Bodies

He put his hand on Stay's shoulder and guided her behind him. "Go back inside and close the door."

"But..." Her voice was quiet and worried. "But what if something happens to you?"

Matt looked at the dozens of people in front of him, all of them staring holes through him as tensions rose. "Then hide. And run as fast as you can if you're found."

She did as he asked; he appreciated her for it. She walked back into the Order chapterhouse, closed the door, and even thought to lock it. Good girl. That would give her a few extra seconds if this went south.

And the way things were looking, the situation already cruising through Mexico at Mach Four...

Matt smiled and held up one hand. "Hi there. This a bad time?" He was talking to thirty some-odd people, men and women, all standing around a dozen different cars parked haphazardly in the house's spacious front yard. It seemed like they were roughly broken up into four groups with a few clearly here by themselves. Until Matt and Stay had stepped outside, they'd been out front arguing among themselves.

Bad timing.

Now they were all silent, focused on Matthew and the four heavy duffel bags full of gear he'd just looted from the Order of St. Michael Archangel chapterhouse. From what little he'd overheard as he stepped out of the building, they were here to do what he'd already done - loot the place. Unfortunately for them, he'd gotten here first.

Of course, given how many of them were standing in front of him, not one of them looking particularly happy, perhaps this was unfortunate for him.


One of the three people standing around a Lincoln Town Car narrowed her eyes at Matt and curled her lips into a thin smile. "It is a fine time... for you to drop your things and get out of here. This building and all its contents is now under the domain of the Gardener..."

She was cut off by a shout from a group of angry looking older teens and young adults. They were crouched or leaning against a pair of sports cars, sunglasses reflecting glaringly back at everyone. "The hell it is! You're just here to pick over the bones like we are!" The one speaking was wearing black cargo pants and a fishnet shirt over his pale, thin chest.

"You are all heathens and grave robbers. Only we have a right to that house and to the one who defiled it!" This came from a broad shouldered man in a fine suit as expensive as the one on his bodyguard. This pair were standing beside a steel gray Lexus, its windows dark and opaque. The crucifix on the luxury car's front license plate instantly rubbed Matt the wrong way.

As soon as the suited man spoke, the entire group devolved again into bickering. Power flared along several hands, magic rising to a fever pitch. Matt could tell that energies were about to be unleashed and from the way the others reeled back and took up defensive stances, so could they. Some looked eager to fight; others were seeking cover or reaching for cell phones. One way or another, this was about to get ugly.

"Hey!"

Matt was as surprised he'd spoken as the gathering seemed to be. The last thing he wanted to do right now was get involved in a redneck magi turf war... but he also knew there would be no getting out of here if things turned violent. He couldn't risk Stay's safety, nor did he particularly want to get spell-perforated himself.

"Look, people. There's a ton of shit in there. You could all grab shopping carts and come out with a nice Abracadabra grab bag or two. Do we really need to fight about this?"

His words appeared to reach a few people, but the man in the suit refused to be swayed. He looked at Matt, sneered, and spat, "Pretty words, hellspawn. But we won't fall for your tricks. Why do you want us to go in there?"

Matt blinked, as confused as he probably looked. "What?"

"I can smell your fiend-stench from here, devil thrall. What kind of trap have you set for us?" Even the people who looked disgusted with the holy wizard suddenly turned suspicious. Paranoia was rampant with everyone here and Matt had just become an easy target.

"Damn it! I am just trying to get us all out of here intact. There isn't any trap!"

The priest mage snorted. "Really? Let's just test that, shall we?"

Matt nodded. "Go for it, asshole."

The man took a pen out of his suit pocket and threw it hard across the yard into the hole Matt's motorcycle had made in the building's front wall. It sailed over the grass and past the ragged bricks without incident but as soon as it entered the house itself, there was a crackle of raw power and a loud clap of thunder. The pen shattered instantly, torn apart by magical energy.

"Fuck," Matt said, smacking his face into his hand. Somehow, during the time he'd been inside, the house's defenses had obviously come back up. "Look, I can explain..." he started to say...

...and was driven back against the front door by a blast of holy light! The priest and his guard were both pointing right at him, their hands wreathed in divine radiance.

Before Matt could regain his footing or catch his breath, the others were on the move. The only thing they apparently wanted more than the treasures inside the chapterhouse was a common enemy. Sadly, the holy roller had ensured they saw Matt as that target. He slumped to one knee, silently thanking his warded coat for shrugging off the blow that should have caved in his ribcage. "D... don't. Don't do th..this."

His voice was shaky and, because of the sucker punch, inaudible. A dozen people were running straight at him, pulling weapons as they advanced. He groaned and rose to his feet. No more time for talk.

There was too much incoming. Three people were shooting, two were hurling bolts of fire and one was lifting shrapnel up out of the yard and sending it all arrow-quick at him. Immediately on the defensive, it was all Matt could do to throw up a barrier between himself and approaching pain. A wall of raw entropy answered his call, shimmering darkly into existence around him.

Bullets rusted, fire burned out and erosion turned the debris into inert ashes. That bought him a few seconds, long enough for him to move the battle away from the front door. A stray shot could pierce the door or wall, possibly hitting Stay.

A familiar word sent energy to his legs, giving him a massive leap up off the porch and over the assembled mass. In midair, he pulled his pistols and lined up a pair of shots. Taking down a mage or two wouldn't be fast enough and he really didn't want anyone killed if he could help it. Most of these fucks were just greedy, not evil. He needed area effect. He needed to disperse the groups and stop their focused ability to fight.

He needed a couple of explosions.

His bullets crossed down through the air and slammed into a pair of car hoods. A beat-up Impala and an expensive Lexus were perforated as his shots drove holes into their engine blocks. Normally, this would not have been enough to ignite anything but Matt laced both rounds with destructive magic. The spell, a particularly wicked one he'd been working on since finding it in a Dark Order spellbook, made the worst possible outcome into the most likely one.

From the way both vehicles erupted into metal and flames, he'd gotten it right. As he flipped and landed in a combat crouch, the twin blasts behind him did a fine job of forcing the gathered crowd to disperse. Ballistically.

Now others were flying through the air, though not with quite the same grace or control. Yes, the explosions were probably going to kill a few people, but that couldn't be avoided. Sometimes, to make an omelet, you had to break a few assholes.

The magi strong or lucky enough to weather the firestorm turned and attacked. Three spells were incoming. One,. a discharge of lightning, ground out on a chunk of car Matt pulled up off the ground with telekinesis. That same piece of automotive steel reflected another beam of holy light.

Matt had just enough time to realize that meant the priest wizard was still standing before the third spell slammed home. A mental effect, he was less prepared to defend against something like this. Sheer confusion tried to short out his ability to function. He staggered and nearly fell, vertigo blazing along his every nerve. "Damn it," he hissed. "Got to focus!" He slammed one fist into his leg, the hard impact of his gun butt bringing him back to cognizance.

The priest, over confident, had stepped out of the flaming debris to press his advantage. Matt grinned to himself, snapping up with both guns, and caught him flat footed in his sights. "Say Hi to God for me."

Before he could fire, a booted foot smashed into his arm, ruining his aim and making both shots go wide. One bullet drove into the ground impotently while the other took a Hot Topic-clad punk with an ankh earring straight through the head. A fine red splatter marked where he dropped, a goth marionette with its strings violently cut.

"Hellspawn!" The roar came from beside him, but Matt was already vaulting away. His arm was throbbing, probably broken, but he couldn't worry about that right now. He snapped his head up just in time to see the priest's bodyguard bearing down on him. The huge man was wearing a pair of fingerless gloves and holding punching daggers with cross cut-outs through the blades. He'd have admired their workmanship if the bastard wasn't trying to introduce them to his skull.

He dodged left and got a kick in the chest for his trouble. He ducked to avoid the next swing and was backhanded to the ground. Rolling out of the way, he felt a sting of screaming pain as the bodyguard stepped on his hurt arm. "Return now to Hell, spawn of darkness."

If there was one thing he was grateful for where religious types were concerned, it was that they stopped to preach before doing anything. The few seconds of sililloquy was enough time for Matt to work a mental spell of his own and hurl it full force at the big man's mind.

Matt had been hurt so often in the last few months that he'd started to wonder if there was something he could do with all that pain. A captured St. Michael laptop provided his answer; a Sensate Gate. Since learning about this technique for storing away dark emotions and agony, he'd been quietly socking away every hurt and ill he'd suffered. Now, he reached out and touched someone... with four months of utter torture compressed into a single heartbeat.

Matt called it a Mindscourge. The man, his eyes rolling back as he rasped for air before falling down, obviously didn't have any kind name for it at all. He gurgled once, convulsed and collapsed. For the look of him, the spell had forced a massive coronary.

He couldn't help himself. "Glad we had this little heart-to-heart," he told the cooling corpse as he leaped to his feet. There was at least one more mage to deal with and he probably wouldn't do a good job of that on his back. A quick scan of his surrounds brought bad news. There wasn't just one opponent to worry about.

There were eight.

Four of them were a little burned and seemed downright upset. One was, as he'd figured, the priest. The other three were the Lincoln Town Car crew. Normally, they were probably all enemies but tonight, there was a common foe - him.

"Fan... fucking...tastic." He quickly spotted a wide tree trunk he could use for cover and ran for it. His earlier spell was still energizing his legs; this made the dash inhumanly fast and caused the mass incoming fire to miss cleanly. Fire, frost, and bullets all missed, tearing up the Order's finely manicured lawn. Crouching behind the tree, he heard a wave of attacks burrow into its gnarled form. The old oak wouldn't last long under that kind of withering assault.

He considered climbing into the tree's upper branches for a surprise strike but his broken arm vetoed the idea immediately. He couldn't jump the distance; too many lower branches would get in the way and getting tangled meant certain death right now. He needed to think of something clever. Now.

But he was out of time. There was a blur to either side of him and the eight were on him. Each one moving at lightning speed, it was all Matt could do to keep up with them visually. He would need to match their alacrity if he was going to survive but the only spell he had for that took a second to cast. He needed space.

A primal scream did the trick. He released his hold on the entropy inside him, bellowing in a roar of destructive sound that splintered wood, shattered ear drums, and broke glass for a hundred feet all around. The force of the wail sent everyone hurtling backwards. While they were picking themselves up, he was working the Herculean Rhyme.

The priest, not surprisingly, was the first to his feet. Eyes glowing with holy light, he blinked away tears of blood and tried to focus through the pain of the scream reverberating through his skull. Hammering Matt with a counter charm, he was joined in his efforts by the woman magi from the Lincoln group. Both of them pushed their power against Matt's, trying to stop his spell with all the power they could throw at him.

To everyone's surprise, including Matt's own, it wasn't enough. The Rhyme completed and potency flooded through his every muscle. His vision took on a dim, red haze and all he could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat thundering in his chest. The force of their failed negation magic slammed both the priest and the women hard, sending them both to the ground.

Matt hoped against hope that they wouldn't get up again.

Then he was moving, leaping on top of the closest one before the man could get up. Matt's punch drove his gun through the mage's chest, tearing a ragged hole and sending crimson in a gout across the grass. Without pulling his arm free, Matthew turned and brought both his pistols level with the next one to stand.

Surprise was all that the target got to register before six bullets tore his upper body asunder. A detonation of blood covered those near him, a second shock to ass to the deafness from which they were all still reeling. Two found the wherewithal to attack, their own guns firing through the space Matt had been. He was now moving faster than they could, his body a few feet past where they perceived him to be.

The woman worked a quick spell and touched the tree for support. Its natural energies powered her magic, sending a wave of enchantment over the clearing. Gardenarian spellcasting at its finest, Matt noted, as his guns were repelled by the force of Gaea. He let go of them rather than be hurled back with them; they landed nearly a hundred feet away on the lawn. She wanted to play without firearms? He could do that too.

The spell had apparently disarmed everyone; there was no significant metal left to any of them. Two mages stood up, fire in their eyes and on their lips. A cooperative spell. From their matching pentagram amulets and the simultaneous casting, they were obviously coven mates. That was fine with matt; they could share the same coffin too.

He ran past them, eyes focused on the bitch with the nature magic. His right arm extended as he went by the two wizards, Matt didn't even finish calling forth his sword until he was right in the woman's face. Its damage was done, however, since its magical presence occurred before its physical manifestation could take place. A second after he stopped in front of the Gardenarian priestess, the two men trembled, spat blood, and fell over.

Externally, they were perfectly healthy. Inside, their organs were all cleaved completely in half. They were dead before they hit the ground.

"What... what are you?" Her words were thick with fear but her reflexes were still focused. She threw up a shield that forced him back a few feet as she reached for a wand of yew wood in her belt. He tracked the gesture and saw the wand. Instantly, he felt it was a dire threat and every instinct screamed for him to evade.

He didn't argue. Diving aside, he narrowly avoided a wave of invisible energy. Something karmic, he assumed, given the type of wand. There was a lot of blood on his hands, figuratively and literally, right now; a karmic strike could be devastating. He needed either cover or another target and he needed it quickly.

Another mage provided both. Matt tumbled forward, grabbed the man by his button-up dress shirt, and lifted him off the ground. The man's hands shook in sudden fear, dropping the glass athame he'd been holding. Seeing it fall, Matt thought quickly and lashed out at it with his foot.

The crystalline blade shattered instantly, sending shards of glass spraying towards the woman. She hissed a druid's curse and lifted her hand to shield her face as the tide of clear razors hit her full force. There was a cry of pain and then nothing. Just dead silence. The man in Matt's grasp looked terrified at the sound; she must have been one of his cabal.

A split second of pity seized him and Matt put the man down by dropping him. "Run," he growled. "Run away now."

The mage didn't argue. He got to his feet and took off, wide eyes and panic stricken. Matt tracked him with his predator's eyes for a moment, distracted by the rabbit-run. That proved to be unfortunate when a lash of magical pain struck him in the side.

It was a torment spell, one Matt had felt before. A favorite trick of the Order, it worked by telepathically forcing signals of pain into the body. Most mages used it in the form of a glowing whip, just like this one was doing. The wielder obviously wasn't Order of St. Michael, but Matt had long since figured out that spells rarely stayed the property of one tradition for very long.

"Son of a bitch!" The teen with the whip was the same one who'd spoken out about bone picking. Wiry and intense, his fishnet shirt was torn and his chest was bloody. Probably from the car explosions, since there were also burns on his face and hands. "You killed Ronnie, fucker!" This one was crying too, but it wasn't blood from the sonic shock wave. It was tears; he was standing there, defiant, body wracked with sobs even as he pressed the attack.

There were a million things Matt could have said but none of them would have made any difference. He probably had killed Ronnie. That might have been the punk that ate his stray shot earlier. That didn't matter, nor did the fact that it had been an accident. Matt had gone into this not wanting to kill any one and, as usual, he'd completely screwed that up.

Sword and whip met in a bright, crackling clash. Matt was on the defensive. He was raging with the power of the Heracles spell but he didn't want to kill this guy. The mage looked to be even younger than he was. He was fighting out of grief and rage. Matt could sympathize with that. If he could, he'd spare this one. He really didn't want to kill anyone else if he...

A backlash of pain down the torment spell send a spasm through Matt's back. He howled in rage and lashed out wildly, virtually no control over his muscles as his spine lit up in anguish. Staggering, gasping, he moved back and shook his head, trying to clear it as the sensations of being on fire subsided. He whirled back into a defensive crouch, bring up his glowing angelic blade to ward off any more whip strikes.

But none came. Back where he'd been, half a teen was dropping to his knees. The top half, still wrapped in bloody fishnet, was laying beside his own falling leg, mouth opening in closing in shock as the realization of his own death dawned in his dimming eyes.

"Oh God damn it!" Matt roared in frustration. Even when he wanted to spare people, they ended up dead. "God fucking damn it all to fucking Hell!"

Almost like a message from the Lord, a blast of golden light ripped down from the sky and drove him to his knees. His active spells all failed, strength and speed ripping out of him as his magical power dwindled to nothing.

"You will pay for your blasphemies, hellspawn." The voice was behind him, weak but defiant. The priest, it seemed, was still alive and well.

Alive. Well. And really pissed.

It hurt, but Matt turned his head to look at the priest as he walked slowly closer. Matthew's sword was gone; the holy smite had temporarily dismissed it. he was unarmed, hurt and gasping for air. Somehow, he didn't expect the priest was going to give him a chance to catch his breath. Still, stalling was worth a try.

"You aren't... Order," he said as loud as pained lungs would allow. "Why are you here?"

The priest stopped advancing, tilted his head and gave Matt a puzzled look. "Why? Why? The Order of Saint Michael, Archangel was an extremist group whose practices and faith were not condoned by the Catholic Church. Publicly, at least."

Matt narrowed his eyes. "So what... what are you? Holy backup?"

That actually brought a bitter laugh from the man. "Not backup. Oversight." As he spoke, he took a battered leather Bible out from under his coat and turned to the Psalms. "The Order's methods may not be well-liked among my brethren but we cannot allow their failures to remain undealt with."

That didn't surprise Matt, though the idea of a group bigger than the Order was a bit of a shock. "Failures... like me?"

The priest nodded and made a gesture in the air over his Bible. "Just so." He murmured a small phrase in Latin as the air around him began to glow with bright, angry energy. Matt was in no shape to dodge. Damn it. "Burn in Hell, Mr. Engel."

"Yeah," Matt said, his thoughts going instantly to Stay and how he hoped she would get out of the house safely. "Fuck you too, Father."

The light become painfully bright and a roar of thunder split the night. Matt expected there to be searing agony but instead, he felt nothing. No smiting. No burning. No hell. Nothing had happened at all. Daring to open his eyes, he looked up at the mysterious priest who'd been about to end him.

There, to his great and instant relief, was Zephyr. Engine roaring, she was parked on top of a broken mass of religious fucktard. It was everything he could do to stand and stumble over to his motorcycle after picking up the fallen Bible. Even lifting his leg to climb onto it was an exercise in willpower. "What kept you, slow poke?" he mumbled to her.

The bike, for its part, chose not to dignify him with an answer. It just spun out on the priest's wet corpse and roared off towards the Order house again. There was a fledgling to pick up, after all. Dealing with rude, ungrateful masters could wait until they were a long, long way from this bad, blood soaked place...

--------------------

She stood over the bodies and the wreckage, the light of the car fires reflecting in her eyes. Her shirt was torn and ragged, her arms and legs cut in a hundred places. There, in the ruins of the house's lawn, lay the bodies of her coven mates - friends and lovers all.

They'd come to get back what the fanatics of the Order had stolen from them, the relics and texts that had been seized from Gardenerian libraries across the nation. Now they were dead. All of them lost, except for her. As their High Priestess, she'd led them here to "reclaim their destiny". Now, as their High Priest, she would have to bury them.

Bury... and avenge.

Dashed Expectations

Matt checked himself over. Once, then twice. Everything had to be perfect. One mistake and he wouldn't be walking out alive. He was still riding high on the energy rush he'd taken from that lovely girl named Kristy at Whataburger.

Would she be able to walk tomorrow? Did it matter?

His pistols were the first to be examined. They were clean and charged, energy pulsing through their stolen handles and pilfered rounds. Two high caliber handguns straight from the cold, dead hands of high ranking St. Michael hunters, they were two of his closest companions. They'd be ready for what laid ahead. Probably, he thought bitterly, they were more ready than he was.

A moment's thought checked the burning wrath in the core of his soul. There, the angelic sword lurked like an angry sun, straining to rise phoenix-like and turn him to ashes if his control ever slipped. If he was wise, he'd throw that thing in the nearest sewer and never look back.

Oh well; he'd never been accused of wisdom. The sword was his, damn it, and he wasn't letting go of it. If the fucking flapbacks of the Celestial Host hated him for that, they shouldn't have tried to kill him in the first place.

He tightened his coat around his shoulders and felt the fit of his vest. It was a memento of the night he'd broken out of Fort Brag - an MP slimline bulletproof chest guard with kickers plates in front and back. It would stop a shotgun blast at point blank and a .30-06 round as long as the angle wasn't dead on. Literally. Of course, it was also the recipient of a bastion spell, the strongest one he could cast. As long as whatever hit it wasn't enchanted by someone stronger than him, the vest would probably hold up just fine.

Sadly, assaulting an Order of St. Michael Archangel stronghold in Chattanooga, Tennessee meant he'd likely be going up against several dozen mages, most of whom were practiced experts in their fields.

Yay.

This was going to hurt.

Matt ran down his readiness checklist again, pulled on his helmet and gunned Zephyr's engine. It was a straight run down the street, over the brick and steel fence and then through the old building's plate glass porch window. It was ballsy, insanely violent, and utterly without sense, reason, or logic.

All his hallmarks.

With a roar of defiance at the god who'd put him on this one-man's road to hell, he kicked off the brake and accelerated as fast as his possessed motorcycle could go. It was do or die. Kill or be killed. Matt was damned sure which choice he'd be making tonight...

-----

The little girl jumped at the sound of something heavy smacking against the hotel room door. The older boy had said not to approach it for anyone and to never open it for anyone. If it was him, he wouldn't need her help and if it was anyone else, there was no sense making it easier for them to catch her.

His warning wasn't wasted. She scampered down off the bed, crawled along the floor and ducked into the closet behind a bag of dirty clothes. They smelled like sweat and blood but that's why Matthew had told her to use them for cover. "Most people won't get near anything messy, " he'd said. "Hide behind something ugly that stinks and you'll have a better chance staying safe."

She wrinkled her nose and tried not to cry out. Crawling was still painful for her; the wounds in her side were not completely healed yet. Still, if what she dimly remembered was true she was lucky to be alive. There had been an accident - a car crash. Two others (her parents, maybe?) hadn't been so fortunate; they were dead. She was only alive because the boy saved her.

There was a thud outside, a heavy sound of someone sitting down in the front room's only real chair. No footsteps, no signs of searching or anyone coming into this part of the suite. If they were here to hurt her, this was a strange way of going about it.

Slowly, cautiously, she slipped out of the closet and peered into the front room. Her reasons for doing so were two-fold. First, she didn't think the kind of people Matthew had said would be after them were the sort to sit and wait for her to come out. Secondly, there was food. The smell of something edible. Right now, as empty and growly as her tummy was, any food at all would be a reason to risk to getting caught.

There, in the chair by the door, was Matthew. His coat was on the foot of the bed, his guns on the table beside him. Between them, a stuffed bag full of fast food beckoned like a checkered flag at the end of a long race. She crept forward, unsure what to make of the shadowed expression on her savior's face.

"M-m-matthew sir?" She didn't speak very loudly; she couldn't. Her lungs still hurt every time she breathed and it was hard to get enough air to talk sometimes.

"Yes, Stay?" his dire voice whispered just as softly, bleak and dark.

That's what he called her - Stay. She couldn't remember her own name so ti was as good as any. She'd heard the name Stacie on television and asked him if Stay was short for that but he'd said no. When she'd pushed further, he'd told her it was short for "Stay of Execution". She wasn't sure what they was but it certainly did not sound pleasant.

She came over and crawled up on the bed next to the bag with the big W on it. Inside were cold hamburgers and nuggets of what might or might not be actual chicken. Right now, she didn't not really care. It was all edible and as much of it as would fit was going in her mouth. Right now.

"Cahnn ah asph oo summphn?"

Matthew didn't look up. He just murmured. "Sure. Ask me anything. Just finish eating first."

That took a while, and the whole time he never looked up, barely breathed, and felt so cold even the room heater kicked on in a vain attempt to warm the room.

"What's wrong?" She slurped the big soda he'd brought, even though the ice was long melted and it was badly watered down. It was still better than this place's tap water. Ugh. She was probably at a worse risk of infection from drinking that than she was from her surgical scars. At least, that's what Matthew had said and he seemed to know everything.

"D...s....p....ed" His tone was too low, too muffled. She couldn't make it out.

"What?"

He looked up and glared. "Disappointed. Okay? I'm disappointed."

She frowned. "Did your fight with the bad men not go well?"

Matt got up and started pacing between the door and the bathroom. He reached into his pocket, took out his last pack of cloves, tapped one and brought it to his lips. Then he looked at Stay and grumbled. The cigarette went in the trash.

Then so did the pack.

"It didn't go at all, Stay. They were already wiped out. Every last one of them."

Her eyes widened. "All of them?"

Matt nodded and started pulling his things away in his big military duffel. "Pack up, Stay. We are getting out of here."

She scrabbled down and headed over to the little pink backpack he'd gotten her from Wal Mart. She didn't have the heart to tell him she thought the Powerpuff Girls were sort of lame. She'd wanted the dark purple Megatron bag but no... here she was with Blossom on her back. "Where are we going?"

"The Order House. They are having a 100% off Going Out of Existence sale and I'm in the mood to shop."

*A new post*

There is a new post for this story, but its adult subject matter has required that I move it to my "explicit" archive.

If you aren't a member of that blog yet and wish to read the latest Matthew chapter, just let me know and I'll add you.

Just be warned; it can get scary in there. :)

-A

Vengeance is Mine

Red. Red was everywhere, liquid and warm.

Everything was red and black.

The only sound, aside from the soft drip of fading life, was the wind. No, not the wind. Just a rasping breath. In and out, getting slower each time.

It was his own. Likely his last. There wasn't much time.

Forty three years and they all ended tonight.

His shaking hand lifted the receiver and set it on the desk. It returned to the number pad, dialing a sequence he'd prayed he would never have to use. Then it lifted the handset back up off the crimson-stained blotter and held it to his ear.

A complicated way to make a call, but necessary since only one of his arms worked.

As he'd always imagined, the other line only rang once.

"Yes?"

The voice was calm, a tone that meant there was no way the person answering had any idea why he was calling.

"We..." He did not mean to trail off but the pain of speaking was more than he'd expected. Marshaling his will, he forced himself to continue. "We... have... been... attacked." Between words, he was panting, wasting breaths. There were precious few left.

"Has the assault been dealt with, Precept?" Again, the speaker was utterly, eerily calm.

He almost laughed, but what remained in his lungs had to last through the next few moments. "No... The assault... has been successful. We... are slain... to a man. Only... only I remain." Inwardly, he cursed himself for repeating a word.

"Your diocese is lost, then."

It wasn't a question, nor was it phrased like one, but he felt obligated to answer anyway. "Yes."

"Understood. Is there anything else to report?" He had expected cold, given who... no, what he was talking to, but the loss of an entire chapterhouse should have elicited some kind of response. Didn't 'they' care?

The next sound, the last sound, in the old man's life was a metallic click and a clap of unnatural thunder.

More red. More wet. More silence.

Then another hand picked up his phone. "Indeed there is more to report."

The calm voice hesitated. "Uriel," it finally said.

"Ambriel."

Another moment of quiet passed between the speakers. "Why are you doing this?" There was no accusation in the voice; it was merely a question. Anyone listening would have been hard pressed to determine if the speaker even cared about the answer.

"This house was corrupt, infected. It needed to be purified."

"He will not be pleased."

There was the rhythmic, metal noise of empty steel shells falling onto tile, followed by bullets being reloaded. "He is welcome to discuss the matter with me."

Another pause. "You would do well to beg forgiveness now. His judgment may be more lenient if you show the proper respect before it is passed." Then, after several empty moments. "Do you intend to do so?"

"No." The answer came quickly. "I will not apologize for doing what he should have."

"Understood." There was no pause this time, as if the calm voice had known the answer before asking the question. "What do you intend?"

There was the heavy clack of a barrel locking back into a large revolver. "I intend to see how far this infection has spread." The next sound was the sibilant slide of a handgun into a holster of hard leather.

"He will not forgive further interference."

The answer was just as quick as before. "Nor will I."

"Is there anything further? Or shall I assume this conversation at an end?" The voice was still betraying no emotion, though the words were closer together and the pauses between sentences longer.

"Tell me, Ambriel. Do you know what the humans say about assumptions?"

"Goodbye, Uriel."

"Goodbye."

Click.

The sound of footsteps in puddles echoed away from the desk. There was much to do and such a large world to have to do it in, especially for an angel without wings. Most especially for one who would have to shoulder this task alone. There would be no help from above; in fact, he expected to have to cross weapons with old comrades before this was done.

The Powers behind the Order had assumed humanity would serve them according to the Will of Heaven. His chance encounter with a helltouched in a hospital had shown him the error of that belief.

Now comes wrath. Ruin.

And the red dawn...

Recovery

A medical suite it wasn't, but room 103 at the Motel Six was the best Matthew could do for the girl.

He had the shower running to put some warm water vapor in the air, an air purifier was churning away on the nightstand and a hot plate was boiling everything that touched her. He'd already fed her sips of chicken broth, though she'd not really woken up so much as just swallowed autonomically. There was no evidence of her regaining consciousness.

That worried Matt. The best thing for her would have been to stay in the hospital. Unfortunately, there'd been three things wrong with that plan. One, he'd had to leave the hospital because of all the bodies. Two, most of those bodies were the nursing staff that would have taken care of the girl in the first place. And three, the sirens he'd heard on his way out of the hospital parking lot would have taken offense at his being there.

With the bodies.

Of the nurses.

So here they were in room 103 of the Southern Chattanooga Motel Six. It was an acceptable substitute for a recovery ward once Matt had taped plastic over the windows and washed all the linens at the laundromat nearby. Bleach and baby-safe detergent made for a clinic-level clean on just about any surface. Between that and his insistence on a non-smoking room that had always been a non-smoking room, the girl was in as good a shape as she could be.

He, on the other hand, was a wreck. He'd been going hard for fifty hours without sleep. Sitting in the corner, watching the Rite-Aid pulse meter he'd placed on her right arm, Matt caught himself micro-napping. Watch, watch, watch, snore. Shudder, wake up, watch, snore.

Snore some more.

An hour later, wake up cussing.

He needed sleep. He knew he needed sleep. He was just worried about the girl and just as worried about himself. He'd taken the only thing keeping that terrifying St. Michael agent from coming back and finishing him off out of her hospital bed and strapped her to a motorcycle for nearly an hour. Even though she'd not apparently been harmed by the experience, he was certain it wasn't a healthy thing to have done.

So he'd denied himself sleep while he made her as comfortable and secure as possible. At least money hadn't been a problem; he still had a wad of what he'd assumed to be drug money from the car he had been forced to abandon at the hospital. It meant no more stealing for a while, which was nice.

Oddly, people in retail environments always seemed to assume he was there to rob them. Perhaps it was the long black coat, the dark glasses, or maybe -just maybe- the massive handguns he took everywhere. Of course, the more perceptive of these retail monkeys might also be reacting to the fact that Matthew carried himself like a criminal. He was certainly not adverse to robbery if the need arose, though he was just as glad to have cash right now.

Rite-Aid was especially glad for his cash right now; he'd just dropped about a thousand dollars on medication, first aid supplies, food and basic supplies. He'd been running low, really low, and hunger was starting to take its toll. Cash and transportation made such a difference sometimes.

Of course, then he'd thought to check the saddlebags of his bike and when he did, his palm hit his head in an Homer-like expression. "D'oh." Zephyr's containers were stuffed with all manner of clothes, edibles, spare cash, and useful items (including a toothbrush, something he'd neglected using in some time). He muttered, "Ravenhurst has too much free time..." under his breath but he'd been secretly touched by the gesture.

The gesture, and the note. "Dear Matt, here's hoping this stuff and your wonderful bike find you well. We understand why you can't come here yet but with any luck maybe you can soon. This place is huge and we are bored bored bored! Aliya promises you'll be safe as long as you behave, but I can't promise you will, so good luck! Love, Ariel."

-------------

When she finally opened her eyes, the girl could only see a pebbled white ceiling through the fine mesh of bug netting. She was in an isolation tent cobbled together out of camping supplies and duct tape. Wearily, weakly, she unplugged herself from the cuff monitor and made her way out of bed. Tired legs barely supported her weight but, step after step, some meager strength returned.

Across the hotel room, a young man was sprawled across a chair, sleeping sitting up. Well, vaguely sitting up. Mostly, he was leaning against the wall, eyes closed, mouth wide open, snoring. He looked like she felt.

He also looked slightly familiar. Had she seen him before? She couldn't remember much of anything, just a haze of pain and darkness. An accident. There had been an accident. People, not that she could remember who, were dead. And this man... had he saved her? He was the one who picked her up out of the smoke and fire. Yes, that was him. She couldn't remember much else, but she remembered him.

As steadily as she could, the girl moved across the floor to where Matt was sleeping. She sat him upright, pulled a fallen blanket up over him, tucked it in around his shoulders, and pulled an drool-smudged note off his face. Kissing him on the cheek, she whispered "Thank you," before returning to bed.

She felt better now, but she was still sleepy. She'd be okay.

They both would.

A Noble Steed

It no longer had wings. Only chrome and steel.

It no longer had talons and claws. Only wheels of black rubber and gleaming spokes.

It no longer had beak, burning eyes, or a piercing shriek that could tear apart the sky.

Only a cowling of metal, a single blazing headlight, and the roar of its powerful engine owning the road.

It had been one of the most noble creatures to grace the Mystic Earth. It had ruled the air, undisputed by any but other majestic beasts for the title of Lord of the Clouds. Its life was one of soaring, hunting, and greeting the rising sun each day with an avian aria.

Once, it had been a griffon.

Then came the years of Denial, when Mankind slowly forgot his magic and relinquished his grace to the cold forces of reason and mundane law. There had been hunts to be sure and many had fallen to the weapons of the Purge, but that wasn't what had killed the Enchanted Age. Something far more insidious had brought about its doom. Like poison, neglect and dolor took their tolls. The mountains became cold, forbidding peaks; the seas lost their deep mysteries. Man no longer dreamed and without flights of fancy, flight itself became impossible.

On its stereo, a new song began to play. The Turning Away by Pink Floyd. Its voice had been reduced from the cry of an eagle to stolen moments from the history of music. It could no longer speak save in the voices of artists from the dawn of melody to the bloodiest edge of new industrial grind. Right now, it felt like playing a lament.

Its name was Zephyr and before being reborn into this two-wheeled metal body, it was a trapped Ethereal in a soulcage crystal. Used as a battery for the spells of a Dark Order wizard, its fate was to be racked with agony each time its "owner" tore out parts of its existence to fuel his bestial magic. It was worse than death; many times Zephyr had tried to end itself but the same power that trapped it kept it from fading. An eternity of slavery was all it was ever going to know.

Or at least, so it had believed. Then a new mage came into possession of its gem, taking it from the pocket of its tormentor after beheading him with a entropically charged hubcap. It had believed it was just changing possessors again as it had so many times, but the new wizard was not like the rest.

Unable to free it directly, this owner had done something none of the rest could or would attempt. He performed a Rite of Imbuement, a high magic used to create Incarnates - possessed objects. The spell was a difficult one, a power usually too complex for even experienced magus to perform. A thousand things could have gone wrong, most of them disastrously. But they didn't.

And when the glow of enchantment faded, Zephyr was no longer a trapped soul in a jewel. It was once again alive, in a sense. Zephyr could move, could be free, and could act through its potent new form. If it had desired, it could have bolted for its freedom and none could have stopped it. No longer a slave. No Master any longer...

...but it hadn't. This new mage had given it freedom without asking a price. In the Old Times, such a gift would have demanded a return. Those days were gone but Zephyr still remembered them. It... HE.... still honored the old code.

And so it began. Zephyr became Matthew's familiar, a motorcycle with self-motivation and so much more beyond. They had been inseparable, acting as two halves of a greater whole. His respect for his magus had only grown with each new example of the young caster's power. Though Matthew had made some mistakes in judgment and seemed incapable of expressing his emotions properly, that was to be expected of fledglings. If he survived this time out of the nest, the human would become so much more than he was now. Zephyr was determined to stay at his side until that day came.

That, at least, had been the plan. Then came the Great Deathling and her interference once again. There had been a terrible explosion and in the midst of the flame and chaos, his Master was captured. Thrown in the back of a warded car and banded with some kind of Higher Magic talisman, Matthew could no longer be sensed or felt. The fires took their toll and Zephyr learned a new kind of suffering.

Time had passed and he had healed but his Master was still gone. The Deathling actually helped put him back together, though her every touch was painful, and his opinion of the female was better than it had been before. She was still not good enough for his Master but she was at least bright enough to realize she needed to serve Matthew properly. She had loaded Zephyr's saddlebags with food and supplies, then released him to try and return where he belonged.

The road had been a long one. There had been bad weather, broken pavement, near-wrecks, not-so-near wrecks, an encounter with a truck full of hunters determined to reap his spirit for their own purposes, and areas of dead power where magic was so scarce he had actually needed normal fuel just to move.

All of this was just another source of suffering. For eeks, now more than a month, he had roamed the highways, desperately seeking a sign of the Master. Anything, any psychic echo of where his magus might be.

---------------------------

He silently idled up to the front of a white building tucked away in a grassy meadow and surrounded by tall hills. Chattanooga, Tennessee. A hospital. Somehow, it did not surprise Zephyr that he would feel his magus in a place of healing and death. Both were very fitting for the Master. Very much what his life was about right now.

In the distance, he finally saw Matthew approach, a young female human in his arms. The Master looked tired and in need of rest. Easing his back wheel down to make mounting easier, Zephyr rumbled his engine in greeting and played "We're in This Together" by Nine Inch Nails. It was one of his Master's favorite bands and even at this distance, he thought he could see a relieved look on the male's face.

Then Matthew was at his side, belting the small unconscious human to the back of his tall seat. The Master slung one leg over the leather bench, adjusted his coat, and pressed the throttle switch on his handlebars. After a moment's silence, his magus said in a low, grumbly voice, "Damn well took you long enough. Stop for a car wash before getting here?

Inwardly, Zephyr sighed. One really couldn't expect better manners from fledglings. Of course, if fledglings did not eventually learn better manners, fledglings could always be taught them by driving swiftly towards a wall and then stopping suddenly.

This thought made the motorcycle purr warmly as he drove away into the night, finally whole.

White Light

There was a roar and a flash of light.

Matthew's defensive spells buckled as the bullet hit. It took him in the gut, a little off to the left and under the bottom rib. His vest was useless, rated for something a lot smaller than the .50 caliber round slicing through it. There was pain, but not as much as he'd expected.

Oh, he thought as his legs gave way. This is shock.

Matt collapsed forward onto his hands even as the man looked back over his shoulder at him. "It has been a good hunt, Mr. Engel. You should be proud of that."

He was bleeding. He was bleeding hard. A gut shot took roughly twenty minutes to be fatal, even if a major organ was ruptured. The pain could be crippling and the damage was usually inoperable, but death was far from quick. Even so, he planted his left hand on the tile and forced himself forward a half-foot.

"Head... or heart...", Matthew groaned through gritted teeth.

The gunman pushed down his dark glasses to regard Matt with surprise in his pale eyes. "What did you say, Mr. Engel?"

Matt stared up at him, eyes burning. "Head or... heart. You'd better put me down, because if you... Uhhhnnn.... if you try to hurt that girl, I'll.... ahhhh..... I'll bite your fucking foot off." It was bold talk for someone who was leaving a blood trail every six, slow inches of movement across the depressingly wide room, but he meant what he said. If it was the last thing he did, he'd stop this bastard from hurting her.

That provoked the oddest response from the Knight. He had been raising his gun, presumably to finish Matthew off, but now it slowly fell to his side. "You must understand, Mr. Engle. You are a threat, like a plague, and those you come into contact with have to be dealt with for the good of all. It, like this, is nothing personal."

Matt kept moving. It was agony; the shock was wearing off. In a way, he was grateful. Pain was helping him focus. "I have a hole in my side the size of a bratwurst. Trust... me. It's gotten really personal." Hand over hand he came... slowly.

The man raised his gun again, tugging on his shooter's gloves to tighten them and perfect his aim. "Of course. My apologies. I assure you your suffering will end quickly, as will hers."

Matt shook his head. "She didn't do anything to do, but I still can. I've still got enough magic to.... ehhhh.... owww... bring this whole place down on your head." He stopped crawling, looking up at the Knight while he tried to clear his mind of the pain in his body. "But I won't if you promise to spare the girl. Your people have already killed enough of these folks, even a poor nurse who never even saw me. Haven't you... uhhnnn.... done enough damage?"

The bald, almost elegant looking killer raised his gun again, the surprise in his eyes changing to slight disbelief. "Excuse me? Are you saying one of my agents killed someone who never encountered you directly?"

It was all Matt could do to nod without spitting blood. "Her body's in a cleaning closet downstairs. I thought she'd spoken with me, but I was wrong. She only knew... ahhh.... about me from the Duty Nurse." Matt's vision was going all blurry. That meant he had about ten minutes left. Dad and his "life lessons" again.

The gunman lowered the hammer of his postol and holstered it, stepping out of Matthew's reach as he walked around him to the door of the room. "I find this highly doubtful, Mr. Engle, but I will investigate your claim. Do try not to die while I am gone." The door went click.

And Matt went thud. He pressed his face to the cold tile and tried to control his breathing. His magic was so useless right now. While he was suffering the effects of one physical spell's downside, he couldn't work another. He had no gift or ability with healing magic, and while he might be able to affect time itself with his entropic gifts, he didn't dare risk it with the little girl in surgery just a few yards away.

This was checkmate, pure and simple, and he hated to lose.

Matt focused on that. The hate. The stubborn refusal to give up. He was never the fastest kid at school, or the strongest or the brightest, but he always finished a challenge. He rarely won, but he never quit. That didn't mean much in the Educational system, but it meant everything to him now.

It was literally the difference between life and death.

Seemingly as soon as he left, the tall man came back. Matt realized he'd passed out for a little while, but at least he'd woken up again. The Knight looked perturbed, not an expression Matt figured the man wore often. He had his gun out, but it wasn't pointed at him yet.

"You seem to have a bit of life left in you. Strong will, but of course that goes without saying." The man was talking more to himself about Matt than to Matt directly. Not knowing whether he should, or even could, answer, Matthew settled for the far easier option of lie still and bleed. It just seemed like the thing to do right now.

"Allow me to restate your proposal, just to see if I understand its terms." As he spoke, the Knight raised his gun again and pulled back its hammer. The weapon's huge barrel loomed like the tunnel of death into Matt's pained field of vision. A head shot. Well, at least it would be quick. "If I agree not to harm the girl, you'll accept execution without attempting to defend yourself in any way. You'll forgo your magic and agree to your end?"

It felt bitter in his mouth, like he was at some level surrendering to this zealous prick, but he couldn't take the thought of having come all this way with the poor child just to have her die because he wasn't strong enough to save her. Though it hurt to say on so many levels, Matt closed his eyes and accepted the coming storm. "Yes."

The next sound he heard was not thunder. It was silence. Silence punctuated with the CHACK of a hammer being released again. Then a burning light flared through his body, starting at his side and racing its way down his limbs and over his tortured skin. It hurt worse than being shot ever had, even though he understood at some level he was being healed. Brutally, forcibly healed. Somehow, it seemed appropriate for "holy"healing to hurt this much.

"Well then, Mr. Engel. I accept your bargain but I'm granting you a little time while I turn my attention to other matters." The man retrieved a hat from a nearby coat rack and placed it over his bald pate, pushing back up his glasses as he did so.

Matt doubled over in pain, though his body was perfectly functional and restored now. As he writhed, recovering, the Knight stepped over him and walked back towards the door. "I suggest you take very good care of your little stay of execution. If any harm comes to her, I'll consider our agreement broken on your end."

And with that, he was gone, leaving a very confused fallen Engel on the floor...