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“Just stay there until I get a chance to divine the implications of Michael’s return,” he instructed. “I won’t be able to visit Earth until the anti-hour so you’ll have to find some way to entertain yourselves. Do you think you can manage a few hours by yourselves without getting into more trouble?” But before we could answer him, he added, “Never mind. I really don’t want to know,” and ended the connection.

We’ve known Gus for at least a dozen centuries now, and he has known us even longer. He was assigned to us when we got our first interference mission—corrupting the first man, Adam.

After Lucifer corrupted Adam’s first wife, Lilith, and brought her to Hell, Heaven scrambled to replace her. The angels promised Adam he wouldn’t have to be alone for long, and in a way, they were right.

At the time, Azael and I were part of the highest ranked Powers and were assigned to work with two other demons, Botis, the viper, and Naamah, the temptress, to ruin Adam. The man soon found good company with Nammah and just assumed she was the wife he was promised.

Humans still tell their story, falsely calling Naamah “Eve.” Botis, as the story goes, whispered to Adam every night about the deliciousness of the apples on the forbidden tree. Adam resisted. That is, until, Naamah (or Eve, depending on your version of history) offered him the juicy fruit she had already taken a bite out of.

Well if his wife had already taken a bite of the fruit, Adam thought, then what would be the harm? Surely God wouldn’t blame him for just a bite.

Poor, naïve Adam was unaware of how dramatic Heaven could be, especially when it comes to their rules. Adam never did get his new wife. At least, not the one Heaven intended.

Ever since their success in defaming Heaven’s precious human, throwing him into the tarnished world of sin, Naamah and Botis have been part of a small group of high ranking Greater Demons who serve as direct advisors to Lucifer. Unfortunately, Azael and I will never get recognition for our contribution and our story with Adam will never be told. Apparently, Hell doesn’t appreciate subtlety.

***

It was our first time in the Garden of Eden. We stood back while Naamah and Botis began to tempt Adam and got to work creating a plan of our own. I, personally, have never been one for apples. But I do have an affinity for words. One of the many reasons I fell from Heaven was because of words and my insistence that man should learn to read and write. Heaven, however, would have been happy with a bunch of bumbling, illiterate idiots running around their new world.

So, in spite of the angels, I introduced Adam to words.

I got to work carving words into the soil and curses into the bark of the trees. The more he read, the further he would have spiraled into an insanity so consuming it would only be healed by the fruit of the forbidden tree. Azael bottled spells and poisoned the dirt of the Earth, making sure the fruit and leafy greens that grew in the garden would spoil and rot to black on the inside. Adam would have had no choice but to eat from the forbidden tree if our plan had enough time to play out, because it would have been the only fruit left untouched by death.

And the best part of the plan was that there would be no direct contact with the waxy red fruit or the thick-headed human from either of us; Adam could pluck the offensive apple with his own dirty hands, thank you very much.

There was only one problem: Naamah and Botis worked faster.

We had the perfect safety net for their plan of temptation—a plan I was sure would fall through. Our success would have made our names renowned in Hell, but Adam succumbed so quickly to Naamah. Who knew that humans would be so easily sullied?

Gus had warned us that our trap would be rendered unnecessary, but we didn’t listen. He divined an outcome, advised us to work with Naamah and Botis instead of planning on their failure. But Azael and I were new and cocky and we wanted to prove to Lucifer and every other demon who doubted us that we were stronger and smarter than they thought. It backfired, horribly. We should have listened to Gus.

For centuries, we were mocked about our failure, and our ranks slowly slipped. We weren’t respected as demons and were assigned to fewer and fewer missions. It took us thousands of years for us to start to rebuild our reputation, but we’ve finally clawed our way back up to level 3 Powers. For awhile, we weren’t allowed on Earth in a physical form and were only allowed to haunt the dreams of humans. We could manipulate them while they slept, twist their dreams into nightmares. Then we were allowed possessions.

In the late 1600s, we were allowed to visit Earth in our physical forms and tempt people into the shadows. We’ve only been killing and reaping since the early 1800s, and I really thought we would have risen in ranks again since then. But Hell never forgets.

We were nearly level 2
, I remind myself bitterly.

Since then, we’ve begrudgingly learned that what Gus says goes. He’s always right, annoyingly so, and it is in our best interest to follow his instructions to the letter. Although, the fact that he can discern the future does give him quite an unfair advantage. If we had only done what Gus had told us on this trip to Earth, we probably would have been promoted.

Always listen to Gus.
I press my cool palm to my head.
How many times do you need to be given reasons to listen to Gus?

***

“Azael, is it dark enough yet?” I ask, chipping away at the silence. My feet ache from all the walking we did today, and a longer walk to the edge of town in these boots seems unthinkable. I flex my fingers and feel the dried blood flake off. It’s impossibly hard to wash off blood. “There are barely any cars out anymore. I doubt anyone will notice us.”

“Fine,” he says, sounding as tired as I feel. “But I swear, if we end up in some grainy video on the news again, it will be your turn to explain it to Gus.”

“That was one time, and it was during a full moon! I promise they won’t be able to see our wings tonight. It’s overcast, and the roads are all but empty.”

“Good enough for me,” he says, not needing much convincing. He unfurls his wings, stretching them out as wide as he can, and takes off, sending a wave of air crashing down on me. I watch as he flies away towards the dark cluster of trees that circle the ruins.

I laugh to myself as my own wings open. The black feathers ruffle in the wind, whispering together softly like they are sharing secrets. I bend my knees and jump, letting the cool night’s air caress my face.

There is nothing quite like the weightlessness of flight, the dizzying feeling of belonging to the sky. The dark expanse of the woods passes under me as I fly just above the treetops, like a pebble skimming a glassy lake. Small, glowing eyes stare back at me from under the leaves, shrinking into their branch as if my presence makes them nervous.

The air fills my lungs, and I gulp it in greedily, even though I don’t need to. I pretend that I rely on it, like the more of it I breathe, the higher I will fly. I forget what it’s like to be alive like I was in Heaven, to need to breathe instead of
pretending
to need to breathe.

The quiet beating of my wings is as rhythmic as a heartbeat, as slow and lazy as someone sleeping. I try to remember what it felt like to feel a heartbeat that belongs to me and not the person I’m killing.

Without Azael near me, sulking about our demotion or hissing snarky comments in my mind, I find myself alone with my thoughts, which somehow keep returning to Michael.

If Michael is who he claims to be—the great archangel, Lucifer’s slain brother—we should have killed him, struck him down before he is strong again. Maybe now we’ve lost our chance. We may never see him again.

Once upon a time, Lucifer was one of the strongest angel in Heaven and, as an archangel, he belonged to the small and exclusive group of God’s most powerful warriors.

When word was handed down that God would create humans, Lucifer refused to bend a knee before them. He thought they were not worthy of his Father’s love, that they did not deserve paradise.

Years passed without any answer from God.

Lucifer raised his voice in protest again, saying that if God truly loved him, the angels would be enough. But again, there was silence. Lucifer’s anger consumed him and he began to believe God was ignoring him, thought that he was abandoned by his own Father.

As Lucifer’s power grew and the creation of mankind became more and more real, he questioned God’s silence. Was it because He was ignoring Lucifer, or was it because He didn’t exist? After all, no angel had seen His face—not even the archangels—but the angels didn’t need proof. There was faith.

Faith, however, wasn’t enough for Lucifer. When he challenged the existence of God, was brazen enough to say that he could be God himself, Michael banished him from Heaven and sent him into a realm of eternal torture. Scores of angels had fallen down with him, and war raged.

Lucifer’s exile twisted the angelic morals that were once burned into his soul into a horrifying, putrid loathing. Over time, his soul died, his heart stopped, and his veins froze in the icy pits of Hell. He vowed revenge on Heaven, declared war, and said he would one day sit on the throne—a throne that has always remained empty for Him—and rule us all.

The war came to an abrupt halt after the death of Michael, after brother faced brother and Lucifer came out victorious. After Lucifer spilled Michael’s blood—the same blood that once flowed through his own veins—until there was nothing left to spill. The angels returned to Heaven and, centuries later, created man, prompting Lucifer to obsess about unraveling the fabric of humanity by destroying one soul at a time.

Hell has been growing since then, as more and more humans are corrupted, and Lucifer has been preparing for a second war to finally claim the throne of Heaven. But if Michael is actually back, Lucifer will never have full power. He is not the true heir to rule Heaven.

If he manages to claim the throne, he will have immense power, but it will not be absolute. Michael will stand in his way.

Michael
. He comes to me in colors—the gold of his hair, his silver wings, the red of his cheeks, the blue of his eyes that are both cool and warm all at once, both peaceful and fierce. His eyes, his eyes—I can’t escape the blue of his eyes that are now ingrained in my mind.

The angel we met this afternoon wasn’t the formidable Michael I remember. His face was young, not lined from war. His shoulders weren’t weighed down with the weight of the world yet. He had a naïve hope to him that I know will only serve to hurt him later.

I wonder if he is still as powerful as he once was. The way he gripped his sword, apprehensive and unsure, makes me think that, if we would have put up a fight, he wouldn’t have withdrawn it. I’m not sure if he even knows how to wield it, or if he would want to. It’s impossible that this soft-spoken Michael is the same archangel I remember.

But maybe he’s changed. I’ve felt his presence before, opposing mine in war. His eyes, his voice, the way he spoke unapologetically about what he thought… He has the same streak of strength that I remember. His presence is like a memory falling just out of reach. I could almost see the old Michael in this younger boy, but it was clear he didn’t remember me.

And why would he?
The old Michael paid little attention to anything that was outside his immediate interests. He was devoted to duty and nothing, or no one, else. I was nothing special when we first met. During my time in heaven, I made little impression and was an angel of small significance. After I fell I was just another demon in a teaming mob of violence.

But the way he watched me, kept his eyes on me, made me believe he was trying to remember, like if he concentrated he would suddenly recall the last time we met. But the memory of me slipped between his fingers like water.

It’s probably for the best. The last time I saw him was the day he died. I don’t want him to remember me from that day, to know what part I played in his death. It would be better for us both if he never remembered.

As much as I try to convince myself it’s not him, I know it’s useless. I know he’s back.
He’s back
. And strangely, I feel a thrill at the thought of his return, a pinch in my stomach that is like excited anxiety. As impossible as it may be, I know, without a doubt, that the golden angel boy we saw today was telling the truth.

Michael’s back.

Chapter 4

I break out of my reverie just enough to see the ruins coming into view. I drift down into the dense forest, my wings setting me gently on an empty patch of dirt, and find Azael waiting for me in the grassy clearing that was, at one time, a cemetery. Crumbling tombstones create a ring around the soft, green grass. The clearing is all but empty, with just Azael and a small fire pit in the center.

“There you are. So, what should we do?” he asks, raising a sharp eyebrow.

“About what?”

“Not
about
anything. What should we do until Gus pays us a visit? We’re not allowed to reap anyone or do any hell raising. ‘Lay low’ was what he said. ‘Don’t get into trouble.’ How do we even do that?”

I blink at him blankly. “I don’t know.” It’s difficult to concentrate because I keep seeing Michael’s face when I close my eyes. His blue eyes watch me, amused, and I can smell the syrupy sweet scent of honey. It hangs in my mind like heavy curtains, blocking any clear thoughts.