Perspectives

The four of them crouched in the shadows behind a tour bus. One of them held a small metal box with a black switch. "We have to hurry."

One of the others sighed and covered the box with a gloved, feminine hand. "Isn't there any way to wait? We want the vampire, not some useless man." Her voice was angry, brooding as it echoed out from under her hood.

"No. She's got security and there's no way to be sure we won't get caught. We have our orders, Lika. You know what we're here to do. We send a message here and now." The one with the box moved Lika's hand apologetically. "Besides, this will do better than kill the fanged bitch. This is going to hit her right where it hurts."

"I doubt it. What's one man to a woman like her? If we want to hurt her, we should be doing this to that motor home of hers."

That got everyone else in the group to stare at Lika in mute surprise. One of them, the one in the back, managed to say what they were all thinking. "But that has kids in it. Children are sacred…"

"She declared war on us, Carol!" Lika hissed. "Do I need to remind you what she did to our High Priestess? Do you want me to describe what 'Ganna looks like now? Her face? What's left of her body?" Her eyes narrowed, threatening to recall something none of them wanted to think about. Just mentioning the image of their horrifically burned leader was enough to turn them all pale.

"Besides," Lika returned to a calmer voice, "this bitch killed Morganna's magic. There is no greater crime. No punishment too severe."

That slowly got the gathering of dark clad women to nod. "True… but no. No harming the children unless we get a direct order. The bus is our target. We're just lucky to be able to take one of her consorts with it." The one speaking was the one with the box – Rina.

Lika growled softly, noting Rina's face and this moment. She would make the acolyte pay for this someday. Everyone knew Morganna's moons were numbered now. Soon, leadership of the coven would pass and when it did, she would make sure Rina met with a terrible 'martyrdom'. Poor girl, having to die for the cause…

Lika did her best to hide her dark smile at that thought.

"Fine," she said at last. "You're right. Blow the bus."

 

 

From several lots away, there was another set of eyes watching. They watched the bus. They had been watching the Winnebago. Right now, they were watching the watchers. Who were these people? What were they doing?

And did one of them just say, "Blow the bus"?!?

 

 

Rina's hand closed over the top of the box, one finger touching the button. "Rot in oblivion, male."

Her next word was something unintelligible, a soft "gukk" of mingled pain and confusion. The box fell from her suddenly limp hand and she twitched forward before falling backwards. Blood trickled from the corner of her lips, a faint echo to the river pouring out of the hole around an iron spike in her back.

"What the?!" Lika and the others spun to face whatever had struck the woman down from behind. At first, there was nothing, just shadows and a dark parking lot. Cars, motorcycles and trucks galore; it was a vacant landscape of nature-ruining steel. No sign of the attacker. Where was he?

Where was he?

The answer came in the form of Carol dropping like a stone, someone landing hard on her shoulders from above. Power diving her to the asphalt, the blurring shape twisted to the left and brought a dark blade at torso height across the other two. As it shadowflashed through the air, a terrible song of ruin followed in its wake.

Lika ducked low, riding her surprise and evading the sweep of the deadly sword. Maggie, always a little slow, was catch full in the chest. The edge of the curved, black blade cut through coat and flesh with vicious ease, ripping jagged steel from one side of her to the other. She dropped in two pieces, a gore spray that plummeted like rain all around. Lika scrambled across the ground, desperate to get clear of the red reaping.

"Mother Lilith! What are you?!" She came up shouting, both hands clutching at the ether to draw forth a burst of spiritfire. Hurling it forward, she succeeded in catching the nearly invisible shape of her assailant by surprise. Ephemeral grey flames flared over the sword wielder, forcing it back off Carol's broken body.

From the sound the young witch made as she burned from the splashing spiritfire, Carol had not quite been killed. Unfortunate for her, Lika thought briefly. Still, it was one more weakling culled from the coven. Morganna would be told Carol was killed by the vampire and her protectors. That would make Lika's survival seem all the more impressive.

Of course, that assumed she survived. The shimmering figure was gone, disappearing around the side of the fire blast and blurred away. Lika reached for her athame, drawing it and charging it with a Warden spell. Letting go of its hilt, she smiled to herself as the dagger began to fly beside her.

Not a moment too soon. There was a flash of motion beside her and the attacker was there, sword cleaving overhead to tear through her skull. The athame moved like a bolt of lightning, blocking the blade in a shower of power and sparking metal. A keening wail of failing enchantment ripped through the air and as the black sword turned aside, the athame shattered violently!

Its loss hammered Lika back, a ragged wound in her soul. "Damn you!" she shouted, staggering to stay on her feet. Unleashing the fires she had called up before, a swath of ravening grey erupted all around her. There were two cries of pain. One was from the unknown foe; the other was the last scream of the burned witch on the ground. Little Carol had always been so enduring, so full of life.

Tragic, really.

There was no time to pretend to grieve. She could see the attacker still moving even though it was clearly ablaze. The fires were raging around it but that was all they were doing, just burning around the figure. The smell of acrid, roasted flesh was coming from the charred witch at her feet. The stranger was aflame but not actually on fire. There was an aura protecting it. Damn it!

Her coven sisters were down, her athame was broken and her magics were not working. She thought briefly about the gun under her jacket but knew she'd never get it out in time. The lethal shape was already lunging forward.

It infuriated her to do this but she had to run. One more blast. That was all the flame left in her. It would hurt, especially considering the hole in her soul, but she had no choice. It would not burn this bastard but it might buy her the seconds she needed. Both hands forward, she forced a burst of spiritfire to rage forth!

As she expected, the figure dodged. There were cars to either side so it took the only out it had; wings spread and it surged upwards in a lethal arc. The sword was shifted into a two hand grip. When the mysterious attacker landed, she would be a dead woman…

….assuming she was there to kill. Once the shape blurred into the sky, Lika shouted the words to a spell she absolutely hated to cast. It pledged her soul and service to the Great Lilith, arcane words surrounding a servile oath. She loathed this so much. She served no one. Others existed to serve her. Using this spell was humiliating.

But so be it. As the figure came down in a slash of dark steel that tore the asphalt apart, she was gone. Fading from existence, Lika avoided the stroke that would surely have ended her.

For a few moments, the stranger stood there, wings widespread, sword in both hands and tensed for anything. If this was a trick, an evasion before a counterattack, it was ready to launch into a final riposte. The hellish, rune-laden blade moaned in anticipation of another kill.

Three minutes passed. Then another and another crawled past. She was gone. The witch had escaped. She would be back, no doubt, but as hurt as she was it would not be soon. Tonight would be safe for everyone here. Destroying the detonator solved the immediate threat but to make sure this people could rest, one more thing had to happen.

He had overheard the witches talking. They were blaming someone he loved for what he had done to keep her safe. That had to stop. The lady had enough troubles to deal with right now. He was not going to make things harder on her. No way in Hell.

There was a spell, he thought to himself as he raised his sword over the burned girl's throat. He knew a spell that would send a message for him. In an hour or so, far away from here, he would let the Lilin coven know who was really responsible for all this.

All he needed was a very grisly component…

Chop.

 

 

Stay woke up to the heel of a hand on her little shoulder. She had been having such a wonderful dream. Playgrounds and ice cream and a bed made of stuffed aminals. The bestest part of the dream was that she was home, a big home with other kids and a mommy and lots of people needing lots of hugs with faces that needed lots of marker drawings.

"Wha…?"

Her Matt-Matt was over her, one finger to his lips. "Shhhh… we have to go."

There was instant disappointment. "But you said we could stay." She knew she should not complain. He was obviously hurt again. There had been another fight. Stay knew he fought like this to keep her safe too. If Matt-Matt said they had to go, they had to go. Still, it was not fair.

"I'm sorry, little. I wanted to stay too. But we can't risk their lives. You really want to get your new friends hurt, kiddo?"

He thought she was too young to understand it but she knew pain when she heard it. He really did want to stay here with everyone but someone bad had found them again. That had to be it. Why else would he leave in the middle of the night?

With a sad sigh and a big yawn, she offered up her little arms. He needed a hug. Matt-Matt obviously needed loves. She would hold him all the way to wherever they ended up next. That would make him feel better and if that did not work, she would ask for Waffle House again. She pretended to like that greasy food stuff because she knew he loved their chocolate chip waffles.

It would be okay. The bike was not so bad. Maybe someday she and Matt-Matt could have a home with the pretty lady and all her friends.

Maybe someday she could have her dream…

Bitter Dinner

"I wanna go back."

Matt sighed, poking at his peas with a tin fork. "Well you can't, Stay. Neither can I. We were there too long as it was." The words tasted worse than the peach cobbler here... and that was saying something.

"But whhhhyyyyyy not?" She was curled around Mister Flailie, pouting and staring up at him from over the beleaguered plushie's lumpy head.

He grumbled again, trying to eat and failing again. One bite at a time was as much as he could do. It wasn't the flavor or that he'd been sitting here so long that the food was cold. His appetite was just dead. Parts of him felt the same way. Leaving that sanctuary had been the hardest thing he had done in a very long time.

"Do you remember Raze and his coven?"

Stay nodded, nibbling on one of Flailie's tendrils. "I do... I know we had to go away from them before we got them hurt, but..."

Matt shook his head. He had not wanted to do this, to tell her the truth until she was older but if this kind of thing was going to keep happening, she needed to understand why he kept uprooting her. He wanted a place to stay too. Matt was tired of constantly moving...

...but the alternative was just unacceptable.

"Stay, we did get them hurt."

She furrowed her little blond-mopped brow. "Huh?"

Here we go, he thought sadly.

"Remember how you woke up on the road, belted in behind me? How I told we we had left because there were bad people out there who would hurt Raze and his people because we were with them?"

Stay nodded again, still nibbling.

"Well, we left one night too late, midget." The sorrow in his voice was evident. he had never really talked about this before. The emotions of that hard night returned in a wave, crashing down so hard he felt his throat tightening up.

Damn it. He was getting soft in his old age. He had dreamed about Raze's coven last night. he had been for several nights in a row. He'd been still, pretending he was safe, for too long.

"You were sleeping when the coven got hit, Stay. The Dark Ones found us, just like I knew they would. I... I tried to run but Raze told me to stand and fight. He said we could stop them. The Ruby Falls chantry had never fallen."

Stay nodded. "Billy said his mom and dad had been defending it for like twenty years and their mom and dad for like a century before that! They are wunnerful!"

Matt sighed. There was no easy way to do this.

"Stay... Billy's dead."

She stared at him. "But you said... Billy's... no. Billy's fine."

He just shook his head. "No, Stay. I told you we would go back to Ruby Falls someday. And we will... but he won't be there."

He could see it in her eyes. She was getting it slowly, water pooling in her big blue eyes. "His daddy? His mommy?"

Matt just pushed his plate away. What little hunger he might have had was completely gone now. There was no way he was eating today. Honestly, with the food here? Not much of a loss.

"They are gone too, baby girl. They all are. The whole coven died." Again, his throat locked up. Matt was trying to get past his feelings here. They only ever got in the way. Being weepy and sentimental was a weakness. He could not afford to be weak. Weak would get him killed. Weak would get Stay killed.

"But... why didn't you save them?" She was biting her lip, wet eyes and wet cheeks.

That hurt. He felt it like a knife.

"Stay... Please..." The words were not coming now. He was grasping for something to say but everything he was thinking just swam away. She had it exactly right. Exactly right.

He had not saved them. When Raze went down, a cult blade rammed through his chest and his body on fire, Matt had not stayed to fight. He did what he always did. He grabbed Stay, ran to his motorcycle and ran away. He felt them die, one by one, the men.. the women...

...even the children.

"Raze... Raze told me to run."

That was true. It had been the last thing the man said, shouting it past the gurgle of his own blood. Run. Get away. Run.

And run he had. "I had to get out of there. We would have died too, midget." Matt's eyes hurt. His hearts hurt. This was hard. How could he make her understand? Was she just too young to grasp that he did all he could? Or at least, all he could do before all was lost?

Was she? Or was he just lying to himself and she was too innocent to believe it?

He slumped, face in his hands. "I swear, Stay... I didn't want to leave. I wanted to... to stay."

Sometime later, the minutes did not really matter, there was the feel of little arms around his shoulders. "You sound funny when you cry."

That earned her a head bump in the face. "I don't cry."

She laughed softly at him, snuggling a plush octopus up against his side. "Izzit just dust in your eyes again?"

He nodded. "Yeah. It's dusty here. Really dusty."

Stay stuck her tongue out in a little gaggy sound. "That would 'splain the meatloaf, huh?"

Matt, despite himself, was still chuckling with her all the way out to his bike...

Heartbreak

This was not his first demon hunt. Far from it. He had been on the run for two years now, trying to get enough distance on the Dark Order and the Heavenly Host to try and give Stay something approaching a normal life. She'd been with him nearly a year now and while nothing had happened to her yet, it was only a matter of time.

A stray bullet. A demon attacking the little blond one instead of the black haired one sitting in front of her on the bike. A driving accident… Anything could happen.

And if it did? That was the end of the limited protection on his life. Of course, if anything happened to Stay, Matt wasn't entire sure he would want to survive it anyway. She was as much a part of his life now as Zephyr beneath him or the guns under his coat.

She kept him going, just like they did. Losing them… or her… meant his end with or without Uziel's threat.

At least today Stay was safe, nearby and under watchful wards. That meant he could hunt in peace, tracking down a demon that made the critical mistake of threatening children and the lack of good sense to run back to Hell afterwards.

Or maybe he had. This was not his first demon hunt but it was the first one to be boring. He'd been at this for hours now, looping through the streets of the city, out here so long that he was surprised no one had arrested him for vagrancy. That would have been just the sort of irony his life channeled – arrested as a derelict when the demon he was stalking appeared to be one.

That was, assuming he would appear at all. Hours of nothing except panicked alley cats and a cluster of homeless throwing bottles at him. He was used to that. He scared people, especially people with nothing but each other. Bottles did not bother him.

Besides, without his bike and his guns, was there really any difference between him and them?

"Fuck this," he grumbled on the umpteenth pass through Bailey Avenue's back alley. "I threw the party. He didn't show." Dropping gear, he stopped his bike. "I'll come back tomorrow."

Rummaging through the inside pocket of his coat, Matt found his cell and flipped it open. The least he could do is call and let them know he was coming back in. Maybe the demon had been spotted there while he was out.

He was halfway through the numbers when the shotgun a foot from his back went off.

Both barrels. Point blank.

Flash and thunder. The roar of pressure and pain. Matt was insensate for the flying through the air and the impact with the brick wall beyond. Sadly, his nerves started firing again just in time to feel in perfect detail the landing on his head part at the garbage-strewn asphalt.

"Hah! Thought you would get the jump on me?! " Reloading. "I am older than the sands in the mortar beneath my feet. I can feel every choice you make. Every decision in your tiny mind, human. There is nothing you can do that I cannot counter. All I have to do is reach out and everything you are, I can anticipate. You are nothing. You are weakness to my strength. Failure to my victory!"

"How about pain to your silence?" Matt groaned and struggled to his feet, popping his back into alignment again. "Do you ever shut up?"

That took the raggedly dress bum off-guard. "You… you are standing?"

"Better than that," matt said as he cracked his neck to clear his head. "I am packing."

With a blur, his guns were out and firing. Round after round lit the alley's darkness, tearing through the night and through a tattered plain shirt and a fifty year old Army jacket. In through the front, out through the back. Twelve shots, center mass all.

The demon's clothing was shredded but he wasn't. Every scrap of cloth sank to the ground, rent asunder and completely empty. "Damn it!" Matt said, running forward to get away from the dead end. "He fucking Obi-Wan'ed on me!"

The demon was not gone long. No sooner was Matt away from the bricks when a grey, androgynous figure with bat wings and a jagged blade in both six-fingered hands screamed down from above and left a gaping slash straight through the wall. "Clever fast you are, nor human be… hellspawn!" Gone was the muttered infirm speech of a bum, replaced by the rasp of a beast from the Pit.

"That's me. Still planning on that victory?" Two more shots, both blocked by the suddenly angled edge of the demon's sword. Ka-tang! Ka-ting!

Matt sighed and dropped his hand cannons. Why did he waste time shooting at them once their weapons were drawn? It never worked. It NEVER worked. His guns could punch holes through a Bradley but they might as well be Super Soakers now.

So be it, he thought grimly. No more bullet time.

Empty handed, he rushed the demon. "Time to end you, stalker! You've been loose way too damned long!" Matt's fingers curled in the air, the gesture of fists.

"Longer than you can imagine, hellborne. And I'll be free long after you rot…" The demon raised its sword in an impaling stance. "Come, fool. You don't know my name. You couldn't hurt me even if you were armed!"

Moments before running himself through on the serrated sword, glowing blades appeared in each of Matt's hands. Aria, his personal favorite in his right, and Rhapsody in the left. Rhapsody was a blade of speed, a weapon that enhanced his already blinding speed. It let him sweep to the side at the last instant, bringing its edge up to parry the vile steel and allowed him a cross slash that cut deep into gut and ribs!

The demon took to the air, trailing blood and shrieking in pain. "How…!?!"

Matt arched his back, letting his own wings emerge, one black folds of night leather, the other a wave of fluttering white light. "Vereketh, right?" He brought his swords high and launched into the air, riding high on the sudden rush of vitality stolen by Aria's blessed edge. His angelic swords hated him so dearly… but they still served.

"The children you've been tormenting send their regards."

The demon hissed and turned to fight. There was no room or time to run. Blades clashed and sparked, skill born from a thousand battles pitted against heavenly steel and the raw power of a hellspawn fighting as if he had nothing to lose.

Every time High and Low forged weapons came together, the sky above thundered, the air growing wet. As fallen angel battled flesh-caged demon, cutting at each other with beautiful blades turned to raw brutality, the clouds opened in a crashing downpour.

God's tears, they used to call rain back in Matt's childhood Sunday School. Now he understood why the Almighty would cry.

Matt finally scored a withering strike to one of the demon's wings, forcing him to come to a heavy landing on the nearest rooftop. Gravel sprayed under Vereketh's barren feet, a flash of his good wing sending a hail of stones up into Matt's face, keeping him from capitalizing on the moment.

Matt went fully defensive in his unseeing seconds, a good choice as Vereketh hurled pinions at him with another wing sweep, feathered blades that Aria paired almost to the last. One snuck through his guard, plunging through enchanted coat and armored shirt into his shoulder. "AhhhHhh!" Matt's vision cleared through the haze of pain into a sharp, violent stare.

Vereketh could see the change in him. Blood was raging now. As deadly as Matt had been before, now he was angry. Now he would be even faster, even stronger. Lifting his sword to point at the slowly advancing hellborne, Vereketh played his Ace in desperation.

"I am the Fallen of Choices, doomed fool." His voice was broken now, weighed down by several wounds. "Long ago I laid a bitter geas upon my life. None may choose to kill me. The one that stills my heart will have his own stop as well! His seed will rot, barren and dry. Blood of his blood will wither and die."

Matt snarled, teeth going sharp and skin going shadowy. One powerful stroke of Rhapsody and the dark sword flew from Vereketh's nerveless fingers. Aria rose next, stabbing deep into the demon's gut.

"Blood's no big. I got no kids." Twist.

As Vereketh staggered back, running blindly into the Wall behind him, Matt slashed both swords across the fallen angel's bare back, flesh and blood freely and painfully shed. A cry of anguish split the night, no reaction at all on the hellborne's face.

"Seed's no problem either. It's not like Heaven or Hell is ever going to let me have kids of my own."

Four quick thrusts, each one a crippling blow that paralyzed limbs and dropped Vereketh to his knees. Looking up, the demon's ragged voice issued up past bloody lips. "You… do not… fear death? What… what are you?"

"You said it yourself," Matt said coldly, his Aria raised high. "I'm doomed."

The blade descended. Flesh and bone parted. A demon ended.

Matt dropped to his knees in sheer agony a moment after Vereketh's head hit the ground. Raw pain exploded in his chest, both swords clattering as he clutched at his shirt and fell over. Twitching. Reeling. Vision fading.

True to Vereketh's hateful word, when the demon's heart stopped, so did the hellspawn's.

Lucky for Matt, then, that he had _two_...

 

 

 

 

 

Confrontation

The angel stared straight forward, ignoring the buffet of wind whipping harshly past his face. One arm pinned in the twisted metal at his side, the other wrenched behind him at an awkward angle, he set his jaw and ignored the pain in his wings. With a deep, frustrated sigh, he growled under his breath.

"I am getting... annoyed."

-----

[ Ten Minutes Earlier ]

Matt was kneeling by the side of his bike, prying white feathers out of her front wheel well. Each one was wedged hard in the wheel's spokes, dried spots of blood sticking them together where Zephyr rammed head-on into that celestial before. The impact was enough to put the flappy bastard down but some revenge was had by the dead angel in the form of holes in his bike's tire.

"Damn you, featherback," he muttered.

Anything else he might have said was suddenly interrupted by the feel of an iron hand clamping down on his shoulder, hefting him off the ground and hurling him into the metal side rail twenty feet away on the side of the interstate!

The sound of tortured metal behind him almost distracted Matt from the wrenching pain of hitting the bent rebar. Almost. "Ahhh!" He slumped for a moment, trying to clear his head from the pain. In that instant, he was hoisted into the air again and slammed back down, landing heavily on his side as he twisted to blunt the blow. It worked but in the process, he heard a rib snap. Better than his spine, but only just...

"Fucking hell!"

A booted foot caught him in the stomach and kicked him back against the railing, denting it again and sending another shock of agony though him. As he slumped again, unable to breathe, he heard a calm, masculine voice above him, its tone devoid of emotion.

"You blaspheme appropriately, hellborne, as that is where I am sending you."

Matt managed to open his eyes and reach for his guns, hands settling over their handles before the figure stalking towards him could get into arm's reach. Even so, he could not bring them to bear before the nearly seven foot tall man with wide shoulders, a strong jaw and eyes of blazing white light reached him.

Black wings, feathered like a crow, stretched up from the shoulders of this angry Superman in street clothes. Around his neck, the angel wore an Order of Saint Michael Archangel medallion. Though similar in design to the ones Matt had seen before, this one was much larger, much more ornate. The archangel depicted on the silver disc bore a striking resemblance to the angel... wearing it...

"Oh, shit."

Another snap kick caught Matt in the shoulder, turning him sharply and making him drop the pistol in his right hand.

Ignoring the pain, he hauled out his other gun and took a shot, aiming squarely for the angel's forehead. The shot thundered out but before it could score its mark, a flurry of ebon wing moved in the way and blocked the bullet. Then it flared outward, checking Matt across the chest and sending him back against the rail so hard the metal nearly tore.

"Jesus!" Matt rasped for breath, cussing as he tried to bring his magic to bear. This guy was too fast, too strong. He was unlike any angel he had ever fought before except the one from Stay's hospital, overwhelming and relentless.

"No," the big man said and planted his boot in Matt's face. The sudden tang of blood filled his mouth, the result of a split lip. Had Matt not turned his face at the very last moment, he would also have suffered a shattered nose. "He is a man of peace."

Then Matt was in the air again before he could focus even a fast spell. A perfect punch took him low in the gut, knocking the air out of his lungs and breaking another rib. Released before the force of the punch was through, he was pushed backwards by the remainder of it, tumbling awkwardly across several deserted lanes of traffic to end up on the opposite shoulder of the road.

"I am not."

Matt staggered to his hands and knees, most of his body screaming in pain. "Yeah... I gathered that." Internalizing his waning power, he forced his way back onto his feet. Hands extended, he called forth two of his captured blades, Aria and Requiem. They sang in protest, their battle songs strangely hushed in the presence of this angel.

"Okay, bastard. You want to fight? Let's..." Matt spat a mouthful of blood onto the gravel. "Let's see how you do when I'm standing."

The man looked at him, a touch of resentment in his eyes as he reached one large hand to his empty belt. In a flash of holy radiance, a battleaxe of silver and dark iron appeared there, resting in a ring made of seemingly solid light. "You have no right to hold those swords. I will relieve you of them now."

"Give it your best shot, fuckhea..." Before he could even finish his sentence, Matt had to quickly raise his weapons in a desperate attempt to save himself from the incoming weapon. In the time he had taken him to speak, the angel had drawn the battleaxe, taken a single step forward and thrown it with the speed and power of an oncoming train.

The bladed terror hit Matt's crossed swords hard enough to shatter stone. Bolstered by his battle spell, Matt was able to deflect the axe at the cost of both wrists being sprained instead of broken and the loss of both blades as they fell from nerveless fingers to clatter noisily to the ground at his feet. Staggering back, he tried to find his footing again before shock took him down again.

This was all happening so fast. Too fast.

The axe arched through the air, held aloft on an arc of pale fire before coming back to the black-winged angel's waiting right hand. "Surrender and death will come more mercifully than you deserve."

Matt moved back desperately, seeking something, anything to get him out of this mess. He had other swords but his hands were refusing to obey him, throbbing in raw pain and numb at the same time. His battle with the Order just an hour ago had left him too drained to do much magically and even if he could, there was little to work with here. This angel most certainly would be immune to anything he could throw.

That left his last trick, the ace literally up his sleeve. Lifting his left arm, he jerked his hand downward, the only motion that appendage was capable of at the moment. The cord he wore around his middle finger pulled taut, pulling the trigger of a stockless shotgun sewn into his jacket. BLAM!

The shot tore the end of his sleeve to pieces, sending an angry storm of iron shards, each enchanted to strike true and inflict horrific, entropic damage. At this range, it could tear the front off a bus, crater a concrete wall or obliterate a charging kodiak. The sudden burst of gunpowder smoke obscured the interstate in front of Matt, making it impossible to see.

When the dust settled, the man was still standing. His clothes were shredded but, aside from a single line of red running down his clean shaven cheek, there was no sign that the metal tempest had even touched him. It had simply had no effect.

"This night of reckoning has been far too long in coming. This is your end."

Matt felt his strengthening spell tick away, weakness dragging him down to his knees as the last of these words echoed across the highway. As he felt his heartbeat panic-pound in his chest, he watched the man slowly walk towards him, axe raising.

"Yeah... looks like it." He barely had the strength to speak, much less to fight any more. Matt was coughing blood, his broken rib like a burning ember lodged near his lung. Hope was fading as fast as his eyesight. If he was going to see tomorrow, he needed a miracle right now. "Se... se..."

Crossing the interstate, the black angel of death stopped in the middle of the nearest lane. "Last word, then. What do you wish to say with your last breath?"

Matt looked up, darkening eyes focused on the men as intently as he could. Entropy was his gift, his strongest magic, but it could not affect the angel directly. Nothing physical was going to save him here and even his usual tricks of tearing up the pavement or detonating the air would probably only delay the inevitable. Matt could not hurt this bastard, especially as weak as he was right now. But entropy was about more than the physical world. It was about chaos.

Chaos. Random chance. Changing the odds. Manipulating Fate.

It was risky, something he had never done on any scale other than changing the results of a dice toss or dealt cards. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it did not. But right now, what did he have to lose by trying?

Clearing his throat, he looked the angel right in the eyes and said past red teeth, "Semi."

The axebearer narrowed eyes, light growing all around him as he asked in that ominous, powerful voice, "What?"

Then the sixteen wheeler hit the archangel at seventy miles an hour.

Matt watched the truck roar past, consciousness fading. The last thing he thought before passing out was, "Heh... Order of Saint Michael Roadkill..."

Bad Timing

"You have got to be fucking kidding me."

Matt stared over the handlebars of his cycle, looking directly into the headlights of the huge van moving towards him at ridiculous speed. There were people leaning out of all four windows, shooting at him as he sped towards a fatal collision.

"Who the fuck are these guys?"

Whoever was in the van, they were in his way. He was not here to get in a gunfight with locals. He was chasing a dangerous son of a bitch who'd already put four holes in him with blades moving so fast, they were a blur even to his reflexes. Unfortunately, the black-suited bastard had managed to dart around the van was already getting away because of this assholes!

"Screw this," Matt grumbled and swerved as much as possible to avoid the hail of incoming bullets. He could not go far; he was in a single lane section of the interstate, concrete construction wall cutting off both sides. It was a trap, a big ugly motorcycle-mashing funnel of a trap.

But Zephyr was not an ordinary motorcycle. Her chassis was imbued with the spirit of a legendary creature - a gryphon. Though she could not do so for long, she had the ability to fly. A short hop was all he needed. These sons of bitches want to slam down this lane, fine. They could do it without him. "Up, girl!" he shouted and pulled back on the bike's handles, taking to the air a second before impact.

Zephyr spread her metaphysical wings, taking to the air and arching over the van as it sped past beneath. The gunfire from its windows tried to keep up but his sudden flight left them unable to track him fast enough.

One of the gunner, leaning way out to try and get a shot at his undercarriage, was unfortunate enough to catch the crown of his head on one of the concrete barrier's reflectors. The impact instantly tore his skull from his spine, decapitating him in a rain of sudden gore and dragging him bodily out of the van. Matt winced. "Ugly way to go."

Knowing Zephyr could not stay airborne long, he guided her over the van and angled down to land on the asphalt behind it...

...but someone had other ideas.

All Matt saw was the shadow of something impossibly dark racing up at the underside of his bike. Then wings wrapped around Zephyr from below and inhuman strength wrenched her out of the air. Matt, motorcycle and black fletched wings all plummeted to the ground together!

At the last moment, he managed to leap free, forcing himself out past the sweep of razor sharp feathers with a burst of magical power. The jump cost him several small cuts to the face and hands but it was better than smashing earthward at 120 miles an hour. Bleeding but alive, he vaulted around in mid-air, drew both guns and came down in a landing crouch while taking aim.

Just as he thought, when the dirt and stone debris cleared from Zephyr's crash, an angel stood tall and defiant. "Is there any point talking?" he asked sardonically.

"Hellborn, you are charged with celestial murder and are sentenced to die." The golden-skinned man raised one arm and a shining sword of silver and steel, its quillions wide like the blades of an axe, appeared in his outstretched hand. "Surrender and your end will be swift."

"Yeah. That's what I thought." BLAM! Both guns thundered.

And with with a flicker of the blade, the angel deflected both!

Matt blinked. Twice. "Okay, that's different." Then he was forced to dodge left as the dark-haired angel came racing past him, sword out for a chest-slicing stroke. It was everything he could do to avoid the cleave and, as the angel closed, he was still nicked by a lash of its black wing. Each feather was like a knife, cutting deep and stinging like venom.

He clutched his shoulder, cussing at how easily the pinions had pierced his enchanted coat. Whirling, he fired off four more shots before his guns went dry again. What was it with people attacking him after he had already fought someone else? This was not fair!

None of the shots scored. One flat out missed and the other three were deflected by the unbelievably fast parries of that axe-hilted sword. "God damn it," he cussed and tossed the pistols. This was about to get up close and personal. As the angel turned for another pass, Matt concentrated and called out for Requiem - his first sword. His best sword.

The winged assailant hissed under his breath. "You blaspheme with every word and deed, hellion."

Their sword met between them, the force of the clash enough to send them both back a few feet from raw impact. They both came together swing. High cut, block. Low slash, riposte. A flurry of attacks and defenses that wove together like a tapestry of motion and murderous intent.

It took two full minutes for Matt to accept that he was not going to win this one. He was as fast as the angel, especially with combat magic speeding his reactions and strengthening his body, but it was not enough. Matching the celestial foe skill for stroke, he just could not compete with the one thing his enemy had that he did not. Wings.

Matt had learned quite some time ago to grow wings by means of magic, a trick that had gotten him out of a lot of trouble and into even more. Those would not help him here because his were constructs of enchantment meant to grant him the glory of soaring through the air. This angel's wings were different. They were not just feathers and flight.

They were weapons. As they fought, Matt was getting stung repeatedly by buffets from the black walls of blades and bone. His coat was warding off the worst of the strikes but he was bleeding now and it would not be long before either a wing slash got lucky or he was distracted enough to miss a parry. Then he would get his throat torn out or impaled. Matt was not big on either options. He needed to equalize the playing field and he had to do it now!

Breaking contact, he dove out of the way of sword and sweeps, narrowing avoiding getting blooded again. Turning tail, he ran for the treeline beside the road, sword held behind him in a defensive line. He hated running, but he had no choice.

"Coward! One cannot flee the Sword of Heaven!" The angel was right behind him, only two steps out of sword reach. He didn't have much of a head start and with each breath, it was getting narrower.

Just past the first big tree, Matt turned to swing and fell to the ground, one leg going out from under him as loose dirt betrayed his feet. He landed on his back, looking up at the angel with wide eyes, sword beside him in a momentarily stilled, trembling hand. Rising over him, wings spread towards the obscured sky, the angel took his sword in an executioner's grip. "Your sins end here, fallen one."

Matt tried to dodge, rolling away from the sword, knowing he could not avoid both it and the angel's wings. Over him, the angel realized the same thing and while his sword drove into the ground harmlessly, he slashed down with both pinioned limbs!

Instantly, Matt rolled up and forward, hacking with both hands on Requiem, cutting beside the angel's body to the left. Though his foe would normally have been too fast for this to work, the angel needed clearance to move his wings quickly. In a forest, clearance was hard to come by. That momentary slowing as the wing had to cut through branch after branch above was all Matt needed to bring his edge across it in a vicious arc of metal and blood.

The angel screamed, a howl of pain that almost drove Matt back from its sheer, agonizing volume.

Almost.

Matt pulled his blade back to finish off him off and nearly got cut down by a spray of gunfire. The bastards from the van were back. This fight had taken a lot longer than he had wanted. "Damn!" he cursed and settled for a nasty slash deep across the angel's vitals before grabbing the celestial's dropped sword and dashing deeper into the woods. It was a goring cut; the angel would not be around much longer.

But his allies, all Order of St. Michael Archangel from the sound of them and the look of their ordinance, were still healthy and gunning for blood. "Kanriel's down! Get the hellspawn!" One of them was shouting orders, gesturing with one gloved hand while firing short, competent bursts at Matt to keep him pinned down.

The man had to go. Matt was aware that these soldiers were all protected from his entropy magic directly and if he tried to focus on the trees right now, he'd be potentially destroying his only cover. There were nine of them out there if his count was correct. Too many. Way too many. His shotgun was on his bike and, armed with just a pair of angelic swords, he would get cut down long before he took them all out. He needed to disperse the ranks and that meant dropping their leader. Hard.

He searched his memories took a page from Ariel's spell book, almost literally. If entropy was failing, he could try another sort of spell. One that focused on something other than destruction. Creation was one of the hardest things for him to wrap his head around but in this case, he had been shown how to cast this spell in his dreams. He reached out, letting his power contact the leader's body.

He reached inside, finding the smallest forms of life within. Bacteria in the man's digestive tract. They produced acids and gas, two things that could be very dangerous if they grew out of control. Matt sent a surge of twisted living magic their way, urging them to do just that.

Within moments, the leader of the Order squad hit his knees. Then, with a scream, he clutched his stomach and fell backwards, his torso literally exploding from the ribs down as a dozen rifts burst through his skin venting methane and bile! Vomiting and defecating ballistically, he shuddered on the ground in utter agony, covering his own steaming fluids!

"Okay," Matt said, eyes wide in shock. "That's disgusting."

With the leader down and the squad in understandable disarray, he made a break for it. If he was lucky, Zephyr was still in good shape back on the road. It took a lot more than a little crash to hurt his beloved bike. He could get on it and head back to Bowling Green. The trail of the Dark Ones had lead him to Louisville and now to here. The DO were here and he would find them, even if he had to kill every last angel and mage in his path. He was close. So damned close now!

The people between him and his bike went down in flashes of dual swords, cut, impaled or even trampled as they struggled just to react to his unstoppable charge. He was riding the crest of a special battle spell, a blindingly fast run that focused magical force into a headlong surge capable of shattering any barrier in his way - be that trees or people.

And, at the end of the charge, even the massive concrete barrier section on the shoulder of the highway. Matt smashed through it completely unscathed, though the energy required to sunder such a huge object was completely consumed by the effort.

Zephyr was indeed in good condition, having already righted herself and fixed the damage to her side cowling. The motorcycle roared to life and met him halfway, slowing long enough for him to jump on before revving as fast as possible away from the battlefield. Matt was certain he had killed most of the Order soldiers but if even one was still alive, there would be others coming.

He had no intention of being here when they arrived.

Dark Omens

"Are you going to tell me what I want to know?"

The man he was holding up by the shirt spat at him, starting to say something in a language that hurt to hear. After the echo of an invoked name he heard before, Matt cut him off with a swift cuff across the side of the jaw, a hard enough stroke to loosen teeth, pop the man's mouth loose and send hind him the ground, unconscious from shock.

"Damn it. That was the last one left to question."

Matt looked around the room, a hallway strewn with soldiers. These were not members of any recognized armed forces but they were soldiers nonetheless - private muscle hired and trained by... someone.

That was the question Matt wanted answered. These people had been operating most of the dark magic rings in Chattanooga, eastern Tennessee and most of Georgia. They were big, whoever they were, and they were connected in some way to the Dark Order. That was how he'd found them and ended up in this business complex, getting shot at from all sides and as 'popular' as a small fish in a house full of hungry cats.

This guppy, however, was nowhere near defenseless. Ten soldiers were dead, another ten easily in critical condition and if he was still counting accurately in this room of pain, eight more would be joining one total or the other.

The man missing his molars was the fifth he had tried to question, all to no avail. They were not just combat trained and effective at battling witchcraft. They had some magical training as well. Enough to use quick battle spells, hence his abrupt silencing smack from before. If Matt had let the man finish his little Enochian chant, the results could have been explosive.

If the Dark Ones were funding the creation of a corps of magical mercenaries, he needed to know about it. More than that, he needed to stop it before the DO turned those troops on him. He had taken this lot out by surprise and momentum, moving from room to room before they could raise an effective alarm or counter attack in mass. Matt had no illusions about what would happen to him and Stay if these sorcerer-soldiers were to strike on their terms.

None at all; he'd lose. Hard.

And he just was not prepared to let that happen. The only way to win this was to stay on the offensive but to do that, he needed information. There was only one more place to check here, whatever was behind the doors these eight were so keen on him not investigating.

Hopping onto his motorcycle, Matt gave Zephyr's engine a hard rev and pulled up on her handlebars as he hurtled into the door. Her front wheel came smashing down as they made contact, 'knocking' quite destructively.

The doors shattered inward, their locking clattering useless to the titled floor just inside the room's landing. Inside, four men protected two others, raising machine guns as their surprised eyes gave way to hostile intent.

Hostile? Matt growled. These people had not seen the true face of hostile. He leaped off his bike, letting Zephyr rocket forward to slam into the desk as he vaulted over the four-way stream of bullets. As he came down, his guns came out. One heavy handgun resting in each steady hand, he was firing before his feet hit the ground.

The gunman on either end of the quartet went down in a spray of blood, two men dropping as their bodies were ripped through in a hail of sacred force. Their Kevlar meant nothing to the rounds in these guns, 'gifts' from the Order of Saint Michael, Archangel. Gifts the Order would kill him for having... that is, they were just one more reason on the Order's long list. Matt did not care; the Order were bastards and deserved to get put down but he could only handle one genocide at a time. The Dark Ones needed erased. The Order of St. Michael would just have to stand in line.

As nice as the handguns were, they were only able to regenerate bullets so quickly. He had used them a LOT on the upper levels so it came as no surprise that they went dry as he was gunning down the two soldiers. Dropping them, knowing full well they would find their way back to his holsters before he left the room, Matt rolled forward towards the shattered desk.

This move dodged the new rain of steel as the two remaining gunners tried to cut him down while running for cover. One went behind half the desk while the other dashed towards a nearby steel fronted wet bar.

Matt did not let him get that far. Reaching out, he called to the sword resting fitfully in the leather case on his cycle. Though they hated him with a literal Holy passion, the blades answered his call, albeit unwillingly. Two finely wrought swords appeared in his hands, turning parallel to the floor as he whirled beside the runner, crouching low.

One step past Matt, the mercenary fell to the ground, his legs severed at both the hip and the knee. Raw shock drove him unconscious. Blood loss would finish the job quickly enough.

The hard punch of three bullets painfully failing to penetrate his warded coat reminded Matt that the last gunner was still up and functional... and not yet out of ammo. Turning to face the soldier while the man quickly tried to reload, Matt threw his left hand forward and hurled Avia, the angelic sword that so recently been impaling his shoulder. Though it despised him, it did as it was Heaven-forged to do.

The sword's quillions spread in mid flight, arching into golden wings of divine light. These beat just once, speeding the sword arrow-straight towards the startled gunman. Before the man could react, it had penetrated the desk, driven straight through his body armor and pinned him to the far wall, buried a full foot into the stone foundation at his dying back.

That left Matt on one knee, holding one sword, in a room with two living men. One was under Zephyr, having be bashed unconscious when the desk splintered beneath his bike's ramming assault. The other was running...

...but not for long. Matt was out of bullets and his only throwing weapon was out of reach. This did not mean he was out of options. As he had discovered many times when dealing with the Dark Ones and their vassals, they were personally immune to his entropy magic. Personally immune. He could not affect their bodies at all.

But he could affect everything else, including what they were wearing. He made a slashing gesture at the fleeing man's shoes and every form of binding in them, from thread to glue, dissolved in a gush of black chaos.

Suddenly overbalanced, the dark suited warlock hit the ground with a yelp of pain and rolled over, already framing a bolt of hellfire between his hands. Matt had been hoping for a more damaging tumble but Life seldom ever went his way.

Cussing, he barely had enough time to throw up an entropic barrier before the sulfurous flames smashed into it. Turning the attack aside, he ran to close the distance before the downed caster could conjure another blast. Matt was not very lucky but he was very quick. Halfway through the spell, the man found himself without hands. Fountains of red gushed from his wrists as he screamed in pain.

Matt spared no time in bringing his blade to the man's throat. "You've got a minute before you bleed to death. I'll stop the flow if you tell me what I want to hear."

Howling, the blood-covered sorcerer nodded frantically. "Anything, anything!"

"I've been hearing a name. Oriax. Who is that?"

The Dark One mage trembled, slumping back as he tried to go into shock. Matt brought him back to the here and now with a quick stab to the shoulder. The pain roused the man enough to force a few words from his lips, "Louisville! The stars and planets... Oriax comes!"

Before he could get any more, Matt saw the man shudder and pass out. If he didn't get medical attention, the wizard was a goner. It did not take Matt long to decide.

"Sucks to be you." He turned away, heading over to his bike. Losing one was not a big deal. There was a fresh mage right over here under the wheel of his bike. All he had to do was smack the bastard awake and...

...figure out how to wake up someone whose face and throat were burned to a crisp by a stray bolt of hellfire. Now EVERYONE was dead.

"Fuck."

It took Matt less than ten minutes to get out of the building and from the sounds of fire engines and police sirens around the front of the complex, he was not leaving a moment too soon. It had not been as productive a night as he had hoped but at least he had learned two things.

One, he needed to go to Louisville. Oriax has been involved in the ritual that had originally tainted his magic and corrupted part of his soul. If he or any of the people back home that he cared about, like Ariel or Jaynie, had any hope of a cure, this was a lead he could not pass up.

And two, he really needed to invest in a taser...

Meeting of the Minds

It was a long walk for poor Mister Flailie. Life was hard for a stuffed animal, especially one owned by Stay. Or, as they probably called her in Toy Hell, Stay the Plush Slayer.

It wasn't through malice or direct action, of course. She loved her animals, even if she did think Matt gave her too many. She wasn't a fool even if she was young. Stay knew he brought her these cooshy things because he felt guilty about the way they lived. The way he lived, mostly. Matt was so silly. Didn't he know she was happy? He took care of her and she always had Oreos. Life was good.

Good, that is, unless you were a two foot wide neon stuffed octopus. Then life was terrible. It seemed the blonde moppet-marauder was incapable, or at the very least unwilling, to actually carry Mister Flailie. Instead, all the way across the back yard to the fishing creek, she dragged it. Over every bump, every rock, through every puddle and ant hill. The doll was covered in grass and dirt before they had even gotten halfway. By the time Stay reached the bank of the little river in Mercy's backyard, the octoplush was almost unrecognizable.

If it could speak, Mister Flailie would have been screaming, "Kill me!" As it was, its little button eyes were extremely bright and emphatic... except for the one plastered over with mud.

"Isn't the water pretty at night, Mister Flailie?" Stay sat down on her favorite rock and looked out over the moon ripples, laughing at the sight of flowing silver. The plush was conspicuously silent on the matter.

Mister Flailie was not in a talkative mood but, as the voice that actually did answer Stay was about to reveal, she was not enjoying the river front alone.

"It certainly is."

Stay picked up her octopus and held it in front of her like a shield, frantically looking around to find the speaker. She was not so much scared as she was startled. She'd some here for several night now; the place was always private. Someone else here meant someone else in Mercy's yard, not something she figured the red-haired lady or Matt would really appreciate. "Who's there?"

"No one important." The voice was right beside her, coming from a man standing within arm's reach directly to her left. Stay scrambled, wide eyed, away from him and off her sitting rock. He was not been there just a second ago. No way!

"This is private property, mister!" She said it as authoritatively as she could but now she was scared. Who was that? What was this?

The man looked down at her, a gentle smile on his older looking face. "Don't worry. I won't be here long, Stay."

"How! How did you know my name?!" She stood up, knees shaking, Mister Flailie held in front of her like a weapon. A sad, limp weapon direly in need of a good scrub.

"I was there when you were given it, child." The man turned to face her, half-lit by the shimmering reflections off the stream. His eyes, completely black, focused on her almost painfully intense. "How are you?"

Stay was now very close to what the people on TV called 'freaking out'. Matt gave her that name the night he rescued her from that hospital, the one where they were trying to arrest him. He had called her his "stay of execution", Stay for short. But everyone at the hospital had ended up dead. The only people to leave that horrid place had been him and her.

Well, him, her and... the angel.

Oh.

Poop.

Stay turned around and tried to run but a calm hand settled on her shoulder and she froze in place. She was trying to run. She wanted to run. But she couldn't. Her legs just refused. Her whole body went limp. Mister Flailie fell to the ground as she sagged, held up only by the shadowy man's grasp.

He slowly lowered her to the ground, watching impassively as her eyes closed and her breathing calmed. Kneeling beside Stay as she slipped into unconsciousness, he stared at her face, his leather-covered hand moving to stroke her cheek. "Easy now," he murmured. "Easy now."

Once she was deeply asleep, the man sat cross-legged on the grass beside her. Taking off his gloves, the angel placed his fingertips to Stay's temples. He closed his eyes, pale lids concealing his white-less eyes behind them.

He sat there, completely still, touching the little blond girl's brow with a look of deep concentration on his face. The water rippled, the heavens twinkled and the clouds rolled past for more than an hour. Aside from the slow rise and fall of their chests and the occasionally dream whimper from Stay, they remained completely motionless. Frozen in place, the world spun on around them.

Finally, he stood, replacing his gloves one at a time. He picked her up and carried her back to the house, her travesty of a stuffed tentacle-horror on her chest. Once they reached Mercy's dark back porch, he settled her into a deck chair and took a small black note pad out of his coat pocket...

When Matt found her there asleep, just before morning, he also found a piece of paper cradled in Mister Flailie's grimy tentacles.

"Consider your stay extended for the time being.
Keep taking care of this little one as well as you have
and you might just earn a second chance, hellborne."

And at the bottom of the page, a small post script.

"Maybe you should cut back on the Oreos."