Chapter 84: 13.1.1
The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, painting the cottage’s main room in pulsing shades of orange and deep shadow. Gabriel sat at the heavy oak table, the strange artifact—a smooth, obsidian disc ringed with silver sigils that refused to hold the light—gleaming dully before him. A report from the Seraphic Archives lay half-finished next to it, his quill abandoned.
“Koen, love, did you ever feed the chickens?” he called over his shoulder, not looking up. He traced a finger over a particularly stubborn etching. “I swear I heard them complaining earlier.”
From the corner of the room, near the overstuffed armchair, came a low, resonant rumble. Not a word. Not quite a growl. Just a sound of occupied space.
Gabriel’s brow furrowed. Koen had been quiet since Gabriel had brought the disc home, which was unusual in itself. Normally, the half-demon would be pacing, or cleaning his guns for the third time that day, or trying to wrestle the laundry basket into submission. This silence was… heavy.
He finally turned.
Koen was standing perfectly still, facing the wall where his long coat hung. His shoulders were taut, the line of his back rigid. The dancing firelight caught the edges of his ashen hair, but left his face in darkness.
“Hey.” Gabriel’s voice softened, a note of professional concern sliding beneath the domestic calm. “You alright? That thing giving you a headache?” He knew Koen’s mind was more vulnerable than his body. He’d sat vigil through those long, silent hours of regeneration before, holding a limp hand, waiting for the orange eyes to flicker open with confused recognition.
Koen’s head tilted. It was a slow, unnatural movement. Not the curious dog-like tilt he sometimes did, but something predatorily avian. The bones in his neck gave a faint, audible pop.
A cold trickle, completely separate from the cottage’s warmth, traced down Gabriel’s spine. He pushed his chair back slowly, the legs scraping against the stone floor. The sound seemed abnormally loud.
“Koen. Talk to me.”
The half-demon turned.
His eyes were not the warm, sunset orange Gabriel knew. They were like banked forge-coals, glowing with a flat, internal heat. No recognition lived in them. No silly affection, no dopey confusion. His lips were peeled back just enough to show the sharp points of his canines, and a thin thread of saliva gleamed on his chin. His breathing was deep and rhythmic, like a bellows.
“Okay,” Gabriel whispered, his mind racing. The artifact. It had to be the artifact. It was suppressing Koen’s consciousness, leaving only the engine of him behind. The base instincts. The demonic substrate. He’d seen Koen hurt, he’d seen him bleary and lost after a bad regeneration, but he had never seen this. This was an empty vessel running on primal directives.
He took a careful step sideways, putting the table between them. “Koen, listen. It’s Gabriel. You’re home. You’re safe.” He kept his tone low, even, the way one might speak to a spooked animal. Or a landed lightning bolt.
Koen’s nostrils flared. He was scenting the air. His gaze locked onto Gabriel, and the low rumble started again, building in his chest into a proper, guttural warning growl. He took one step forward. Then another. His movement was all wrong—not Koen’s usual, loose-limbed gait, but a stalking, deliberate prowl.
“The disc,” Gabriel breathed, his eyes darting to the table. If he could just break the line of sight, maybe disrupt whatever field it was emitting… He lunged for it.
Movement exploded.
Koen didn’t run. He uncoiled. One moment he was ten feet away, the next he was a blur of tan skin and black fabric vaulting over the table. The oak surface shuddered under the impact of his landing. Gabriel jerked back, his wings instinctively flaring out behind him in a burst of shimmering white light, illuminating the room in a sudden, holy radiance.
The light hit Koen’s eyes. He recoiled with a sharp hiss, more cat-like than demon, throwing up a forearm to shield his face. It was a second of bought time.
“Koen, stop!” Gabriel commanded, authority ringing in his voice, the kind he used for recalcitrant minor principality officials.
It had no effect. The sound only seemed to irritate the feral thing wearing his lover’s skin. Koen shook his head, snarling, and then he attacked.
It was brutally efficient. No finesse, no martial skill—just pure, amplified predator. He swiped at Gabriel with a clawed hand. Gabriel twisted, but the tips of Koen’s fingers grazed his tunic, and the fabric shredded like parchment. The force behind it was staggering, spinning Gabriel sideways into the bookshelf. Volumes of celestial ledgers and mundane novels rained down around him.
Before Gabriel could even draw breath, Koen was on him. He grabbed a handful of Gabriel’s shirtfront and hauled him upright, then slammed him back against the stones of the fireplace mantel. The impact drove the air from Gabriel’s lungs in a pained gasp. He grappled at Koen’s wrists, but it was like trying to bend iron bars. Koen leaned in, his hot, panting breath washing over Gabriel’s face, those furnace-coal eyes inches away, searching, devoid of any soul.
He was going to bite. Gabriel saw the intention in the tightened jaw, the bared teeth.
Thinking fast, Gabriel stopped pushing against him. He went limp for a fraction of a second, a submission play. Koen’s grip instinctively loosened, just a hair.
Gabriel snapped his head forward, not to headbutt, but to press his forehead desperately against Koen’s. “Koen!” he shouted, raw and strained, pouring every ounce of their shared history—the stupid jokes, the quiet mornings, the steadfast, dumb loyalty—into the name. “It’s me!”
For a heartbeat, a flicker. A spasm crossed Koen’s snarling face. The glowing eyes blinked. The growl faltered, dropping into a confused, pained whine deep in his throat.
Then the obsidian disc on the table hummed, a sound that vibrated in the teeth. The sigils flashed once, a poison-green light.
The blank fury slammed back into Koen’s features, harder, absolute. The whine cut off. His free hand drew back, fingers curling into a fist.
He drove it into Gabriel’s stomach.
Agony erupted. Gabriel doubled over, the world graying out at the edges, all sound reduced to a high-pitched whine. He tasted copper. He felt his feet leave the floor as the force of the blow lifted him, then he was crashing down onto the table, scattering parchment, snapping the quill, and sending the obsidian disc skittering to the edge where it wobbled, humming.
He lay there, gasping, trying to will his diaphragm to work. Through blurred vision, he saw Koen standing over him, standing amidst the wreckage of their quiet evening. The half-demon’s head cocked again, studying his prey, assessing the damage. Saliva dripped from his jaw onto the ruined paperwork.
He reached down, his hand aiming for Gabriel’s throat.
Gabriel’s own hand, trembling, flailed across the splintered tabletop. His fingers brushed cool, smooth obsidian.
He closed his fist around the disc and, with the last of his strength, hurled it across the room towards the kitchen. It smashed into the cast-iron pot hanging by the hearth with a deafening, resonant CLANG.
Koen’s head jerked towards the sound, his attention violently ripped away.
He forgot Gabriel entirely. With a snarl, he launched himself towards the source of the noise, a creature of pure, feral reflex.
Gabriel slid from the table, collapsing onto the floor amidst the debris. Pain screamed from his ribs. Each breath was a knife. He stared at the archway to the kitchen, where the shadows now thrashed and snarled.
He was alone in the room with the consequences of his own carelessness, and the love of his life was in the next room, utterly gone.
The metallic clang from the kitchen was followed by the sound of tearing cloth and a low, frustrated huff. Gabriel pressed a hand against his throbbing ribs, pushing himself up onto his elbows. Every movement was fire. He had to move.
He couldn't fight Koen. He’d learned that the hard way thirty seconds ago. So he had to do the other thing. The harder thing.
Using the wall for support, Gabriel hauled himself upright. The world tilted, then settled. He limped toward the kitchen archway, each step a conscious decision. The chaos was immediate. A sack of flour was burst open against the hearthstones, the air hazy with white powder. Koen stood in the middle of it, staring at the now-dented pot on the floor as if it had personally offended him. He kicked it. It skidded across the floor with a screech.
"Hey," Gabriel said, his voice rough with pain.
Koen’s head snapped around. Those low-banked coals fixed on him, and his body tensed for another launch.
"Easy. Easy, Koen." Gabriel kept his movements slow, deliberate. He didn’t approach. He slid down the doorframe to sit on the floor, hissing as his ribs protested. He made himself smaller, less threatening. A submission play, but a real one this time. "Just me. It's just us."
Koen took a step toward him, his growl resuming. It was a vibration Gabriel felt in his own bones.
"I know," Gabriel breathed. "I know you're in there somewhere, you big idiot. You're scared. Or angry. It’s that stupid rock I brought home." He kept talking, a steady, soft stream of nonsense. "You’re gonna be so pissed at yourself tomorrow. You wrecked my reports. I was almost done with the quarterly damnation audit."
Another step. Koen was close enough now that Gabriel could see the fine tremors running through his arms, the tension that was less about attack and more about a system pushed to its breaking point. The artifact’s influence was a blunt instrument; it couldn’t create nuance, only amplify base signals. Rage. Fear. Exhaustion.
Gabriel lifted a hand, palm up, and held it in the space between them. It was a gamble. "Remember the chickens? You didn’t feed them. They’re probably plotting a coup out there."
Koen stared at the offered hand. His snarling lip twitched. He leaned in, sniffing the air near Gabriel’s fingers. His nose wrinkled at the scent of angelic grace, always an irritant, but then he caught the deeper, familiar scent underneath—soap, parchment, them.
A confused whine escaped him, high and lost.
"That’s it," Gabriel murmured, not moving his hand. "It’s just my hand. You know it. C’mon."
Slowly, so slowly, Koen lowered his head. He nudged Gabriel’s palm with his nose. The contact was damp, hot. Then he pushed his forehead into it, a hard, demanding press. A gesture he’d done a thousand times after a long hunt, seeking comfort, seeking anchor.
Gabriel’s heart cracked open. He carefully, so carefully, let his fingers slide into Koen’s ashen hair, scratching gently at the scalp the way he liked. The growling stuttered, faded into a ragged purr that sounded torn from a broken engine.
"Yeah," Gabriel whispered, his own eyes burning. "There you are."
Koen sank down, first to his knees, then he simply folded, his head coming to rest heavily on Gabriel’s thigh. The tremors were more pronounced now, the awful, rigid fury leaching away and leaving sheer systemic collapse in its wake. Gabriel kept up the rhythmic scratching, moving to the nape of Koen’s neck where the tension was a hard knot.
"Just sleep," Gabriel said, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the embers in the next room. "Let it go. I’ve got you. However long it takes."
Koen made a soft, puffing sound against Gabriel’s leg. His breathing, which had been harsh and rapid, began to deepen, to slow. With a final, weary sigh, he shifted his weight, his body curling instinctively inwards. He turned his face into Gabriel’s stomach, one hand clumsily fisting in the torn fabric of his tunic, and went utterly, deeply still.
The feral awareness was gone. In its place was the profound, trusting weight of a creature who had finally reached its safe harbor. Koen was asleep, a heavy, warm pressure in Gabriel’s lap, his sharp canines just visible where his lips parted in utter exhaustion.
Gabriel didn’t move for a long time, his own body a symphony of sharp pains and deep, blossoming aches. The flour-dusted kitchen was silent save for their breathing and the final, dying crackle from the main room’s hearth. He waited until the light through the leaded windows shifted from deep night to the damp, gray hue of pre-dawn, until he was certain the sleep was profound.
Extricating himself was an operation of slow agony. He slid his leg out from under Koen’s head millimeter by millimeter, supporting the weight with his hands, lowering the unconscious head gently onto a folded sack. Koen grunted, his brows knitting, but he didn’t wake. Gabriel stood, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as his ribs protested the movement. He surveyed the wreckage—the shattered table, the scattered pages, the ghostly footprints in the spilled flour.
The obsidian disc lay where it had fallen, near the overturned pot. It was inert now, just a cold piece of stone. Gabriel approached it like one would a venomous serpent that might only be playing dead. Using a towel, he picked it up. It felt ordinary. Harmless. He wrapped it tightly in coarse linen, then sealed that within a lead-lined pouch from his work satchel, the kind used for transporting minor infernal reagents. The silence felt accusing.
He looked at Koen, curled on the floor, looking more lost than dangerous. “Back soon,” he whispered, though he knew the words meant nothing. “Don’t… wreck anything else.”
The walk to the remote chapel at the edge of the woods was a blur of pain and cold mist. He deposited the wrapped artifact into the consecrated iron lockbox kept for hazardous materials, filled out the incident slip with a blunt, trembling hand, and turned for home. His wings ached with the need to fly, but he kept them folded tight, a silent figure trudging back through the mud-rutted lane as the sun finally breached the horizon.
The cottage was a dark shape against the lemon-yellow dawn, its windows blank. He pushed the heavy oak door open, wincing at the creak, and stepped back into the aftermath. The silence was total. It was worse than the noise had been. He stood there for a long moment, just listening to the pound of his own heart. Then he moved toward the kitchen archway, his boots crunching on grit and broken quill.
He saw the empty space on the flour-dusted floor first.
His breath hitched. A cold, sharp fear, entirely separate from his physical pains, lanced through him. The folded sack was there, but Koen was gone. "Koen?" The name left his lips before he could stop it, a thin sound in the quiet. He took a hurried step forward, his ribs screaming in protest, his eyes scanning the shadows of the room. The pantry door was shut. The back door was still barred from the inside. No windows were broken.
A low, distressed whine echoed from above. The ceiling. The bedroom.
Gabriel was on the stairs in an instant, ignoring the fire in his side, taking them two at a time with a hand clamped to the wall for support. He shoved their bedroom door open.
The room was dim, the curtains drawn. Koen was crouched in the far corner shivering, wedged between the wardrobe and the wall. He’d torn the sheets from the bed, dragging them into a tangled nest around his feet. His head was down, his ashen hair a wild curtain, and his hands were fisted so tightly in his own hair that the knuckles were bone-white. A continuous, quiet keen of pure anxiety vibrated in his chest.
"Hey," Gabriel said softly, lowering himself slowly to sit on the edge of the disheveled mattress. The movement made him lightheaded. "I'm right here. I just stepped out."
Koen’s head snapped up. Those orange eyes were wide, pupil-blown pools of animal panic. They fixed on Gabriel, scanned him frantically, and then the panic morphed into something else—a desperate, overwhelming recognition. The safe man. The safe man was back.
He uncoiled from the corner in a single, fluid motion.
He didn’t walk. He launched himself across the room in a feral scramble of limbs. Gabriel had only a second to brace himself before one hundred and ninety pounds of frantic half-demon hit him square in the chest, driving him flat back onto the mattress with a pained “Oof!” that was mostly air.
Koen was on top of him, trembling violently, his face buried instantly in the hollow of Gabriel’s throat. He made a thick, choked sound, half-whine, half-sob, and began to nuzzle fiercely, rubbing his cheek and forehead against Gabriel’s jaw, his collarbone, anything he could reach. His breath was hot and fast against Gabriel’s skin. One arm hooked around Gabriel’s shoulders in a vice-like grip, pinning him, while the other hand fisted again, this time in Gabriel’s shirt, as if to physically anchor him to the spot.
“Okay—okay, I’ve got you,” Gabriel gasped, struggling to breathe under the weight and the constriction. He managed to get his own arms up, wrapping them around Koen’s heaving back. His fingers traced the familiar landscape of scars and taut muscle. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re okay.”
Koen’s nuzzling grew more insistent, almost frantic, his sharp canines scraping lightly against Gabriel’s skin in a gesture that was more needy than threatening. He was scent-marking, Gabriel realized, his demonic instincts screaming to reclaim what was his, to verify the safe man was real and present and his. The trembling began to subside, minute by minute, replaced by the heavy, boneless weight of absolute relief.
“You’re a mess, you know that?” Gabriel murmured into his hair, his own body starting to relax by increments. The artifact was gone, locked in holy iron. But the damage to Koen’s mind was clearly more persistent, a psychic concussion that wouldn’t heal as fast as a bullet wound. This wasn’t the Koen who could grumble about paperwork. This was something simpler, purer, operating on a bedrock layer of trust and fear. It would take a couple of days, Gabriel guessed, for the higher functions to swim back up to the surface. For now, he had a very large, very clingy, and fundamentally frightened creature to look after.
He held on, listening to Koen’s breathing gradually deepen and slow against his neck. The grip on his shirt loosened, becoming less a desperate claw and more a simple, sleepy hold. Sunlight began to pierce the gaps in the curtains, painting bright bars across the tangled sheets and the dusty floorboards.