wings flapped once, futilely, and he dropped like a stone. He screamed as he fell, his skin burning.

  Pain surged through his beating wings, but Ithuriel held himself there for an instant longer, the spear flashing into his hand. Then he dove, his wings folded behind his back, the spear drawn over his shoulder. He hurtled towards Azazel, his teeth bared, and threw the spear with a throat-numbing shout.

  The spear glowed white-hot as it drove down like a bolt of lightning. Azazel was feet from the ground when the spearpoint punched through his chest. Spear and Grigori slammed into the earth together, the haft of the weapon that jutted from Azazel’s chest quivering.

  Ithuriel couldn’t contain the sharp cry of agony as his wings spread wide to slow his descent. He beat his wings, thrusting upward, but his injured wing finally gave. He tumbled over headfirst, his heart pounding against his chest as the white malachite of the quarry rushed to meet him.

  He managed to roll at the last instant, landing awkwardly on his side. His head slammed into the dirt, the impact sending barbs of shooting pain through his ribs and up his shoulder. He rolled over onto his chest and closed his eyes.

  He took a heaving breath and coughed up a trail of blood, the very act sending another tide of agony rolling through his chest and ribs. “Sanaret,” he whispered, and the healing Word washed over him. It wound through his chest, running over his ribs, leeching the divinity that was a part of him.

  Ithuriel was exhausted, pain still ringing through his chest, his ribs tender as he pushed himself slowly to his feet. Despair grabbed at him, tried to claw and suck the energy from him.

  He couldn’t fight anymore. Day after day, hunting and fighting, struggling to maintain a balance that was becoming too difficult to sustain. He could barely feel the divinity within, the touch of his Father replaced by an indifferent nothingness. A black pit that reminded him how alone he was.

  He didn’t know how much divinity he had left, how many more Words he might need to use. And he didn’t know what would happen when it had all been used up.

  One of the daemons howled, a guttural warble that resonated in his bones. Another sounded, and another, his name repeated. Ithuriel, they sang, his name like a beacon. Ithuriel!

  Too many, Ithuriel thought. Too many, countless, dark and burning like the world. He couldn’t fight it all.

  Too much for me.

  He shook his head and blinked away the fog in his vision. He felt the warmth of anger and shame, two sides of the same coin. He took it and focused.

  He gritted his teeth, his fingers tightening around the spear as it flashed into his grip. The tip shone against the dusk and he reached for the spark of anger. So unfamiliar yet, but he needed it now, needed that surge of warmth to fuel him. He latched onto it, his nostrils flaring.

  I am Ithuriel. The Spear. Hell wouldn’t have him so easily.

  The daemons burst through the trees to the northwest, hooves churning up sand as they rushed towards Ithuriel. They clambered over a rock shelf and paused as their baleful yellow eyes fell on the still body of Azazel.

  Thirteen of them, the lesser demons chittering as they fixed their attention back on Ithuriel. Their bodies were skinless and shone a dark red, their muscle fibers twitching. Smaller than the Grigori, they stalked towards Ithuriel on hindlegs that bent back like the sick perversion of an animal. Long, gleaming claws extended from their fingers, the wiry sinews of their arms trembling. Bone horns jutted from their ram-like heads, their jaundiced eyes glaring at Ithuriel.

  Ithuriel set his jaw and stepped towards the daemons, his grip tightening on the spear at his side.

  “I am Ithuriel.”

  EPISODE FIVE

  Kevin circled back the way he’d come, heading east towards the river. Abaddon’s terrible cries, and the shaking earth that had surrounded him, had finally eased, and Kevin decided this was as good a time as any to make for Kennett’s Castle. He was out of the Unmaker’s reach, at least for now.

  He raced through the undergrowth, ducking under branches, and weaving between the tall trees. He didn’t know what he would find at the old castle, and the uncertainty fed his adrenaline.

  He jumped over a tangle of roots and half-slid down an incline, cursing as he scrambled to a halt beside a railroad track along the shore of the Mississippi. The river churned past, only twenty or thirty feet away, slight waves slapping against a man-made sandbar that reached into the river like a finger.

  Kevin paused, scanning the shoreline for any movement. Confident no one had seen him blunder over the ledge, he moved north along the track, his footing slow and sure.

  A couple hundred feet to the north he spotted the narrow clearing that had been cut into the trees on either side, marking the southern fringe of Kennett’s, and the grounds that surrounded it. He hoped it was still in a condition to house the Haven survivors, at least temporarily.

  The sounds of the river faded as he stepped behind a thicket. He peered through the bushes, looking across the clearing. The trees stood still and silent on the other side, nothing but faded grass and clumps of ash in between. He couldn’t see anything of the castle from here.

  He ducked behind the brush, working his way farther in towards the town. He paused at the edge of the treeline and frowned.

  A row of ruined, interconnected buildings stood on the far side, blanketed by ash. The roof had caved in on one end, and the outer, blackened wall leaned heavily inward. Debris covered two cars parked outside, their tires flat and the windows smashed. A great gouge had been cut into the nearest car’s side panel, rust bleeding from the jagged tear like blood. A hundred feet to the east, the tower of the castle protruded from the treetops, the bulk of the old fortress hidden by the trees and the hill it sat behind.

  His eyes narrowed as he spotted movement just beyond one of the buildings, across the thin road that wound through the property.

  It was Sam.

  The Blessed was walking the perimeter. Kevin waited until she circled past the last building and put a hand over his mouth. He let out a high-pitched whistle that his fingers turned into a bird call.

  Sam froze where she was, her gaze flitting over the trees. Kevin held up a hand and waved until she spotted him. She nodded and waved him in.

  Kevin looked left and right and jumped clear of the brush. He sprinted across the clearing, ducking past the abandoned cars.

  “Glad you could make it,” Sam said as she knelt next to him. She thumped him across his shoulder with a playful swipe, but she couldn’t quite hide the slight tremble of her lips.

  “It’s okay, Sam. I’m alright,” Kevin said. He set a hand on his chest, willing his heart to stop racing, and quickly changed the subject. “Everyone make it okay? Any trouble?”

  “Depends on what you mean by okay,” Sam said. “We lost a few, said they’d had enough, and took off on their own. Anderson tried to talk ‘em out of it, but they went their own way. Rest are in rough shape.

  Tired, sore, and some are asking questions. Wondering where we go, what we’re supposed to do now.

  Now that…”

  She paused, glancing down at the ground. “Haven?”

  “Dome’s gone,” Kevin said, shaking his head. It wasn’t all he was in danger of losing. “No idea what else, but Abaddon’s moniker is pretty damned appropriate.”

  “When can we go back?”

  Of course, Kevin thought. The others were buried back in Haven. Jackson.

  “We’ll worry about that later, Sam.” Kevin placed a hand on her shoulder. “A half hour, and your shift’s over, got it?”

  Sam opened her mouth, a frown on her face, and Kevin squeezed, cutting off her rebuttal.

  “No arguing, kid.” Kevin let go and started to head up the incline towards the main castle. He looked ove
r his shoulder. “You’re getting some sleep tonight, and that’s an order.”

  Sam slowly nodded. “Roger that.”

  Kevin turned back towards the hill that led to the main castle grounds. He followed along a narrow, overgrown trail, his calves burning.

  Sleep, he thought. He wondered if he would get any tonight.

  Best not to seek an answer to that.

  Kevin stopped as he cleared a copse of stunted trees, and the castle stretched out before him.

  Fashioned of pale stone brick, angled steps on each side of the front patio led to the front door, two large windows on either side. The castle itself was a two-story block of solid rock, three windows lining the top story. Off to the right, a square, squat tower stood, its own separate stairs reinforced with stone handholds. Beyond that, a taller tower peeked over the treetops, a parapet lining the roof.

  A handful of survivors bundled their meager supplies through the front door, others watching the grounds, rifles or other weapons trained on the growing darkness beyond. Brightly lit lanterns had been fixed at each end of the castle proper and over the main entrance, hanging from brass rings that had been set into the masonry long ago.

  Kevin stopped by one of the guards, a stocky, heavyset man holding an assault rifle. “Joe, where’s Anderson?”

  Joe motioned out into the woods to the north of them. “He’s got the northern perimeter. Want me to call him in?”

  Kevin shook his head. “Nope, don’t worry about it, I’ll check with him later. Perimeter all set?”

  “Yep,” Joe said with a sharp nod. “Got placements set around the castle in 20-yard increments, everyone calls in every ten minutes. Blessed scout the perimeter, check in with the others. We’re good.”

  “Good man.” That meant ten around the mansion, maybe twelve, plus Sam and Anderson. Kevin looked past Joe, towards the front patio. “The injured?”

  “Got ‘em on the second floor, in the east wing,” Joe said. The man paused. “Look, brave thing you done back there. I saw the look on that angel’s face…”

  “Thanks, Joe.” Kevin started for the patio, patting the man on the shoulder as he passed. “But whatever he was once, that thing is no angel.”

  He wanted to check on everyone, make sure they were all okay, or at least as okay as they could be out here. And he would. But first things first.

  Kevin grimaced at the pang of his aching back, and opened the creaking door. Two survivors huddled over a large fireplace set into the wall to his left, flames building over the thin logs stacked inside. An open doorway led to another room off to Kevin’s right, and he thought he heard muffled snores and heavy breathing coming from the other room. Just around the corner to his left, beyond the fireplace, another room opened up, a staircase running to the floors above.

  He took the stairs up to the second floor, the stained wood creaking under his heavy, tired steps. A long, darkened hall ran east and west, with rooms attached at regular intervals. Another hall shot north from the stairwell, and the long hallway’s intersection, and a lantern had been lit hanging beside an open doorway.

  He entered the dimly lit room, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the faint light. Two rows of beds had been set up along opposite walls, several occupied. Most of the wounded were sleeping, and Kevin was thankful for that. He was responsible for this. He hadn’t caused their injuries, but these were his people, and he didn’t know how much longer he could stand to see them in pain.

  A medic shuffled past with a yawn, nodding at Kevin as he headed for one of the beds on the far side of the room. Kevin watched him go, and smiled as he found her.

  Rachel was leaning back on one of the beds. She turned as Kevin walked up, and her hand waved at him, her eyelids heavy.

  “Hey, Rach, how you feeling?” Kevin whispered. He sat at the foot of the bed, the urge to lay down almost overwhelmed him. He resisted the yawn as he stiffened his back.

  He promised himself some rest. But not yet.

  “Ever been nearly impaled by a Grigori?” Rachel flashed Kevin a faint smile.

  “Nearly?”

  Rachel stifled her laughter, and winced, her hand pressing against her side. She let out a low sigh.

  “Yeah, well, it’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it.”

  “One for the ages.” Kevin patted her leg. “Get some sleep, soldier. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He started to get to his feet, but Rachel grabbed a hold of his wrist.

  “Kevin…I’m…” She paused, and a tear traced a line down her cheek. “I’m sorry about Brad. Sorry about everything. It was—”

  Kevin knelt down beside her bed, and squeezed her hand. “I don’t want to hear that shit? We’ve got enough to deal with. These people need you, Rachel. They need the woman who took on a Blessed and a damned Grigori by herself, and lived to tell about it.”

  “But—”

  “No,” Kevin said, cutting Rachel off. “This is about more than us. I’m tired of us dangling by a thread, you hear? Angels, Demons, Ashen, you know who’s left when they’re all gone? We are, because none of them could make us go away.”

  Rachel glared at him and wiped her cheek, her jaw set.

  Kevin nodded. “Good. See you in the morning.”

  He turned and walked right out of the room. He paused only long enough to take a deep breath when he reached the patio before he took off again, aiming for the patrols that stood guard around the perimeter.

  So much for sleep.

  ▪▪▪

  Emma was glad when Dad finally stopped crying. She hadn’t seen him cry for years, and it made her feel awkward. Plus, his tears running over dried blood and a nice bruise that colored one of his cheeks was sort of gross.

  “Dad, really, I’m fine,” she said, brushing his hand away. She felt a twinge of guilt as soon as she did it. A couple of minutes ago, she’d hugged him so tight that she nearly choked him, and already it felt like a year ago.

  “Okay, Em.” Dad took a step back and paused before he asked the question. “I…I heard you in my head. How…what did you do?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “It was weird, sorta like a dream.”

  Emma wasn’t positive how she’d done it. She remembered coming to, and Brad on top of her dad, his hand around Dad’s throat. She didn’t know how she had felt the thread of his panicked thoughts.

  She had latched onto that thread with her mind, clung to it, and she’d looked for one of the Words, something to help. Some of them, anyway, the easier ones.

  “Okay, well, let’s get back,” Dad said. He glanced up at the late evening sky. “We can figure this out later, I don’t want to be out here when it gets dark.” He started walking back towards the woods.

  Emma reached out and grabbed his hand. “We can’t.”

  “Why not? We can’t stay out here. You know that.”

  In the years they had been running and hiding, they had never stayed out after the sun fell, afraid of the things that liked the dark. All it took was one night, hearing the bloodcurdling screams, and the twisted laughter that echoed through the empty streets. It was one of her earliest lessons. Find a hidden spot, hunker down for the night, and sleep lightly.

  But now she felt something different. There was a fear there, she couldn’t deny that, but there was something else, too, something stronger. An unexplainable urge, or a need. She knew where she had to go, even if she didn’t want to. And it meant being out here in the dark, and facing that fear.

  “Something’s changed. We can’t go back. Not yet.”

  Ren knelt on one knee and put a hand on her shoulder. He squeezed her hand. “Okay. I believe you.

  Where are we going, then?”

  He was different somehow, too, Emma realized. She couldn’t really explain it, but it made her glad.

  “You know where we have to go: the Hellfont.”

  Saying it out loud cemented the idea in her head. The why still bothered her, the burning hiss of voices spurring her ahead, ra
ucous in their attempt to drown out everything else. She clamped down on them, her nostrils flaring briefly until she’d regained control.

  Emma would go because now she had her own reasons.

  Dad swallowed, and licked his lips. He glanced at the ground, a trickle of sweat running down his forehead. “You sure?”

  They wouldn’t find their answers here, or by running away. It was a weird feeling, being so certain.

  But they were finally doing something, rather than watching from the fringes, hoping they didn’t get noticed. It felt right to Emma, like a weight had been tossed off her shoulders.

  She nodded, hoping Dad felt it, too. “Yep, positive.”

  Dad looked up at her and smiled. He rose to his feet and turned back towards the quarry, glancing over his shoulder at Emma. “Okay, then. Let’s go.” He bent down to pick up Brad’s military knife, and thrust it under his belt, then reached back for Emma’s hand.

  They skirted the quarry, taking a faded trail that led through a lightly wooded area. Dad led her past a stand of clumped trees, the sunlight giving way to dusk, faint stars blinking overhead. They crossed an old, dry streambed, and the inner quarry opened up in front of them on the other side of a wide, flattened dirt road.

  She saw more pits, wide and shallow, intersected by roads made up of the same malachite. Channels had been dug out of the earth, white sand seemingly everywhere. In the middle of the quarry, a sole tower reached up into the sky, the upper part mangled and rusted.

  Dad scanned the area, frowning as he heard the shout that echoed to their right. He started to step out of the grass, and into the dusty road, but paused as another, deeper cry sounded. He crouched and glanced back at Emma.

  “Wait.”

  “What?” Emma was missing something.

  “Ithuriel is out there,” Dad whispered.

  Of course.

  Ren peered off to their right, pointing. “We can’t just leave him, Em, not after he helped me find you.”

  Emma remembered then, vague, patchy bits coming back to her. After the voices hammered at her, and she got sick. After she saw the heaped, rotten bodies in that pit. There had been a hissed silence, the whispered word like an undercurrent.