AN: please, please, please, please, please read this story. It's just something that came to me at about 11 at night, and yeah. Please review or favorite it... I don't care, just let me know that you've read it! ;) I hope you like this story, now shoo! Go and read it! *nudges you towards story*
Disclaimer: I do not own any of The Infernal Devices' characters (although I wish I did Dx).
1
The dagger came out with a shlick sound. Immediately the brown-haired boy regretted stabbing him in the first place. Demon blood ran all over the dagger. The boy inhaled sharply, making sure that the Demon blood didn't even touch him. He knew; one touch of Demon blood was fatal enough to paralyze even the toughest Angels. Not that he had experienced it before.
The boy made a face before wiping the Demon blood-covered dagger on the blood-soaked grass. The dagger was dripping green blood – acid blood. His golden eyes narrowed into slits as he bent down to wipe the dagger on the grass. It wouldn't really help much. The blood was already burning away his dagger. Great, he thought, another dagger wasted. He watched the grass quickly shrivel up and burn. Smoke wafted from the acid-touched grass.
Over his shoulder, he called out, "Caleb, we killed another one of them Demons!" Hearing no response, it suddenly struck him that his partner wasn't here with him. A pang on loneliness shot through him. Not a problem, I can always get a new partner… Although, he didn't really seem to want to get a new partner. He was much of an introvert already. No need to make it even worse by pairing him up with someone that he didn't even know yet alone never even talked to. He was going to have a tough time just finding a Demonhunter willing to collaborate with him in the first place. No one seemed to want to collaborate with the handsome yet dangerous boy for whatever reason, although he thought that he knew.
The Demon he had just slayed crumbled into dust. The boy didn't even want to turn back. It was hard enough to not think about what he had just done. He had stained his hands with the blood of Demons already. It wasn't that he didn't like it… okay, maybe he didn't. The boy scowled and flung his burnt dagger of his shoulder. It was hard to fathom why he even took on this job. In reality, he just did it for the adventure. After all, it was quite boring to live approximately 1700 years and do nothing but accounting for your whole entire life. Humans would never understand. After all, they only lived for 120 years at most.
The boy swayed side to side, the dagger loosely held in his hand. He felt fatigued and forced himself to not cough up blood. He didn't need to worry anyone right now. Maybe it was just the smell of Demon blood everywhere that made him want to. It stained his shirt, and it had burnt a hole straight through the cloth. He reminded himself to wear protective clothing underneath his Demonhunting uniform. He looked around. The boy had to remember that most Humans didn't know about Angels. The ones that do have the Sight, however, swore to God that they wouldn't speak to Angels to another soul without their permission. Of course, the Government almost always denied their request. Every Human with the power of Sight was immediately tracked down to prevent their information to spread. One wrong word in the Human-world would get the brown-haired boy permanently exiled from the Angel-world. Once he was exiled, where else would he go?
The smell of rum and ocean hit him strong as he first walked into the busy but small town. He looked around and silently admired how old-fashioned this town was. He mentally betted to himself that the town was at least two-hundred years old. The town was either two-hundred years old, or just tried to impersonate the style and succeeded very well. People danced and cheered loudly, swinging bottles of liquor around merrily. He supposed they were all drunker than a Pirate by now, and he knew from experience how drunk a Pirate could get. Lanterns were hung from very shop, swaying in the mild wind. The candles inside the glass and paper lanterns flicked this way and that. They flickered madly when the wind picked up, threatening to blow out. The Angel kept his head down, avoiding eye contact, just like what his contract had written. He knew how strange it was to find something with bright, golden eyes. He also knew not to disobey the contract, or else the punishments would be quite painful and cruel. The Government didn't care if punishments were cruel or not; they just cared about whether or not Angels were doing their job. The scent of fresh food – steak, mashed potatoes, vegetables, fish, booze, and other things he could not identify at the top of his head – followed the boy wherever he went. It was the first time he realized how hungry he was, and how much he wished that he could get something to eat. Alas, he could not. That was one of the main problems of being an Angel. You have to make yourself as inconspicuous as possible. That was obviously a problem for someone who mainly worked outside of the Angel-world.
Putting his pendant inside his dark shirt, he walked briskly into a Human town. He pulled out his artificial glasses from his jeans pocket. People all around his jostled by, knocking his shoulders or pushing him up. The boy cursed in German, as he could speak German somewhat fluently. "Verdammen," the boy muttered, certainly not used to being so pushed around. In the Angel-world, he certainly had room to walk – too much room, in his opinion. He was considered high-ranked. Very, very, very high-ranked. He curled his hands up into a first, resisting the urge to use his magic. He knew that he shouldn't use magic here. He'd be punished for using magic in a crowded area. Stupid rules, always saying what you can do and what you can't.
The boy hadn't even gotten to his destination when he had met who he was looking for. A old man with a, possibly, four-foot beard came strutting towards him. He resisted the urge to sneer. Oh, how he hated this old man, who was, in fact, his boss. The Angel regained his composure and stiffly walked towards the old man. It's already been three-hundred years, and yet Michael still could not face his boss without wanting to rip the old man's head straight off of his body. Despite looking a bit too weak to rip someone's head off of their shoulders Michael certainly could.
The Old Man gave Michael a menacing, toothless grin, making his thin, chapped lips seem even thinner. The boy, fluent in both English and German, shuddered. Please don't smile again, he silently pleaded. The Old Man handed the boy a yellowing envelope. The envelope was closed with a red seal. The seal was engraved with the letter O, and immediately the boy knew who it was from. Octavian has been sending Angels letters, giving them letters which state their mission. His blood turns cold. It was rumored that Octavian's missions are suicide missions. Willing his hand to stop trembling, the brown-haired boy snatched the letter from the Old Man. The Old Man sneers and steps aside. The Angel rolled his eyes and looked around, searching for an alley. He chewed on his bottom lip, combing his dark hair.
At last, he found an alley. An alley was practically the only place in this old town where there were no people. It was an area forbidden to most people who knew what they were doing. To others, it was a place where the most interesting or boring things happen. To him, it was a place where all the important work happened.
Nudging his way to a dark alley, he gripped the letter tightly, but not so tightly that he crinkled the paper. Octavian might kill him if he got his "precious letter paper" crinkled. He pulled out his pendant, unable to fathom why he was given the pendant in the first place. Octavian had said to make sure that nothing happened to the pendant. "You will know why you need it when you do, Michael," Octavian had said. Is this what Octavian meant? But how? It had been about three years since Octavian had given the boy the pendant. It had been five years since the boy had killed his first Demon. Five years since he had received his proper Name. Five years had been enough time to receive his markings. Thirteen of them, in fact, were all over his upper body. Two of them were on his lower body.
Michael took the letter out of his trembling hand and ripped it open with one deft move. The letter unfolded by itself, revealing a bright, blinding light. Michael, who had to suppress a yell of surprise, winced and squinted at the bright light, waiting for it to eventually fade away. Once it did, he could barely see a thing. Spots dotted his vision and made looking at things such a pain in the neck. Through the spots, he could see the small, curly handwriting that was written in the paper. Octavian's handwriting most likely. I mean, who else would write to him and use the wax seal? Michael felt nervous even without reading the letter. Whatever it said was bound to get him killed. A suicide mission was awaiting him.