Chapter Twenty Seven

Muscle ripples beneath its inky pelt with each step the beast takes. Fur as black as night is marred with blood orange ovals pockmarking its shoulders and hindquarters, like a leopard's spots. Two snowy white crescents are pressed against its muscular ribcage, the feathers a startling contrast to the darkness of the rest of its body. Though I can't tell which one species it resembles most, the Nephilim is feline in build, with great black paws hitting the tiles silently and rounded ears twitching and swiveling every which way. The signature long tail swishes to and fro in an agitated manner, brushing over the stone with the tuft of fur at the very tip.

Though he is still recognizable as a Nephilim, there is one particular trait that seems abnormal: his eyes. As most of the airborne Nephilim take off from the center of the courtyard, I'd been able to study the squad leaders, which had been the only ones with beasty appearances, as they pummeled the irritable troops into rows and took off for Africa. Most of the Nephilim have slit-eyes like Bryon, with a reptilian or leonine similarity. However, this one's chocolate brown eyes seem startlingly human, as if someone has stuck two eyeballs into a demon's eye sockets.

As those creepy eyes lock onto my gaze, I understand whose brown pupils they belong to. Unfolding my arms from where they'd been leaning against the arch's railing, I check that Pooky Bear's still in her sheathe. As my hand clamps around her hilt, she sends a jolt of anger through my arm, reminding me why I'd taken to just leaving Raffe's sword be.

"Oh, look," Miss De La Flor coos from beside me, her Spanish accent garbling each word, "Emilio has arrived." She smiles at the feline Nephilim. "Isn't he a handsome boy? No awkward bumps or ridges, just muscle and sinew. Most of these creatures, bah! Thorns and scales and puppy dog tails, ugly monsters!"

I cast her a sideways glance. "You're a cool mom, Miss De La Flor. Emilio's lucky to have you."

The brown-eyed Nephilim, evidently near enough to me to hear the conversation, snorts rather rudely with an angry roll of his eyes. Emilio glares at his mother as he approaches, lifting his lips to growl at her, a thunderous feline rumble. Hurt flickers in Miss De La Flor's eyes, and, although the pain quickly hardens into steel, I don't help but feel sorry for the feisty woman. Regardless of his mother's pain, Emilio marches up directly to us, three times the size of any big cat I know. As soon as his sleek black paws carry him into an arm's length, Miss De La Flor reveals that her son's reflexes weren't inherited from his father.

Crack!

Emilio howls and retreats a few steps, burying his forehead beneath his paws.

Miss De La Flor, holding a large wooden ladle over her shoulder hostilely, shouts something in rapid-fire Spanish at Emilio. Her eyes blaze, and her lips are bared in a snarl. Clapping a hand over my mouth to smother my laughter, I can't help but wonder if this is the reason an angel fell in love with her.

Emilio snarls something back, seeming begrudgingly frightened by her wooden spoon. Laying his ears back, he grumbles a reluctant submission to his mother.

I want to compliment Miss De La Flor on her ability to put Emilio in his place, but, if Emilio is in a bad enough mood to go around hurting the feelings of the mother he'd so obviously adored the last time we'd met, I don't want to get on his nerves, especially if he's going to have blades in his hands.

"So." Clearing my throat, I draw both fiery gazes, and I'm unsure of how much I appreciate that. "Emilio, have we got a place or somewhere that we'll be doing this, or what…?"

He stares at me, then seems abruptly annoyed. Shaking his sleek pelt like a dog spraying water, he pads off, sighing heavily. I frown after him as he takes the steps towards the big wooden doors of the main castle, feeling as though I'd done something horribly wrong and offended him somehow.

"What's his problem?" I question, turning to his mother with a raised eyebrow.

Shrugging sadly, she shakes her head slowly, eyes forlorn. "My big boy has been through much. Too much. Now, even everyday things, such as him not being able to speak while catlike annoy him. He used to be such a good little boy, doing whatever his mama asked him, staring at me with those beautiful brown eyes."

"What happened? Other than the apocalypse, I mean."

Miss De La Flor saddens further, wrapping her stout arms around herself in a hug. "We didn't used to live here in Sercem Domu, you realize, yes? We came here, seeking Daine and his legendary talents in medicine. The only one that my boy loved more than me was his little sister, Maribel. She was a beautiful girl, with bright blue eyes the color of the sky. I think your sister reminds him a lot of little Maribel."

My heart stutters at her past tenses. "What happened to her?" I whisper, sympathetic.

Miss De La Flor wraps her arms tighter around herself. "The very same thing that happened to your little sister, Penryn. Except she was an untested prototype with little chance of survival, stitches sewing her organs together in improper order. My little boy fought through an entire aerie to get her back, and then harnessed a wild wolf on what many thought to be a fool's journey. Pepper, I think he called the wolf. I don't know where it is now."

"Bryon cared for him," I whisper. "He was being mistreated, and… he's wild again, I think."

Nodding her approval, Miss De La Flor smiles weakly. "He is a frightening wolf, is he not? My boy tamed him somehow – there is something called mutual pain, and I think they both felt it, the boy and the wolf. He packed up little Maribel onto the wolf's back so she wouldn't be bothered by his laborious flapping, that her breathing would be kept steady, and set off over the Atlantic. When he arrived here, he unpacked her, handed her to Daine, told him to fix his sister, and passed out on the spot with exhaustion. After flying all the way across America and before that the ocean, my boy was too exhausted to realize he was handing the doctor a dead body."

My heart clenches, and my throat tightens. Empathy isn't difficult to feel – if it had been Paige, I think I might've acted similarly. "Oh, God."

"Yes." Miss De La Flor glances my direction, her neat eyebrows pinched together. "The doctor's big wolf, the Rumbbaa one, he picked me up from my home country to bring me here to my son, just before things became too bad to cross the seas. I doubt we'll ever return, I doubt he'll ever see his Daughter of Man sweetheart again. But life is a heartless bitch and she does not care; she only carries on."

Before I can comment further, sharing my condolences with Miss De La Flor, Emilio throws open the wooden doors once more, his proud warrior's prowl demanding my attention.

Clad in the same black leather armor shirt as I'd seen him wearing earlier, Emilio stalks over, a red lump on his forehead shining angrily in the morning light. The hilts of his two gleaming swords protrude from behind him, partnered by the pale crests of his wings over his shoulders. At his hip is another sword, bound only with a leather cord around the hilt, dangling freely against his lean thigh. Its jaunty swinging at his side could be distorting my view, but I could swear the metal seems bumpy and almost bent.

He walks right past me with only a silencing glance my direction. As he approaches his mother, he hangs his head and murmurs softly something in Spanish, so soft I can hardly tell he's speaking at all.

His mother's rounded cheeks flush happily once more, her eyes shining with glee. She tucks her ladle beneath one arm and grips Emilio tightly around his waist, burying her head into his leather armor. Smiling tenderly, Emilio smoothes his mother's greying hair from her face and returns her embrace with one firm arm winded around her shoulders. He kisses her forehead, murmuring something more into her hair, before unraveling from her hug. Though she doesn't seem very pleased about it, Miss De La Flor breaks from the embrace as well, kissing her son on either cheek as he retreats.

"See, Penryn?" Miss De La Flor sighs loudly, attracting the attention of several women ambling about in the courtyard. "He is a good boy, a good boy that loves his mother. My boy, my big, strong boy!"

"Penryn." There is none of the gentleness I'd seen on Emilio's face as he'd regarded his mother now, just an impassive dullness, a soldier's façade. "As much as I enjoy wasting time, we have a place to be, and a limited amount of time to get a lot of stuff done. Do you have any armor?"

"No." I spread my hands wide, shaking my head. "No, I don't. Is that going to be a problem?"

Emilio's lips purse. He sighs wearily. "So be it. You'll just be a little bruised after our lesson, which is unfortunate, considering you're taking off tomorrow to track down Lucius, the Big, Bad Wolf among Big, Bad Beasties. However, there is a saying in English…" He grapples for the words, eyebrows scrunching together. "No agony, no gain?"

"No pain, no gain," his mother supplies, nodding her head. "You were raised right. I like you, Emilio."

His slender lips quirk. "I'm glad for it. Now, Penryn, we shouldn't stand around any longer, unless you think you're ready enough now." The look on Emilio's face discourages any smart remarks I might've been forming. "Is there anything else you think you need? Use the restroom now, we may or may not stop for lunch, and I doubt I'll have much tolerance for bathroom breaks."

After several other assurances and checks, including a sendoff from Hugo, Emilio leads me through the now lean city of Sercem Domu. We pass the drunkard from earlier this morning, Miguel, passed out in a rosebush in the courtyard, and Emilio snorts imprudently.

"Scum," he scoffs, his expression so disgusted I wouldn't be surprised if the Hispanic spat on Miguel's unconscious face. "A waste of oxygen."

I study the drool leaking from the corner of Miguel's mouth halfheartedly. "He's a bit of an oddball, isn't he? I thought you Nephilim were good and holy and all that stuff."

"You will find that happy mood to be less so now," Emilio harrumphs, "and this Mexican" – he spits out the word, as if the syllables will burn his tongue if he bears it too long – "is the scum of us all. He does nothing but dirty our reputation as peacekeepers, dirty our streets with his alcohol and licentious presence, and dirty my Spanish tongue with his primitive accent and pronunciation."

"That's a bit racist, don't you think?"

Emilio's eyes burn. "How can I explain this to you? It is the fact that he is Mexican and behaves in such a manner irks me most of all, for I know that not all can be foul. However, if one chooses to act stereotypical and fit the expectations of many, he dirties the appearances of his fellows with his own filth. Those who claim they cannot change do not try hard enough – weaklings! It is a behavior most common in Mexicans. They are not all foul, they just have more scum than the rest of us. The mother country was right to let the barbarians have their petty rights – imagine the embarrassment!"

"You've got a very high opinion of Spain," I note.

Emilio rubs at the back of his neck, looking down at the ground with a troubled frown. "I suppose I do. I suppose I fit the stereotype for the passionate Spaniard. But I care not – I have pride in my country. That is a whole other matter."

"Mmmm hmmm." I bite my lip as we continue through the courtyard, stomaching any replies to his contradicting words.

As we passage through the streets once filled with laughing, talking people, I understand just how different things are. It is almost like two sides of the same coin, with conciliatory attitudes on one end and hostile on the next. Though I'd been met with acceptance and affection, I don't feel a lick of it now – their reasons for cautions have been fortified, the apocalypse so long kept at bay finally arrived, a war that'd been on the distant horizon breaking out around them. In their eyes, I had been fraternizing with the enemy, warming up to Raffe as I do – and though my connections with their idol prevent them from any interrogations or obvious displays of distrust, the signs are there. I have overstayed my welcome here, and they all seem to know it as well as I do.

It could be this aura of hostility that drives Emilio to take our practice session so far out of the town. However, it could be something immensely different that leads the Nephilim far beyond the peaceful fields of growing plants and tilled dirt, back into the thicket from which I came. He doesn't seem content with a location until he reaches a large clearing with a rotting stump in the middle of it. Evidently satisfied with the choice, he wheels about to face me, tugging the lumpy sword from his belt.

"We're here." He nods towards the stump. "Put Wrath's sword on that tree. You won't be needing it."

"What?" I stare at him blankly, glancing swiftly down at the sword he holds in his hand, battered and bent. "Why? She's a great sword; I mean, I've not handled too many, but she's the best I've used."

"Exactly." Flicking his wrist and with it the dull silver blade, Emilio gestures again towards the stump. "Put her down, will you?"

Stubbornly, I grip Pooky Bear's hilt, meeting Emilio's gaze. I don't utterly trust him, at least not enough to leave Raffe's sword alone in the middle of the woods. It'd be way too easy to slink in and swipe it from the stump's face.

Seeing my resilience, Emilio rolls his eyes. "There may come a time, Penryn," he lectures sternly, "that you're not going to have a great sword to guide your every move. In fact, there may come a time when you're fighting with a broken sword, or even an old broom handle. If you grow used to perfectly balanced swords, then you shall only ever be used to perfectly balanced swords. Thea insisted I use a different stick each day when she trained me as a boy, and slowly graduated me into sloppy swords and then mediocre swords and then" – with his opposite hand, he grips the hilt of one of his dual swords, and with minimal effort, tugs it from its scabbard, the hiss of metal rasping through the air as he bares the polished and engraved blade to the sky – "to this sword, Espada, and its brother, Otra Espada."

I stare at him, biting my lip to keep a straight face. "You named your swords Sword and Other Sword."

"And if I did?" He meets my gaze with a dance of humor amongst the brown of his eyes, and I can't help but wonder if we'd have gotten along in World Before. "You took Spanish, I assume?"

I wince, praying he won't quiz me. "One year of it, a long time ago. So you did name them Sword and Other Sword? I thought maybe I'd translated something wrong…"

"It's a very sloppy translation, and it's not completely correct," Emilio chuckles, "but it's close enough that's it's doable, I suppose. But enough of this. Wrath's sword, over there." He jerks Espada towards the stump. "She sings for my blood, and it's very likely you'll lose control of her."

"Alright." Reluctantly, I slouch over and set Pooky Bear on the wood, attempting to ignore the angry emotions pumping through her. "So, do you want me to find a stick or something, to duel with Sword and Other Sword?"

My sulkiness isn't helped as Emilio smirks darkly. "This awful insult to metalwork will do nicely." He lifts the lumpy sword in explanation, flipping it in his hands until he's holding the dull blade, hilt extended towards me. "I had Ogden make it, with the request that it'd be worse than his first ever sword. I think he did well, don't you?"

"Oh, God, that monstrosity is for me?" Grimacing, I take it, its heavy and unbalanced weight irritating in my hands. "He nailed it. I'd actually prefer a stick. The hilt on this is bent, did you know?"

"Yes." Tossing Espada in the air, he switches hands several times as if it's some sort warming ritual. "You have some training with the sword other than what Wrath's sword orders you to do, hopefully?"

Though I empathize with Emilio and Bryon desires that I spill my soul to his Nephilim, I decide against telling him about the things Pooky Bear had taught me, in fear that he may attempt to probe at her other strengths. Raffe has sacrificed his pride to get his wings back – he doesn't need to lose all his secrets as well.

"My mom signed me up for fencing when I was a kid." I settle into a ready position, unbalanced sword gripped with both hands. "It went out of business after a few months, but I know the basics."

"Goody." Emilio braces his slender saber, stance lissome and ready to move. "I assume you have enough knowledge to know how to attack me?"

"Yeah." I swing my sword experimentally at the air in front of me, only becoming more discontent with its craftsmanship.

"Excellent. Hit me with your best shot."

And we clash together, my strokes tentative at first as I unearth knowledge long buried, bringing back memories of my days fencing and the lessons I'd taken with Pooky Bear both. Emilio needs none of these warming strikes – his blade meets mine with almost casual flicks of his wrist, his style much more graceful, more beautiful than anything I'd gone against. Instead of brunt, tenacious stabs from a brawny angel, he moves quickly and agilely, feigning strikes just as often as he makes them.

"Come on," Emilio growls through gritted teeth as he pierces through my defenses and slams the flat of his sword against my shoulder, sending shafts of pain through my arm. "You are clumsy, slow, sluggish. The sword is awkward in your hand. It is not a battle as you seem to deem it – it is a dance, a deadly dance with one survivor."

Continuing after skipping back to allow me to regain my balance, Emilio lectures, "You are not fighting an oaf. I am a duelist and the brazen attacks you attempt to launch will not work." His eyes burn. "Show me that you can be resourceful, monkey."

Prompted by that, I begin to fight slightly differently – instead of attacking him the way Pooky Bear had taught me to, with bold force that, without her added fury, I just don't possess, I try to use a more lithe way of fighting – although Emilio still sends me stumbling back with his slices and blocks, an endless ring around the clearing, things seem to become slightly easier, and the shift in styles forces Emilio to sacrifice a margin of time to adjust his tactics.

We brawl for a while longer, and I feel myself loosening up to the sword, recalling things I'd learned long ago and things more recently from Pooky Bear. And, with each thing I recall, I learn a little, too – the minutes tick by, and I find myself learning as I get tossed around the clearing, learning enough that I can hold my own, even land a few successful strikes of my own.

Perhaps he's purposefully letting me hit him, but it still feels good to hear a grunt of pain as the bent sword collides with his bare shoulder of the oof as it hits his armor, knocking the breath from his lungs.

"Less clumsy," he persists once more as he sends my blade flying, thudding in the dirt. "You have no rhythm. Set a rhythm and keep with it, set it to the beat of your heart. Leave nothing up to chance – evaluate everything I do, and respond in kind."

"You really have no problem beating me up, do you?" I growl as I snatch the sword from the ground, glaring murderously at Emilio.

"Your opponents won't." He blinks slowly, as if I'm an annoying schoolgirl asking too many questions. "My own personal laws of conduct permit me from using many of the lewd attacks you may encounter, but I suppose now is as good as a time as ever to warn you that you will encounter them."

"Thanks for the heads up." Shifting back into a fighting stance, I attempt to plead with my eyes. "Can't you just give me one small hint about what I should do? What I should fix?"

"You'll learn through experience better than I can teach you. I've already had to take the difficulty up a notch." There is something akin to praise in his tone, but it quickly vanishes. "But I will tell you this: you're not treating this with the right respect. You are a hand-to-hand combatant, yes? Hand-to-hand and sword-to-sword are two utterly separate concepts. One is a savage brawl, another is a dance. You are a dancer on display, your allies are your audience, and the battlefield is your stage. In a dance between partners, if you fumble or falter in your steps, your partner will groan and the audience will laugh. The exact opposite applies here. Now, again."

Before he can fully prepare for anything, I smack the bent sword's broad against his jaw, sending Emilio stumbling backwards. The resounding crack echoes in my ears, but just as he'd said, I use my own roaring heartbeat as a cadence for my "dance" and leap forward, rapping the metal on Emilio's hand.

His grip seems to loosen, but Emilio's jaw clenches, and he whirls to life. All dancing metaphors make sense now as I struggle to deflect his blows, as he maintains both the elegance and the class of a Broadway star while he batters me brutally.

His sword clangs against mine, and I can feel it loosen in my hand. He only needs to strike once more, and then victory will once again be his, and I'll be facing a slightly more pissed Emilio.

Use your surroundings. I'm not sure if it's my conscious talking to me, a cheesy movie quote, or an old lesson come back to life, but I'm glad for the sudden thought. Immediately, I duck behind a pine tree, and Emilio's blade lodges into the sappy trunk.

I drop into a crouch, a sudden bout of courage broadening my heart. The sun burns at my back with its heat, shining in Emilio's eyes as he pulls free Espada.

Instead of instantly rejoining our dance, Emilio studies his situation, scampering back into the center of the clearing. I could be mistaken, but I swear the corners of his mouth are tipped upwards in a frail smile of approval, as if my rebellion has proved to be not annoying but rather uplifting.

The battle is not solely blade against blade. Do not let him usurp you with promises of elegance and beauty. You are not a graceful duelist. You are a tough winner. Use that.

I hesitate for a moment, contemplating the words in my mind – I'm almost certain now that this isn't my subconscious. Usurp is not something I commonly use when thinking to myself. Maybe it's an old Kung Fu movie whispering in the hidden corners of my brain – or maybe it's something else. However, I can't find a reason not to trust it; there is not a hint of benevolence in the thoughts drifting through my mind, placed there by this other self, but there isn't belligerence, either. There is sense, adamant and inarguable, and I cannot find a reason not to trust that.

When we clash together once more, I use a few more of my tricks, including a quick stamp at his feet and an elbow to his opposite arm. Though he knocks my sword from my hand once more and his annoyance returns, the words still rattle about in my mind.

Again and again, we cross blades, and I become dirtier and dirtier – hitting the branches above us so pine needles will rain in his eyes, kicking his legs out from under him, not hitting his blade at all but his wrist; the list of things I attempt grows only longer, each time with greater success than the last.

It's evident that Emilio is used to dirty fighters as well, but his gentlemanly code binds him in a way that my lawlessness does not – more than once, I take advantage of his masculinity, coming up closer than comfortable to him where my shorter, bent sword is preferable, only to ram my knee between his legs and skitter back. He learns to defend against that after only one shot, so it quickly becomes worthless.

With all honesty, Emilio is still holding back, not attacking with his full might. If I had Pooky Bear, I truly believe I might be his match. But as it stands, he severely dominates me – something that chills my bones. I cannot grasp his style well enough to learn to deflect it, I cannot adapt to his blows like he adapts to mine. His elegance and sweeping slices do not falter, do not halt, do not differ in the slightest until once, mid-swing, I catch him on the hilt of the blade and send it flying from his hands for the first time.

Emilio smiles almost cruelly, his brown eyes glinting as he retrieves his sword. Sweat crusts the edges of his leather armor and his hands are striped with various nicks I'd carved into his flesh. He lifts Espada, twirls it once in the air so that the golden sunlight catches its glare, then smiles wickedly.

"Good." He marches back, settling into a ready position. "Again."

"Good?" My spine straightens indignantly. "That's all I get?"

"It's taken you two hours to get that down. You're only getting a 'good'."

Muttering beneath my breath, I charge towards him, prepared to greet the long saber in an elegant swipe. Instead, it darts forward in a quick strike, like a cobra's bite, and jabs me bluntly in the gut. As I double over, it slaps me in the ribs, sending me reeling to the right. I cast one hand out to steady myself, unintentionally tipping my balance unnaturally forwards. Emilio slams the hilt into the small of my back.

My already thrown out hands catch me moments before I hit the dirt, but it doesn't stop my knees and palms from getting ripped up by the pine needles and sharp pebbles.

I rise, the seething hints of anger vanquished by puzzlement. "Why –"

"I need to school you in many different styles." His lips pull back in the same wry grin as before, a maniacal gleam in his chocolate eyes. "If you can send the sword from my hand, you can defeat an enemy with an exact or similar style with the assistance of Wrath's blade. For today, that is my goal. But it's also a tactic that your uncle invented."

I furrow my brow. "How is changing tactics a tactic?"

Emilio grins. Although his hold on his sword is different and the way he arches his back holds little familiarity to it, the nimble dancing gait he uses as he circles me is the same. "Well, for a long period of time, your uncle thought that he was going to devote his entire life to killing Raphael and other archangels like him. In order to do that, he had to be a near perfect swordsman – which he was, and is, and he had to devise the best style to do so, which he did. An archangel is trained its entire… for lack of a better English word, I will say its entire entirety, to be a killing machine, a warrior without fault, never questioning the orders but panning them out to those ranked below him. And to do that, they must be kickass fighters."

Despite my lingering thoughts on Raffe, I can't help but snort at that – Emilio constructs a magnanimous aura around himself, and hearing a noble warrior cuss isn't something you hear every day in the fairytales.

"I'm being serious, Penryn. The archangels are trained to analyze an opponent's style and think of a way to effectively counter it with only one crossing of blades. They are machines with a sole desire. The only way the King discovered to throw off that powerful ability of theirs was to be utterly unpredictable, to fight for a few strikes with one tactic then abruptly switch, preferably midstrike. It confuses them, puts a dent in their reality, long enough to place several well-aimed blows to their abdomen. Raphael still hasn't picked it up yet, after Lord Almighty knows how many years of the two getting into fights." Emilio snorts rudely. "That idiot can't even connect the dots to figure out it was Bryon all along, I'll wager. Is it true that he didn't know there were any Nephilim, that he thought he'd exterminated us all? I wouldn't be surprised if it were."

My lip curls. Though I can take the snide glares and the mildly offending comments, I do not want to listen to Emilio trashing Raffe. Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, "Raphael is a Spanish name."

Emilio doesn't quit shooting me spiteful glares throughout the rest of the lesson and his strikes no longer spare me of any pain, but for some crazy reason, I think it's definitely worth it.


"Be careful with this!" Hugo lectures, pounding Bryon on the chest to gain his more focused attention. "Seriously! These wings are more volatile than… they're more dangerous than jumping a tank filled with lava and lava sharks and lava giant squid and evil lava Pigeon-Bats –"

"Excuse you," rumbles Pigeon-Bat from the corner, peering up from his freshly preened wings in annoyance.

"– on a kiddy scooter with no wheels," Hugo finishes, refusing to glance at Pigeon-Bat. "Seriously. Ever since wifey poo pulled out that one feather and decided to keep it for fun – ever thought about trading pictures, by the way, instead of feathers? – and now every new one Ogden makes won't fit. There's always wrong with them on some microscopic degree, and because the universe and I have a grudge, it's enough to fuck things up. Do you still have that big stack I gave you?"

"Yes. You fret over me more than my mother." Bryon's thunderous chuckle brings back memories of being curled around his neck, sprawled over his chest as Hugo would listen to his bedtime stories as a wee little kid, and the way his throat would vibrate against Hugo's temple as he spoke or bounce as he laughed.

"I do it on behalf of Wifey Poo." Hugo puffs out his chest.

"Oh, so it's Wifey Poo now?" Bryon laughs melodically again, still fiddling with the clasps on his right arm. "She'll be thrilled to hear that, I'm sure. Oi, Raphael, Penryn's back, and we're leaving in under fifteen minutes – as soon as you strap up those wings and I strap on these wings. This is your chance, and you can bet your life I won't let you have another one."

The archangel studies Bryon for a few seconds more – Hugo had heard rumors from Miguel about the two having a severe argument directly after the first Raffryn kiss since the last known one at the aerie they were tragically separated at.

Hugo isn't quite certain where he stands on their relationship quite yet – the memories of Pigeon-Bat razing cities and murdering in cold blood scar him like a brand, a mar he can never scrub away, but at the same time, he's never seen the archangel more docile than he is around Penryn, and evidently, Sariel was just as dangerous back in his days of terror.

Besides, Raffryn is a rather cute ship name – and Daisy, one of the most anti-Raffryn people on the internet, had come up with it inadvertently, and it'd stuck with a little help from himself.

Hugo tilts his head and smirks after the archangel's quickly retreating form. "There goes a very confused Pigeon-Bat."


Rubbing at my shoulder, I limp into the courtyard. Pooky Bear's scoffing at my behavior, both past and current, does little to lighten my spirits. Though on the walk through the town had dispelled most of his grudge, Emilio still seems a little distant – perhaps he's tired, too, after working with a pathetic little princess on her ickle swordwork. After all, neither of us had been able to eat due to my incompetence, and I'd heard his stomach growl many times as he'd escorted me home, reminding me that he doesn't often get breakfast at home, either.

"Emilio!" My uncle's voice carries from his position outside his hotel room door, and he waves a hand forward, beckoning the warrior forth. The first thing I notice is not the purple bags shadowing his bronze eyes, nor the rumpled appearance of his clothing and hair, but rather, the vaguely familiar gleam of metal wings strapped to his arms. I could be incorrect, but they seem to be the same pair from my nightmare.

As he drops his arm, I catch the gleam of a metal feather out of place, its color and shape slightly different than its companions. I grin at it. The same pair.

Abruptly, Raffe drops beside me. His great black wings fold by his sides, becoming two dark teardrops against his back. I drink in the sight of him doing it – this is hopefully the last time I see those dark demon wings, the last time he folds up the leathery skin instead of glorious feathers. And, with that realization, my heart pulls – it is a realization that not only brings memories of all our time together, but one that draws subdued fears of mine into the light. Once Raffe has his wings back and Pooky Bear is safe in his possession, there won't be any reason for him to hang around.

But I swallow down such emotions and painfully hobble to his side, smiling at him. My hand rests at the hilt of his sword in case he may ask for her.

First a rejoicing greeting then alarm glints in his blue eyes. He surges forward, one hand flying to my face but then quickly deserting it, the other skating along the skin of my arm as he extends it out to my side, like some angelic scientist inspecting my wingspan. Eyes ever darkening, he studies the purple and yellow bruises along my arm with a clenched jaw, rubbing his thumb over a nasty cut deep in my forearm.

"Did the Spaniard do this to you?" Raffe's voice is cold, dangerously so.

I shrug, knowing that Raffe's anger can only escalate. "We were training. It's no big deal."

"No big deal?" Raffe repeats icily. "Tomorrow, you're going to embark on some sort of a quest to save your sister from an evil demon, and this bastard beats you up."

"Seriously, it's no big deal." I blush and glance down at the ground. "I provoked him, so it's sort of my fault."

Raffe's lips quirk. "I should've known. Still doesn't give him any right, though. Look at this!" Fussily, he extends my other arm, running a single finger down a long scratch stretching from my bicep to the back of my hand. "You take forever to heal! This will be hurting you for ages!"

I allow him to silently rage over all my injuries, his lips set in a hard line and his eyes burn. Finally, after thoroughly examining my arms, chest, back, and glancing my calves over, Raffe speaks again. "What did you do to piss him off?"

"Well, he sort of was a jerk to that Mexican drunk guy, and boasted about Spain a lot." I shrug. "He really, really likes Spain. Then later, he started… well, trash-talking you. I just reminded him that Raphael is typically a Spanish name, and he got really angry at that for some reason."

Raffe is silent for a moment. And then he laughs, a booming chuckle that warms any awkwardness that'd started to spread throughout me. Shaking his head, he focuses back on me, eyes aglow.

"You are a funny little monkey, you know that?" he chuckles, cocking an eyebrow.

"I'm not a monkey," I remind him. "Not specifically, anyway. Actually, nobody's a monkey, we're called humans. Or, better yet, we're called people. Monkeys are –"

Raffe cuts me off in the most acceptable way. His lips, soft, supple, yet firm, press against mine, and, after a small noise of surprise, my eyes flutter shut and I answer the pleas of his hungry mouth. Though it isn't the light brush it'd been outside my hotel room door, it isn't the passionate kiss of the aerie, either – sweet desire and panging lusts flavor the connection I forge with him. I knit my hands through his hair, standing on the balls of my feet, to draw closer to his heat, his heartbeat, his eager mouth on mine. And Raffe does not protest – he clutches me against him fervently, just as pleased to envelope me in his muscled mass as I am to sink into it.

As we break apart, I both breathing heavily, I notice things I hadn't seen before as I study Raffe – the evening light highlights his hair with shades of orange and gold. His swollen pupils catch the gleam of the sunset in their sea of black. Even the dark leather stretched between the spokes of his bat wings is furnished by the light of the dying sun, like the topaz jewels on a king's long dark cloak.

"Raphael!" Bryon's voice echoes through the courtyard – though I could be mistaken, I could swear he sounds amused. "We have a deadline!"

"Haven't you ever heard of the laws of Public Displays of Affection, man?" Hugo criticizes, folding his arms and glowering at Raffe from one of the arches. "Not everyone wants to see you and Penryn snogging it out right there. I mean, a third of tumblr does, but –" He breaks off with a delighted laugh, burying his head into the palm. "Did I seriously just use the word 'snog'? I spend too much time watching British sci-fi."

"What are you talking about?" Raffe sighs in exasperation, his grip around me loosening. A single hand remains casually twined around my hip, and I'm not sure he's willing to remove it anytime soon.

"He's bizarre, I advise ignoring it," Bryon chuckles, flexing his bronze wings. As we approach, I begin to notice and admire the handiwork placed in the contraptions – it's not really like anything I've ever seen before, but it's from another era, so that can be expected.

I open my mouth to comment on it, but my spotlight is stolen by a little boy, maybe nine or ten, as he stumbles up to Bryon and grips his leg tightly, burying his face into my uncle's pants.

Bryon's eyebrows shoot up. His attention completely focuses on the boy, and any remark I might've made would've passed unnoticed; Raffe would have heard – not necessarily cared, but heard – and Hugo is still chuckling over his British vocabulary.

"Is it true that my papa's not coming back?" the little child questions, wrenching his face from Bryon's calf to stare up at the Dragon King with wide, fearful eyes.

"What?" Bryon's tender voice is colored with receding disbelief and still developing comfort. "Why would you think that he wasn't, Kyle?"

"It's what my sister says." The boy's lower lip trembles. "She was talking with Mama about how Papa and everyone else are not going to come back. They will, right? They have to!"

"Your Papa will," Bryon murmurs, his voice like folds of warm silk, "but not all of them." Bryon kneels down, placing both hands on the boy's shoulders. "Not everyone returns unharmed from the clutches of battle. War is vicious and cruel, and it takes its hapless victims without a second glance. It's why I so much prefer times of peace when compared to times of war."

Something maliciously shifts in the child's demeanor. He takes his sapphire eyes and meets Raffe's gaze with them, peeling back his lips to bare a set of lengthening slender fangs. "I hate angels!" he snaps, glaring murderously at Raffe. "I hate them! They kill people! You kill people! I hate you!"

Bryon's eyebrow cocks. "They have done many things wrong," he notes fairly, "but does that make them all bad? Is each and every one of them as awful as the rest?"

The boy's furious gaze swivels to Bryon, and he gnashes his teeth in frustration. "You said it yourself! Angels are trained to have no personalities! No sympathy, or mercy, or anything that makes a living creature a living creature! What was it you said? You said that a creature without a beating heart isn't a creature at all!"

Bryon sighs wearily. "But, Kyle, angels do have beating hearts. They are every bit as alive as you and I are. They have minds of their own, personalities of their own. Tell me..." His eyes scan the courtyard until they fall on Miguel where he still slouches, half-hidden behind a flower bush. "Are you like Miguel? Do you share in his raucous behavior?"

Kyle seems appalled. "No! No, sir!"

"Well, are you like Emilio, then?"

The boy's eyes shine. "I wish I was, sir."

"And yet," Bryon thrums, "you all share the same name: Nephilim. Is every Nephilim like the next? Our principles are such: benevolence over belligerence. We value the traits of kindness, understanding, and mercy over those of anger, unkemptness, and malice. Yet here we are; Miguel shows us his unkempt actions, and Emilio reveals his malice in each strike of his blade. Does this mean that angels may have stray traits as well?"

Cocking his head, the boy stutters, "I... I... I don't understand, King."

Bryon hums to himself, studying the heavens above with a contemplating shimmer in those bronze eyes. "In our society, benevolence is glamoured as the best of things, the quality that is most important, a trait that stands above all else. In the same heartbeat, belligerence tends to be squashed out, belittled and scolded. Belligerence is our bane. And yet, is it not in our ranks? Are you perfect? You yourself show anger, and I'm willing to bet that many other darker thoughts cross your mind.

"The angels are the opposite of our society; their benevolence is stamped out, chased from their beings by the harshness and cruelty or others. Belligerence is the garb of the popular, the powerful, the kings of their ranks, the archangels. And so that is what they treasure, what they adore and admire. But tell me this, Kyle: if we have belligerence even when we are supposed to be those with only benevolence harbored in our hearts, is it possible that they, too, have hidden lights of kindness, of understanding, of mercy? I knew an angel with the most benevolent spirit in the world, long ago. Perhaps you, too, will meet her, and will see yourself how misleading a stereotype can be."

Still, the boy looks dubious. "I don't know. If they're nice, why do they kill so much? Nice people don't kill. I still think they're meanies."

"It still doesn't give us reason enough to despise them." His lips pull back in a sweet smile, his eyes melt. "We are all the Children of God. No matter our species or our categorization, our personality or our rank, we are all equals in His eyes. Whether we have wings or tails, horns or scales, we are all one beneath the sky we walk. None of us are better than anyone else because of any physical, emotional, or mental beliefs and appearances. We are all the Children of God, and none of us can deny that. Live your life with all you meet as your equals, none as your superiors and none as your inferiors, and you shall find the world to be a much more benevolent place itself."

"I guess that makes sense." The boy looks up at Raffe with a more thoughtful gleam buried in the blue eyes. "But I still don't think I like angels."

"No one is expecting you to. After all, no Child of God is without flaw." Tousling the child's hair, Bryon stands, and faces Raffe as well. "I wish I could spend the rest of the night sitting here beneath the stars, but we've got places to be and not much time to get there. Shall we be off?"

"I suppose so." Raffe seems slightly shaken by Bryon's speech, as if something had hit a nerve, or maybe pulled a heartstring. "You're the leader. You decide, Monster Man."

Bryon rolls his eyes, but he flexes his wings, lifting their long blades to the setting sun. By the light of the orange eye sinking below the horizon, their polished surfaces turn into mirrors, reflecting the sun's gleam. "Goodbye, Penryn. Bid farewell to Paige for me. I would hug you, but there's a chance I'd impale you." He lifts a bronze wing in example.

I smile at him. "Bye, Bryon. See you soon!"

"Hopefully." He eyes Raffe reproachfully, as if he's already is regretting his decision to embark alongside the archangel. "Let's just go, shall we?" Without another word, he beats those metal wings once or twice. My mouth drops open as, somehow, they take him higher and higher into the air.

Raffe's gaze falls on my awe. "Flying monster. Next they'll have flying monkeys. Maybe you should've been the Wicked Witch of the West instead of the Evil Princess."

I roll my eyes and elbow him. "Don't get yourself killed, Raffe. And don't get under Bryon's skin. I'm serious. The last thing you need is a giant dragon stomping around and stepping on your feathers."

Raffe eyes me gravely. "The same goes for you. Demons are tricky, don't let it get under your skin, and don't make a stupid deal. Watch out for Pooky Bear, if you trade her to that devil, I swear I will wring your little monkey neck." He releases me, stepping back, and opens his leathery wings. His muscles tense and flex, preparing for his ascent with impressive ferocity. "And, Penryn?"

"Yeah?"

"Keep yourself safe."

Raffe rockets into the air, shooting past Bryon with great sweeps of his black wings. Against the orange sky, their inky color is darkened further, no more than the fluttering of shadows. Bryon, thrown off by the winds Raffe leaves in his wake, wobbles in flight, and starts shouting in a foreign launguage with terms I'm certain are not pleasant. Raffe laughs thunderously, and flaps onward without looking back, his shadow melting into the sea of gold until he is no more than a line against the sunset.

"Curse you, Raffe the Pigeon-Bat!" Hugo cries with a sloppy German accent, shaking a fist to the sky. In response to his bellow, another creature squeals with the hurt of one left behind by trusted friends. From beside Hugo's side, an infant Nephilim takes to the sky, bronze and white wings catching the light of the dying sun like little suncatchers. She flaps smoothly up to Bryon, spiraling around him a few times to announce her arrival.

"Oh!" Bryon laughs harder than Raffe, his smile evident in his cadence. "What's this? A stowaway? Well, if you insist!"

Belle shrieks with joy, and quickly flies beyond Bryon, leaving him in the dust to race after Raffe. I grin after their forms, waving as they disappear into the golden light, disappearing into the eye of the setting sun. Even after they're gone, that bizarre group of archangels and beasts and baby beasts, I find myself watching as the sun dies and as the last topaz tear slips over the horizon and the last shaft of orange slides behind the crest of the hill.


This probably would've been out a few days ago if it hadn't been for Windows 8. So, I apologize for that. I was also fiddling with another idea for a one-shot, but I'm not quite pleased with it. If I release it, it'll be very different than what I spent an entire day typing up.

Again, we've got a long chapter, so I apologize for that, too. The length should be scaling down again, so hopefully they won't be such a mouthful in the future.

To whom it concerns: thank you for addicting me to that song, I needed that playing in my mind 24/7. It's a good song, though, and I like it! Thank you again!

POLL: Thoughts on Emilio?

Ciao,

~wolfluvermh