Author's Note: Thank you for your review, Bahaghari.


With quick, hurried steps, Kael tread back down Rue de Charonne. The moment he perceived the descending demon horde, he suppressed his celestial aura drastically, like a bright candle snuffing out its own light. His strength now mitigated, the repulsive presence of the villainous legion fell upon the archangel like a heavy weight, and he suddenly felt he had to put effort into his steps to keep his original pace.

Kael lifted his top hat slightly to push his reddish-gold bangs away from his right eye and behind his ear. For now, the General appeared to be a well-to-do middle-class gentleman attired in a muscadine redingote frockcoat, light brown knee breaches, and black jockey boots. He hoped the spirits clutching the emerging prostitutes and their customers around him would see nothing else.

A light shone a little ways down, past some closed cafés and decrepit houses. A wine-shop, the archangel mused. Yet, as Kael drew closer, the air grew colder, his steps became heavier, and his breathing, more difficult. His head began to pound, and he reached for the door more for the purpose of support rather than opening it. The General's non-ethereal state was being taken advantage of, and he knew it. One of the by-standing waiters perceived his pallor, and rushed to assist the gentleman.

'Are you well, monsieur?' the waiter asked, his blue eyes, peering through ebony locks, full of genuine concern. 'Let me assist you to a table, monsieur.'

'No, thank you,' Kael returned somewhat breathlessly. 'Actually, I'm meeting someone here.'

The young waiter's eyes brightened at a sudden recollection, and remembered that indeed there was a particular gentleman waiting in the back parlor for a certain Monsieur Delamater. Upon confirming his identity, Kael was led to a private parlor toward the rear of the wine shop. After the faint General thanked the attentive young waiter, he passed through the door.

'I've been expecting you, Monsieur Michel Delamater.' Bright lavender eyes peered into Kael's hazel ones. The possessor motioned to a cushioned bench circumventing an elegantly carved, round table. 'Won't you please sit down?'

An evil majesty surrounded this tall Adonis. His attire consisted of a deep burgundy-colored habit dégagé, decorated with ornate buttons lining the breast and cuffs, while florid embroidery trimmed the edges. Beige breeches covered his legs and white silk stockings exposed his lean calves. His platinum-tinted hair hung loosely about his flawless countenance, caressing his shoulders and back. The well-proportioned figure raised his eyebrows seductively as he watched Kael seat himself.

'What's this?' he queried, his sensuous lips curving into a smile. 'Is the power of the Prince of Darkness too overwhelming for a Son of God?'

Kael struggled to maintain his composure. 'That has yet to be determined, Lucifer.'

'And it will be, Monsieur Delamater,' the fallen angel returned, slowly sinking into the velvet cushions, facing his guest. 'Or should I say…Lord Mikha'el, Chief Prince and General of the Heavenly Host?'

The archangel ignored him. 'What business do you have with the Lord of Hosts?'

'Talking business already?' The smile did not leave Satan's lips. 'Why don't you relax and enjoy yourself first? Some brandy might enliven you.' Lucifer rang a silver bell and then set it back upon the table.

'Brandy?' Kael laughed incredulously. 'You are aware that alcohol—no matter how strong—does not affect me like it would a mortal?'

'Of course,' the demon lord returned. The previous waiter entered the chamber with the requested beverage and two scintillating, crystal wine glasses placed upon a silver tray, and set the dishes on the table. Lucifer proceeded to pour his guest some brandy, before continuing. 'But I am also aware that you are on restraining orders.' He handed the glass to the waiter, who, in return, dispensed the item to the reluctant General. The dark prince dismissed the young waiter and then continued to fill his own glass.

'Be assured, Lucifer, I've been on restraining orders for the last three millennia. I promise you, you would have noticed a drastic change in your condition were it otherwise.'

Unaffected, the evil lord took a sip from his glass. 'I have never before encountered a solitary angel—especially one of so high of rank—in his non-ethereal state, wandering aimlessly in a territory overrun by demonic forces,' Lucifer continued, searching Kael's hazel eyes. 'That's a bit odd, don't you think, Lord Mikh'ael? Alone…and unaccompanied?' Satan's lavender eyes glinted malevolently. 'You would be almost certain that he's not as aimless as he appears.' Then he shook his head with feigned sympathy. 'To think what my minions would subject you to if they were informed of your…weakened state…' Lucifer took another sip.

Kael said nothing. The atmosphere in the room was becoming increasingly heavy, the archangel noticed, making it very difficult to think coherently.

'What is it you want?' the General finally asked.

'You know,' Satan began, returning his glass to the table, 'do you realize, General, that I could handle you in any manner which pleases me, and you would not be able to resist?' He took up his glass one last time, drained it, and threw it to the wooden floor, the crystal shattering into thousands of little shards. 'It appears that the brandy will end up doing you some good,' Lucifer chuckled sadistically, as he watched the color drain from Kael's noble countenance.

'You wouldn't dare!' Kael cried out, almost desperately.

But the Prince of Darkness rose from his cushioned seat, the evil which consumed him emanating from his core, and his lavender eyes were full of malice.

-----()-----

Wine glasses clanged, forks and knives scratched the dinner plates, and sounds of merriment echoed across the elegantly furnished dining room. This particular house on Market Street represented one of the more lavish residences in Philadelphia, and it never looked grander than tonight, as high-ranking public officials banqueted in its halls.

The host—a tall, lanky man with reddish hair and hazel eyes, plainly dressed—called for another bottle of Burgundy. Cheers circled round the table, and one rather corpulent official remarked that there wasn't a better way to start serious business.

'If there's one thing Mr. Jefferson learned from the French,' the official continued, 'it's how to entertain one's guest with good vintage.' Laughter and shouts of affirmation corroborated Henry Knox's compliment.

But these public officials weren't the only guests enjoying this craftily designed dinner. A throng of angels and demons had dispersed themselves throughout the chamber, as the crimson wine filled each man's glass.

Asmodeus had nested himself comfortably in the French chandelier as his massive wings draped over the light fixture, the demon's ruby-red eyes glowing with pleasure, despite the discomforting presence of the Heavenly Host. This meeting would prove whether the specific 'targets' would be willing to commit to the Luciferian cause. The Heavenly Host may have taken the New World, Asmodeus knew, but the infant republic, founded on Truth, Freedom, and Religion, was still young and vulnerable, and could easily be undermined from within—even from across the Atlantic.

As formal rhetoric began to wane, both holy and evil spirits perceived that the business matter was apparently settled, and watched with eager anticipation as the light-headed officials began to engage in idle chatter with one another, as each member either sipped or swished the remaining drink in their wine glasses.

The cunning Virginian, however, was not idle. Thomas Jefferson looked to the youngest principal officer seated at the opposite end of the table, who continued to examine his glass of Burgundy. Lean and thin-shouldered, with auburn hair turned back from his forehead and braided in a club behind, this uncommonly handsome gentleman emanated a dignified air of self-confidence, his beautiful violet-blue eyes sparkling with a perceptiveness that some men believed to be unearthly. The candlelight revealed his somewhat feminine rosy cheeks, and enhanced the chiseled, sculpted features of his fair countenance. Jefferson had watched him carefully, observing his every move, in search of some hidden secret, some opening for attack. Alexander Hamilton was oblivious.

The laughter dwindled as the conversation fell upon the subject of the British constitution. Jefferson recognized the Bostonian dialect of John Adams. 'Purge that constitution of its corruption,' the vice president remarked, 'and it would be the most perfect constitution ever devised by the wit of man.'

Jefferson's hazel eyes riveted towards Hamilton, who thereupon looked up from his glass. A moment of silence ensued, and the demons waited nervously for the next speaker.

'Purge it of its corruption,' Hamilton's melodic voice suddenly began, 'and it would become an impracticable government.' Jefferson's eyes narrowed as the treasury secretary continued, 'As it stands at present, with all its supposed defects, it is the most perfect government which ever existed.'

Only few high-ranking Federalists nodded, but most of the officials, the wine finally taking its toll, laughed incredulously, perceiving Hamilton's statement as a kind of joke. The treasury secretary graciously received their friendly pats and punches, and then finally decided to drain his own glass.

But the secretary of state knew he was serious—deadly serious.

-----()-----

It was nearly three in the morning, Rafael realized, glancing at his pocket watch.

'Is there any possible way you could quicken the pace of this carriage?' he yelled, poking his head out of the window.

'Calm down, man, we've almost arrived at Rue Sainte-Antoine!' the driver returned somewhat agitatedly.

The archangel fell back into his seat and heaved a despairing sigh.