He continued kneeling, eyes burning a hole into the polished stones as he let Jehovah’s words wash numbly over him. The sounds, the room—everything faded away until there was only the dull throb of his heart in his chest, reminding him he was still alive. Eventually, he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder, followed by another on his other side. Raphael observed him quietly, a steady and constant presence, while Uriel seethed with turmoil and resolve.
“Rise, my friend,” Raphael murmured. “Come away from here and compose yourself. Life must go on, and you cannot process this here.”
He nodded dumbly, lifting his head to find his neck aching and the room emptied. How long had he knelt here, lost in his thoughts? He stood on sore and shaking legs and allowed himself to be led from the room, trying to feel anything but the sharp sense of loss and confusion.
When he slipped out of his memories and back into the present day, the sunset had dwindled to the purples and reds of old bruises. Stars twinkled blithely overhead, and Michael hated them for it. The perfect balance of this afterlife oasis was maintained with the careless thought of the omnipotent king, Jehovah. But Michael knew firsthand that the eternal sunshine could belie a darkness in this Kingdom, one that lived within him.
Protecting and serving had led to all of this. Swearing oaths and bonds to a man he believed in, blindly following and assuming that his path was the right one—the only one—had cost him dearly. Now, he wasn’t so sure that he had made his choices correctly. He still regretted the horrible things he had said in that room. He lifted a trembling hand and touched his calloused fingertips to his lips. A spiteful tongue, and warrior’s hands to back it.
Eons could pass and Michael would never forgive himself for his role in what happened that day. Lucifer had hoped his lover might speak in his defense. He could have done the honorable thing and heard Luce’s explanations—honored the requests he had sent through Sachiel for Michael to come and visit him in the dungeons. If he had listened, maybe he would have been able to understand. A traitorous part of him wondered if he might even have agreed with Lucifer’s beliefs.
But he knew, in the darkest corner of his heart, that it would not have mattered. The thorn that dug deepest into his wounds was that he had been too proud to hear Lucifer’s side. He was bitter and vengeful on that day. Michael had heaped more blame and judgement upon the fallen Prince. He had believed what suited his pain, and now he was paying for it evermore.
Chapter Six
Foster Morningstar ducked out of his shower stall to avoid hitting his head on the curtain rod, grabbing a fluffy towel and wrapping it securely around his waist. He paused a moment to inspect his appearance, frowning at the inky circles that had been lingering under his eyes for the past few weeks.
His dreams were constantly disrupted by his tossing and turning, but when he did manage to slip into uneasy sleep, Piper’s tired, sunken eyes regarded him with an understanding beyond her meager ten years. He saw the trust and desperate hope that gutted him over and over.
You’re doing the right thing, Foster,Gabe’s smooth, consoling voice drifted up from his memories.She’s suffering, and now her death can have a greater meaning. Don’t you want to help her? A sacrifice like this all but guarantees her a favored place in Heaven.
He closed his eyes tightly, trying to block out the words. Logic didn’t help him sleep at night, the same way it hadn’t made his actions any easier on that day. With a low growl, Foster turned away from his exhausted and angry reflection and yanked open the bathroom door.
Cool air swirled in, disrupting the warmth of the lingering steam and making him shiver as he stalked out and down the hall. Might as well start his coffee before getting dressed, with the day he had ahead of him.
Or not, he realized with a sigh, as he entered his kitchen and found a small, purple creature balanced on his counter, eating his coffee beans.
“Cwall, what the fuck?” Foster groaned. “Why do you always do this?”
The imp let out a loud belch and tossed down the decimated packet, leaning back against the checkered backsplash and picking his teeth with a long, yellowed fingernail. “Because ya got the real good Arabian shit.” He shrugged his skinny shoulders.
“First of all, it’s Arabica,” Foster launched into the familiar tirade, knowing full well that Cwallknewall of this, but unable to resist proving his point, “and secondly, that specific bag is an Arabica and Robusta blend imported from Hawaii, and it costs me twenty bucks a pound so cough up, asshat.”
“I’m good.” The tiny demon grinned, flaring his batlike wings in a stretch as he rolled over to lounge on his elbows. “We both know ya can afford it, and I was hungry.”
“And all you could find in my fully stocked kitchen was the last bag of my favorite coffee beans?”
“All I could find that I wanted ta eat.” He shrugged again, and Foster lunged. Cwall yelped and scrambled backwards, but Foster was faster, snagging a scrawny ankle in his fist and tugging the imp toward him.
“Stop struggling, or next time I grab for the tail!” He snapped, dangling the flailing creature upside down and giving him a little shake.
“Not my tail!” Cwall wailed. “You know it’s sensitive!”
“Why are you in my apartment, Cwall?”
“Ah, a guy can’t just come ta visit?”
“Younevercome just to visit anymore,” Foster deadpanned.
Cwall grumbled, “Not since ya started hangin’ out with that slimy angel.”
“Just because Gabe is an angel doesn’t mean you need to hate him.”
“I don’t hate ‘im for bein’ an angel,” Cwall protested. “I know lotsa angels, and I like them. Remi’s great, Cami’s fun, Glory’s easy on the eyes. I hate Gabe for bein’ a slimeball suckup, it’s different.”
“He’s pretty much the only person who actually gives a damn about me,” Foster snapped, “so forgive me if I’d prefer you respected him.”
“And what am I, chopped liver?”
