Ash & Flame: Season One (12 page)

Wait. Something moved in a corner of the room and darted deeper into the house through a doorway. He wasn’t positive, but he could’ve sworn he noticed a shock of blonde hair. A human survivor?

He glanced back at Rachel, and motioned towards the door with a sweep of his hand. He put up three fingers and Rachel nodded sharply. She clutched her pendant in one hand and reached for the door handle.

3, 2, 1
. Brad slipped a leg over the window sill and ducked through the opening. He crouched there and blinked until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He heard Rachel’s soft footsteps on carpet as she swung the door open and closed behind her, her gaze focused on the adjacent room.

He glanced past her, the tiles on the floor glinting. A kitchen. Rachel pointed ahead, and Brad nodded. She slipped out of his sight as she stepped quietly into the kitchen.

Brad stepped deeper into the disheveled living room, sweat crawling down his back. The couch leaned against the opposite wall, the striped cushions ripped, like an animal had shredded the cloth and yanked out torn bits of yellowed foam. Above the couch, small picture frames and ceramic pieces sat on wooden shelves mounted to the wall.

There
. He saw it again, that quick flash of movement, something ducking past the doorway across from him. He crept silently past the wood burner, pausing beside the doorway. He clutched the pendant and spoke the weapon’s name softly, closing his eyes as the sickle formed in his hand. He felt the soft warmth of the Blessed weapon, the grooves of the hilt gripping his fingers.

“We’re not gonna hurt you,” he said, his voice echoing into the dim room beyond. “Why don’t you come out where I can see you?”

He sucked in his breath, hesitating before he pushed into the other room, the sickle held out in front of him.

This room was tiny. An old TV sat on a stand to his left, covered in a fine layer of dust. Bookshelves lined the opposite wall, the wood blackened, charred books on the stained carpet.

A loud creak sounded to his right, and he swiveled on his feet.
Rachel
.

He hurried through the small room and paused as he looked through the adjoining hall. A washer and dryer sat tucked against the wall, and beyond them a screen door had been swung open.

Someone stood there, holding the door open. At first Brad thought Rachel had come out of the kitchen, so of course it must have been her.

Only it wasn’t.

The woman just stood there, wearing a loose-fitting white tee-shirt and dark shorts. Blonde hair, long and curly, and her eyes—

Brad’s heart lurched in his chest. He couldn’t believe it. He swallowed, his tongue dry. His hands fell limp to his side.

“A-Amy?”

“What?” Rachel’s voice carried from the kitchen.

Brad barely heard it, his focus squarely on the woman. It couldn’t be her, could it? But it had to be.

He put his hands up. “Amy…it’s me, Brad.”

Amy’s eyes widened, and she turned and fled, the screen door flapping closed.

Brad dashed through the laundry room, banging his elbow painfully on the corner of the dryer. He winced as he pushed through the screen door, the wooden frame slamming back against the wall. He leapt from the covered porch, barely avoiding a row of bushes in the back yard.

Amy raced through the back yard, her bare feet slapping at the grass and tufts of ash. She ducked past a tree, and disappeared into the forest that ran southeast, towards Haven.

“Amy!” Brad cried out. He took off after her, jumping over a bush and sprinting into the trees.

Rachel shouted something behind him, but Brad barely registered her voice, his focus squarely on his wife as she lost herself in the woods. He couldn’t lose her again, not when she was finally so close.

What was she doing here?

Branches clawed at Brad’s eyes, raked over his face, and scratched down his arms. He sprinted down a short decline, ash spraying from his wild footsteps.

Amy scrambled over a fallen tree ahead, her fingers tearing dead bark loose. She slipped once and got back to her feet, coughing out a spray of dust. She looked back, her eyes frantic and wild, like a caged animal.

She ran like she had no idea who he was, and the logical part of him wondered how she’d lived like this.

“Honey, stop!”

Brad’s shout rang into the air, but she didn’t stop. Didn’t so much as pause, and the thought raced through his mind now, that there was something wrong with her, that maybe she had snapped.

His fault. If he had found her in time, if he had just done something differently.

No, I found her now. I can make this right
.

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.

Something 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.