08-15-2010, 12:07 AM
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Gabriel came to the city to burn.
He would not have done so without knowing the beast was dead. Yet the beast had been slain by his own blade, slain in both body and soul. Pieces of him had been scattered to the four corners of the earth—Gabriel had taken a choice few for his signs. A jawbone, a necklace, the humerus, a rib. He kept nothing for himself. The beast was tainted and had left his marks on the warrior’s face. Trophies were meaningless to him.
He had carried these prizes in an old bag, one he had carried back from Utah. Its contents were much lighter now. Conor had the necklace. His mother had the jawbone. Two more victims had to be repaid.
But there was work to do.
The coy-wolf had found his supplies scattered throughout Halifax. It had taken nearly the entire day for him to do so. Cleansing would not take as long. Kerosene and matches stolen from a camping supply store was all he needed. Gabriel stood outside of the grim room and stared down into it. His right hand, the hand of Stigmata, the hand of Christ-is-Lord, moved high to low and east to west over the objects before him. The words Gabriel spoke were ancient, made to expunge demons from the world. This was what he believed he needed to do now.
Like the first fire, and the fire after, Gabriel did not spend long setting it. He watched the flames burn high, watched them rise higher, and remained there until they had burnt to embers. No part of the demon’s cache would linger. He was gone for all time (though his blood still coursed through living bodies, a fact Gabriel did not ignore).
Smelling of smoke, carrying a bag burdened by his dead enemy, the Aquila moved through the city. In his youth, such places had called to him. Now, in his fifth year, the husks of a crumbled race did not suit his needs. Gabriel was a creature made of blood and bone and fang, of the desert and of war. Humans were too soft, too weak, too proud. All of these things he looked down on. Yet he still walked through the place as if he might have owned it, fearing nothing now that his Shadow was dead.
The gold-black beast, not truly wolf, not truly coyote, found he was not alone. His feet slowed to a stop and he paused to linger and admire her beauty. Even at this distance, he could appreciate something so finely crafted.
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He would not have done so without knowing the beast was dead. Yet the beast had been slain by his own blade, slain in both body and soul. Pieces of him had been scattered to the four corners of the earth—Gabriel had taken a choice few for his signs. A jawbone, a necklace, the humerus, a rib. He kept nothing for himself. The beast was tainted and had left his marks on the warrior’s face. Trophies were meaningless to him.
He had carried these prizes in an old bag, one he had carried back from Utah. Its contents were much lighter now. Conor had the necklace. His mother had the jawbone. Two more victims had to be repaid.
But there was work to do.
The coy-wolf had found his supplies scattered throughout Halifax. It had taken nearly the entire day for him to do so. Cleansing would not take as long. Kerosene and matches stolen from a camping supply store was all he needed. Gabriel stood outside of the grim room and stared down into it. His right hand, the hand of Stigmata, the hand of Christ-is-Lord, moved high to low and east to west over the objects before him. The words Gabriel spoke were ancient, made to expunge demons from the world. This was what he believed he needed to do now.
Like the first fire, and the fire after, Gabriel did not spend long setting it. He watched the flames burn high, watched them rise higher, and remained there until they had burnt to embers. No part of the demon’s cache would linger. He was gone for all time (though his blood still coursed through living bodies, a fact Gabriel did not ignore).
Smelling of smoke, carrying a bag burdened by his dead enemy, the Aquila moved through the city. In his youth, such places had called to him. Now, in his fifth year, the husks of a crumbled race did not suit his needs. Gabriel was a creature made of blood and bone and fang, of the desert and of war. Humans were too soft, too weak, too proud. All of these things he looked down on. Yet he still walked through the place as if he might have owned it, fearing nothing now that his Shadow was dead.
The gold-black beast, not truly wolf, not truly coyote, found he was not alone. His feet slowed to a stop and he paused to linger and admire her beauty. Even at this distance, he could appreciate something so finely crafted.
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