After arriving at the mansion, Michael shoved the injured Apsinthos at Troy, who dropped the bags in order to shoulder the new burden. The wounded celestial moaned in fresh pain as she was jostled.

"Take her to the attic," Michael instructed. "Chain her in the corner. We'll move her later."

He didn't wait to see if Troy did as he said. He stumbled up the stairs, to the nearest bedroom. He found his way to the bed and collapsed, almost instantly falling into a deep sleep.

—

Downstairs, Troy looked at the nude woman in his arms. Toxic blood seeped down her side and back, slicking her skin. It was on his clothes. He wondered briefly if they were contaminating the house.

"I know it probably doesn't matter," he said to Apsinthos as he started up the stairs. "But I always had a great deal of respect for you."

Getting her up the stairs was slow going. No matter which way he tried to carry her, it was effort to get her limp form up the boxy staircase.

"Your description in Scripture doesn't do you justice," he went on as conversationally as he could while he hauled. She wasn't responding, so he felt obligated to fill the silence. "We thought you were a guy. But I guess it makes sense. Artermisia. Artemis. Diana."

He finally got her up the stairs, only to confront the pull-down steps to the ladder. He had to lift her up sideways. Finding which corner to put her in was the easiest part: Only one was rigged with O-rings and chains.

He trussed her up as best he could, though he was sure the iron rod through her torso was more effective than his amateur attempts. Throughout the process he kept caving to the urge to apologize for his clumsiness, which clearly hurt her. She was so beautiful and broken he hated adding to her misery.

As soon as she was as secure as he could get her Troy quit the attic. Anxious to put distance between himself and his guilt, he headed for the kitchen in search of a strong drink.

The dark wood cupboards were strangely stocked. The dishes and flatware were all in place, but there was very little by way of food. The refrigerator was working, the contents limited to glass jars of milk sealed with wax stoppers, vodka, vermouth, and bourbon.

Food would have been more useful, but since it was alcohol Troy was after, he was glad to find it in quantity. The brown alcohol he poured from the bottle of bourbon was far finer than what the bar at town center would offer. It was surprisingly smooth going down, spicing up hot once it was gone.

"Hoo!" he exclaimed softly when the fireball hit his empty stomach.

He had another quick belt to finish the glass, then he set it down with a clatter on the marble island. He leaned on the island heavily and propped his head with his hands. He wanted to focus only on the burning in his middle, but he was still wrestling with everything that had happened in the past couple of hours.

Everything that had happened since he met Michael had been insane. Troy had deliberately refused to dwell on any of it, including what he personally did to the New World United church. Beheading the church leader was the most horrific thing he had done. In the moment he did it, he felt like two people: The one who was doing the chopping and the one who wanted to believe it was all a really long, complex, terrible dream.

He had done other bad things at the church compound, too. He had killed all of the adults in a pyroclastic blast that incinerated the lucky ones instantly. The less fortunate burned slower. Saving the youngest children had happened almost accidentally. Troy remembered the nursery only when he was getting ready to ransack the place for supplies. By then, the reality of his killing spree had started to set in, as had a strange sort of internal fatigue directly tied to his fire power.

Locking the little ones in the nursery was an impulsive move. He didn't want any of them coming out while he looted the place; he didn't want to deal with them at all. So, he didn't. He took what he could cram into the church van and hit the road with only a single glance back in the rearview mirror.

Troy rubbed his eyes. He was already feeling the alcohol's effects. He refilled his glass and downed the contents in one big swallow. Another napalm bomb hit his stomach. Seconds later, the room was swaying slightly. It wasn't just the bourbon; forces in the house were messing with his head, but the strong effects didn't worry him. He was grateful for the short-sighted bliss it brought.

"They say drinking alone constitutes a drinking problem," a man said behind him.

He turned in wobbly surprise and saw a tall guy in a navy-blue track suit standing in the doorway to the hall. He was about Troy's age, maybe a little older.

"'Zat so?" Troy said.

The tall guy nodded. "That's what they say. Easy solution though."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Drink with somebody."

Troy snorted a laugh. "You're not wrong." Then it occurred to him to ask: "D'you live here? I thought this place was Michael's."

The guy's turn to laugh. "Live here? You could say that."

"Oh. Sorry for, uh, helping myself—"

"Don't worry about it," the guy said. "This place is kind of a... commune at times. Lots of people come and go. Including Michael."

Troy had a gulp from his glass. Winced at the bite of the liquor. "That 'splains why there's no food."

The other guy gave a short laugh. "Yeah." He paused. "I'm Pat."

"Troy."

Pat went over to one of the glass-front cabinets, pulled out a glass, and brought it back to the island. He poured himself some of the bourbon and refilled Troy's glass while he was at it.

"How do you know Michael?" Pat asked.

Troy lifted the glass and had a sip while he decided how to answer that question. "I d'know," he admitted at last. "Workin' buddies?" He snorted. "No. No. I... guess he's like my boss? But it's more'n that. I d'know. It's compil-cated. Clompicated."

He laughed at his tangled tongue. Then quite suddenly the glass slipped out of his hand. It felt like it was tugged but there was no time for his sodden brain to process that. The glass hit the marble countertop with a loud clatter. Surprisingly, it didn't break, but it did dump its contents all over.

"Shit!" Troy yelped. "I'm sorry!"

Pat grabbed a bar towel from the oven door and slapped it down on the mess, stopping the spread.

"No harm done," he assured.

He was right up in Troy's personal space then, and it caught him off guard when Pat suddenly put a hand on his crotch. Troy's eyes widened. The bourbon and the mental fatigue from the day were too much. He couldn't think.

"You ever have your dick sucked by a man?" Patrick asked, his voice a husky purr.

Troy swallowed and tried to think past the hand massaging his growing erection. Pieter sprang to mind. "Uh. Uh...No."

Pat went down on his knees and tugged open Troy's fly.

"Should we, uh, go...go somewhere..." Troy stammered. Then Pat's mouth was on his cock and he gave up trying to talk or think.

...

Michael was falling. The world blurred past him. He could hear wind rushing in his ears. The air was warm. It would have been pleasant except that he was falling.

His back was aimed at the ground. Above him, bright light blinded him. Even when he shut his eyes, the light stained through his eyelids brilliant red. He swung an arm around, trying to shield his eyes, and discovered he could flip himself over.

Face-down now, he saw only darkness beneath him. He was sure he was on the fast track to Hell.

Not wanting to hit the ground, he searched for it like he did when he was going to transform from his bird shape back to himself. It didn't feel right, but it was there, and he seized it. Instantly he was on his feet, on a vast dark plane.

Despite there being no obvious light source, Michael could see. Not that there was much to see. The only thing nearby was a protrusion of black rock. A black-cloaked figure perched on it, playing a glossy dark red violin with black, clawed hands. A droopy hood covered the individual's face.

The song that lilted from the ebony strings was an eccentric arrangement of notes that pirouetted up and down the scale in a near-frantic manner.

"You're going to lose," a man's voice said from behind the hood.

Michael was outraged. "Do I know you? Do you know who I am?"

The cloaked figure stopped playing. His bow sat lightly on the strings of the violin . "Evil never wins. It may linger a while, but it can't endure. You. Can't endure. You're weak."

Rage bloomed and Michael acted on it, grabbing the man roughly by the shoulder. The fellow dropped his bow; it clattered on the hard ground. The hood fell away and Michael was surprised to find himself face to face with...himself.

The other Michael smirked at him.

—

Michael startled awake. His heart was racing, but his head didn't hurt anymore.

The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Moyra, young and pretty, down on all fours with a soapy rag, scrubbing the floorboards. He was in prime position to see right up her short skirt. He had an excellent view of her black silk panties.

"What're you doing?" he said, pushing himself up off the bed.

She glanced back over a shoulder at him alluringly. "Cleaning." Her tone was flat despite the sexy look.

She had a bucket of suds nearby and was blotting up the smudges of dark blood he'd tracked over the hardwood. Her motions were exaggerated as she cleaned: Each push outward with the cloth thrust her bottom up in the air.

Michael's hand drifted to his groin to adjust himself. Something crusty scraped his forearm. He glanced down at his rumpled clothes and saw the angel's blood dried on his front. It had turned black. He peeled the shirt off.

"Clean this while you're at it," he said and tossed it in her direction.

It landed on the floor beside her. The silk shirt was ruined and they both knew it. She paused her scrubbing and looked at it, then slid a look back at him.

"Do you want me to clean your pants, too?" she said in that same disinterested, almost subordinate tone. "You've got blood on them."

He kicked his shoes off. "Yeah."

He slipped off his pants and tossed them over.

"The blanket needs washing, too," he said. He headed in her direction his steps unhurried.

She knelt up, unable to rest on her heels thanks to the stilettos she wore. "Did you get it... messy?" She pressed her arms inward to frame her cleavage better.

His mouth twitched at the innuendo. He moved closer to her. "Filthy."

She looked up at him eagerly. He walked right by her, to the door.

"I'm going to have a shower," said Michael without looking back. He could feel her disappointment. It gave him a sadistic little thrill. "You'll have my things clean and ready for me when I'm done."

He left the room.

Moyra kept it together a few seconds, then viciously threw the rag into the bucket. Suds slopped on the floor. A little sob sneaked out, but she clamped down on it. She was furious with herself for putting on such a trashy display that failed to garner even a sliver of Michael's favor, but crying about it wouldn't help.

Crying never helped anything, no matter how many times she did it.

...

Author's Note:

When I started writing this fanfic series back in 2013, I had no formal training. Just an intense love of some of the ideas behind the series. Fast-forward to present day, as a part of pursuing my Bachelor's degree, I've taken several writing and storytelling classes. This past year, I've been taking screenwriting classes. I hope the polish has rubbed off on this series some. It's hard for me to tell. I think I'm too close to the material.

Next time: We're wrapping up this Episode as New Year's rolls around. Will there be fireworks? Gotta wait and see!