Ash & Flame: Season One (27 page)

“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.”

“What do we do with this?” Emma asked, motioning down at what was left.

“Nothing we can do with it, Em, except leave it.”

“We shouldn’t look for him, just for a bit?” Emma bit her bottom lip, wondering where he went.

Wondering why she wanted to know. “Maybe he needs…needs our help.”

“I know, Em, I want to help him, too.” Dad looked down and smiled at her, a sad smile. “But I think this is what he wanted.”

Dad led them through the house, quietly checking the other rooms for anything helpful. The only food they managed to wrangle were a few small packets of crackers, much to the dissatisfaction of Emma’s grumbling stomach. She wished she still had some of Brad’s jerky. But not Brad.

She did succeed in scavenging a couple old bottles of water, tucked away in a hidey-hole in one of the back rooms, and she washed down the stale crackers with a few sips.

As Dad propped the front door slightly open, peeking through the narrow slit, Emma’s foot brushed against Ithuriel’s armor. She fought the sudden urge to pick it up and carry it, like if she left it here she was somehow betraying him. The thought made her sad, so she avoided looking down again.

“Okay, Em,” Dad whispered, holding the door so she could slip out behind him. “Let’s go.”

Emma stood on the porch while her dad scouted around the edge of the front yard. He waved her forward and they started off west across an open field, the sun beaming over the trees behind them. They passed an open, fenced lot to the north, a long building with rusted, corrugated metal on one side.

Her stomach clenched as they left the narrow road behind and entered a copse of short, stunted trees and wild brush. She took a quick breath and exhaled, willing her nerves still. It took her a second to realize what was wrong.

It didn’t feel like they were on the run, trying to hide away. It was all she had known, really, all she could remember. Going from building to building, ducking under eaves, hiding in cramped spots, waiting for the daylight to come. All that time, burying her own fears deep down for her father’s sake. Always hungry, always wondering when that morning would come when she wouldn’t wake up. But this was different, she could feel it running through her, like a cool breeze.

She wasn’t afraid.

They clambered over a rock outcropping, Dad helping Emma over the last of it, and they stood on a paved road.

Her breath caught in her throat. Dad always led her away from the major roads. The freeway wasn’t safe, he’d told her.

They were on the freeway.

Cars lined the road, twisted wreckage stretching down the lanes as far as she could see. A slight layer of ash covered the ruined metal, eddies of powder caught in the breeze, the once-bright colors of the vehicles now dull and lifeless. Car doors hung open, their windows and windshields cracked and smashed. Fire had left behind scorch marks and charred metal, or blackened heaps that used to be seats and dashes. A section of the freeway had toppled, cars leaning out over the ledge.

Butterflies twirled in her stomach as she pictured people in car seats, or leaning out windows. Trying to escape as the spikes and towers of the Hellfont split the earth, and the war between demons and angels erupted. All the car horns, and the shouting, and the screaming, cars and trucks inching forward. Tires squealing as vehicles pushed and pushed against the massed lines that had nowhere to go.

She wondered how many had actually escaped from the rusted, crumpled vehicles stuck all over the freeway, jamming into each other. She didn’t imagine there had been very many.

And maybe the ones who didn’t were the lucky ones.

“Why the freeway?” she asked. It felt so weird, standing on forbidden ground.

“It’ll be a helluva lot faster than going cross-country for one,” Dad said. He looked down the highway, his thoughts lost to Emma as he stared at the destruction.

Emma waited for him to continue. “And?”

Dad blinked, then glanced back at Emma. “And, Em, I don’t figure whatever’s waiting for us at the end of this road will expect us to march right up and knock on their front door.”

He led the way, picking his way through. Emma clambered over the rusted ruins of cars, debris scattered and thrown all over. They skirted a large van that had been flipped over onto its top, and the outer lane cleared up enough for them to walk along the narrow shoulder.

It was oddly silent, only the sound of their footsteps on gravel. Emma may not have been afraid, but she couldn’t help the itch on her neck, the ominous feeling that they were being watched.

Dad stopped them to rest a few miles up, next to a tall sign that read “Exit 178”. The town name had been scraped clear and someone had painted a big red ‘X’ over it.