Ashes and Wings

Part Four Ashes and Wings

The smell came first. Thick, acrid, and oily the stench of burning wood tangled with something fouler, the unmistakable stink of flesh cooking in its own smoke. It wrapped around the estate like a serpent, sliding under doors, forcing itself down throats.

The flames were already devouring the mansion when the first screams began. Glass burst in the windows, spitting molten shards into the air. The night sky glowed a violent orange, and the fire roared like some ancient beast finally freed.

And I stood there. A boy of eight, my small hands empty except for the lingering warmth of the fuel gallon I had dropped at my feet. My bare toes pressed into the damp earth as I stared at the inferno that was once my home.

People began to gather neighbors shouting, rushing forward with buckets of water that turned to steam before they even touched the flames. Somewhere, a siren wailed in the distance, growing louder. But none of it touched me. I didnt move. I didnt cry.

Because I wasnt alone.

Above the fire, wings cut through the smoke â not white and pure, but jagged and black, with edges that dripped shadow. Three figures circled lazily, their enormous forms only partly visible in the red glow. Their heads tilted in unison, their ember-eyes fixed on me.

They were leaving. Not in haste, but with the slow, deliberate grace of predators who know they will feed again.

The battle wasnt over. It had only just begun.

But that night wasnt the beginning.

The beginning was softer, almost sweet a lie wrapped in warm sunlight. I remember my mother bringing me home from the hospital, her arms cradling me as if I were a piece of fragile porcelain. My father smiled like a man who had outrun every storm, his hands resting on her shoulders. For a while, the mansion was filled with laughter, the horrors of Mrs. Graces death buried deep under painted walls and polite dinners.

We lived that way for seven years. Seven years of forgetting.

And then¦ They came back.