The glass hit the bar with the usual grace, landing softly on the thin cork coaster as the door opened and the bell chimed. Eyes dilated from the dark of the bar, Michael glanced at the television, unable to stand the bright hues for more than a second at a time. Still, a second was all he had needed to focus in on the two teams that were playing, discover that the bases were loaded, New York was up by seven, and he had been drinking for the last hour. It was a gift the Albicas were granted; photographic memories were only an element of their complex skill. Michael raised his eyes to the bartender and motioned for another round of shots; he was no Albica, but sometimes, it felt that way.
Bells chimed once more as the door to the bar was opened. This time a more familiar face entered, and Michael casually threw a smile towards the woman who had come in. Every city had its share of slums, and it seemed as if DC was lucky to have so many low-ambition lives that thrived on underachievment. The woman who had entered was no different, and she owned the apartment besides Michael on the southeast side of the city. While he personally could afford million dollar estates, he left his profit in savings and in the hands of brokers who would die before failure; to all onlookers, he was an ordinary man, coming, going, and drinking in between.
It had been nearly a thousand years since he had felt anything from drinking large amounts of alcohol, but no one seemed to ask any questions when he went on a tenth round of shots. The bartender merely nodded to the bottle behind the counter and told him the tab's estimate before continuing her business. Michael sighed, trying to hide his irritation with the cigarette smoke that filled the air, and instead reached to the fresh set of glasses on the counter in front of him, barely blinking as he threw his head back.
"Drinking off a job?"
Michael tossed the glass back onto the counter, the wood barely cracking as the two collided. The question had come from a Drakkon, one who had known Michael even before his acceptance into the Fourth Ring. As clever as she was, however, she had never been one for loyalty; Sasha sat down next to Michael at the bar and flagged down the bartender for a Long Island Ice Tea.
"Or is this just for kicks?" she asked, nodding to the empty shot glass that Michael had tossed onto the counter. Her jeans hung low on her hips and the red cami she was dawning did no justice to hide that she was cold. Eyes of an emerald green stared out from under the flap of her beret, and she made no attempt to hide her longing expression.
"Lilith wants to see you." Sasha continued, having received no answer from Michael. She expected him to be quiet; after all, he was rumored among Sheol to be the straightest line from life to death. While she herself belonged with the Drakkon, the vampire-like creatures that lived to serve Sheol in the first ring, Michael was one of the Kier, a complex kind whose complete power was almost unstoppable. Humans often mistook the Kier for what they considered to be "demons." This fact had risen sometime in the early nineteenth century, when it was custom to never act within Sheol's bounds without disguising your identity. Needless to say, the practice had stopped.
Sasha waited for the reply that wasn't coming, and watched as Michael spun his shot and then took it clean, swallowing the complete glass in one go. Alcohol wasn't necessarily a pleasing substance to the Drakkon. Instead, it was like forcing a human to drink turpentine. The Kier, however, were given a different system, and therefore could drink it as if it were water.
"Lilith wants to see you," Sasha repeated, leaning forward to make her words louder. She was careful not to aggravate the Kier. After turning to scan the bar for any Genesis members, she added quickly, "It's about Genesis. The damn Feylens caught one of our own- set up a spy. Who knows how much information they've got their hands on-"
The door chimed as it was open, and both Michael and Sasha were quick to inspect the new customer. A quick glance was enough to tell them that the man was human, but they wanted to be careful, and let their gazes linger for a few seconds before continuing. Michael took another shot and reached for the bottle to pour himself a final round.
"Jet!" Sasha snapped, Michael's skin crawling at the sound of the nickname he had earned himself, "Lilith won't do well with waiting. If you... took care of business, you should be back with her."
Sasha was careful not to mention that Michael's business had happened to be killing a Nammid, who, to everyone else, had appeared to be a seventeen year old girl. Her face had been plastered all over the evening news as the police tried to track down a hunter that wouldn't be caught even if he turned himself in. Lilith had handed him her papers, the sheets of collected information Sheol had gathered on the target, earlier that morning; it had taken him less than an hour to complete. He hadn't had a complicated task in over one hundred years, but he wasn't about to admit that he was one of the reasons Sheol was at war with Genesis. After all, the Feylens had done enough to ensure that the fighting would not cease.
"Well then," Michael answered at last, his voice deep and smooth over the sound of the bar, "It would be best not to keep her waiting, wouldn't it?"
Michael reached for his back pocket and pulled a black leather wallet from the fabric. Without looking to the amount, he pulled two large bills from the leather and slid them across the counter to the bartender. Uninterested in the Drakkon that he had seen so many times before handling work for the First Ring, Michael stepped away from the counter, and headed for the door that had opened and shut so many times already. Sasha followed closely out the door, and into the steam-filled streetway of the city outside.
"You don't need to follow me," Michael hissed back at the Drakkon, who was eying the surrounding area cautiously. Even for a member of Sheol, she was at risk; the Genesis fighters were in every corner they could fit into, and for the Nammids, that was almost anywhere. While Sasha was on high alert, Michael felt perfectly at ease, if there was such a thing. His definition of ease would undoubtedly be a manic stress for a human. The adrenaline rush in his system was constant, and the "come and get me" attitude he carried was only for show. Internally, he hated this world, and what part he played in it.
It had been a long winter to him, the two hundred years he had been hunting and fighting on behalf of Sheol; fifty had been spent underground. In disbelief of his state, he had let the humans bury him, locking him seven feet deep in the cold ground. When Lilith uncovered him, she helped him to grow, and in a few short years he had joined the Fourth Ring. His loyalty to her was unmatched, but still, his anger with reality grew. Before the fifty years underground, he had been a Feylen.
Michael remembered what it felt like to fly, but didn't long for it as much as he wanted to. When he had fallen from Genesis, he had lost the woman he loved, and not only that, but he had gained a chance for revenge at the world that had mistreated him before. About a year of that revenge was enough. Now, he wanted nothing more than escape, or trap in the crypt. He would never betray Sheol, but it was slowly becoming nothing to betray.
Sasha was still at his heels when he stopped over a smoking sewer. His eyes were narrow with a hollow hatred as he faced her.
"Go home, Drakkon."
"Not without the key," she answered, holding out her hand. Michael rolled his eyes. The key she had asked for was one of many that opened a safe in Lilith's possession. No one in Sheol knew its contents, but the key and ninety-nine lookalikes were circling hands. Both the safe and the keys had been stolen from Genesis in a raid the previous year, and they were precious items.
Michael reached into his pocket and pulled a gold key from the denim of his jeans. He raised it between the Drakkon's eyes and his own, and then placed it in her palm, adding quickly, "Now get as far away from me as you can, or you'll regret it." As soon as the key entered her possession, Sasha heeded the warning, and took off in a brisk run in the opposite direction.
"Leech." Michael whispered, taking comfort in the shade of the nearby building. Between the shadows of the tall housing and the night, no one would have noticed that he had stepped back into the shadows, and pulled a second gold key from his suede jacket. The one he had handed off to Sasha had been one of the ninety-nine decoys, but the one he had kept was entrusted to him alone. Lilith knew better than to leave her most prized possession in the hands of anyone less. Sighing in a sickly contempt, Michael pulled the chain that the key was hanging from out of his coat, and wrapped it around his neck. If anyone were to try and take it, his existence would be the fight.
Finally assured that the Drakkon had accepted the key and left for the night, Michael stepped back into the sidewalk's light, and continued on his way to the damaged apartment he called his home. He was satisfied with it. After all, it was better than anything he had owned fifty years ago, but it was hardly the American standard of middle class. If it could even be called middle class, it was entirely on the lower end of that spectrum. Occupying the top floor of the apartment building, it was a spacious living area, clean, and well decorated. Still, reaching it meant walking through the projects, and climbing fourteen flights of stairs because the elevator was broken.
It was only a two mile walk to the building from the bar, and while a human would take their time accomplishing the distance, Michael had an advantage, and arrived in under twenty minutes. Not only was he faster, but he had lived in the area long enough to know the alleys that shaved three blocks off a trip, or the roofs that could be jumped from complex to complex. Flashing his controlled eyes to the drug dealers across from the building, Michael stepped inside, and opened the metal door to the cement stairwell to begin his climb. The numbers went by slowly, but his steps were mechanical, his motions completely accustomed. Even so, his movement bothered him. Just that morning, he had gone down those steps, aiming to end the life of a Nammid that had only just been given a second chance. It seemed wrong, no matter if he was a member of Sheol, to be congratulating himself on killing her, and worse to be climbing the steps to undoubtedly do it again.
Consciously, he knew there was nothing that could be done. His loyalty and respect among Sheol was unmatched, but why? Genesis had been his true resting place; his failure within bounds had been out of passion, emotion, and jealousy. He had loved Alyson. If she had never met the other human, she would have loved him as well. It was out of desperation that Michael had done what he had. There was never any thought to what he was doing: all he knew was that he wanted her, and when he had tried to kill the man, it had never been to dishonor Genesis.
Michael ran his fingers through his brown hair and reached into his pocket for his keyring. Within seconds, he had found it, and he unlocked the thick metal door that led to his floor. The lights were all off inside from what he could tell, which almost guaranteed that he would be alone, but when the door shut behind him, he knew otherwise. Thickening waves of throbbing pain ached throughout his skull, and he smiled slyly in the coarse welcome.
"Well, well, well..."
The feminine voice struck him from the darkness like ice in the midst of fire. Michael stepped forward through the dark room, knowing his way well enough to go without a light, and let his eyes adjust. He slowly let his gaze fall on the figure leaning against the far wall, and traced the curve of the woman with sharp accuracy. It would be foolish of him not to recognize the fiery perfection that in humans could never be natural.
"You're late, Jet."
Michael reached his guest with a silent step, extending his arms to her waistline. She made no move to avoid him, but instead slid her slender fingers over his shoulders, and pulled her hips to his own.
"You'll have to forgive me," Michael whispered, lowering his lips to the woman's throat. He had never been able to help himself; although the Kier possessed the same hunger as the Drakkon, their control was great enough that they were expected not to feed. Even though he would not allow himself the pleasure of breaking skin, he enjoyed the ecstasy of the pulse against his lips. A longing groan escaped from his breath as he pulled her tighter, caressing her neckline with kisses that meant nothing but loyalty.
"Did you do what I asked?" she questioned, pressing her wrists against Michael's ears. The trick was cruel; the Keir had heightened senses, and her pulse ricocheted throughout his eardrums, only tempting him further. His thoughts were already racing with reasons that he could feed her. He knew that if he were to take what he wanted, she would feel nothing but pleasure, a sin that she so graciously cherished. Michael tore her wrists from their positions against him and pulled her fingers to his lips, answering her softly.
"Of course I did."
The woman leaned her head back and laughed, her voice wicked in a sweetly sinister way. Michael tried to distract himself, but had no sooner let her go that she continued to taunt him. Her laughter had stopped, but when she returned her eyes to him, her lower lip was covered in the crimson nectar that he wanted so desperately. She latched onto him like a parasite, her wrists at his ears and her lips just inches from his own. His senses were overwhelming him; the sound of her pulse was beating throughout his body, the scent of the blood was intoxicating, the sight of it had caused a rush of adrenaline to spread through his veins, and it was all he wanted to sink into her throat.
The game was sickening. Michael became this demon whenever she was around, a pawn to her twisted fantasies. She played with her creations the way that children played with dolls. Every move she made was to have her will met, and if she was not assigning tasks, she was fulfilling her personal pleasures. Seven sins controlled her, and seven sins burdened him. A deep sigh rose in Michael's throat as he tried to fight the desire burning in his system.
"Lilith," he snapped, his breath quick as he fought to find an explanation for her sudden interest in taunting him, "What do you want from me?"
The woman kissed him with bloody lips, making him shudder with the final loss of control. Before he had time to control himself, he had pushed her back into the wall, dust surrounding him as the sheet rock caved to his strength. His jaw ached with the new weight of his fangs, an accessory he hadn't worn in years, but the feeling was nowhere near strong enough to hide how badly he wanted her. Lilith laughed sharply as he broke into her skin, his grip on her body filled with the Drakkon's trademark lust. It was only seconds then that he fully broke the vein, and Lilith's laughter gave way to a series of pleasure-laced sighs.
Michael silenced himself from admitting his own pleasure when the demon fell weak in his grip. Her sighs became less frequent, and her breathing faster, a sign that she was calming in the blood loss. Unsatisfied but regaining control, Michael pulled away, brushing the sweat on her brow as he held her body to his own in support. Normally, he would have considered his possible punishment, but it was all too obvious that Lilith had wanted his lapse in judgment. The room went silent as Michael pulled himself under lock and key, except for Lilith, who continued to breath heavily.
"Good boy," Lilith whispered, lying her head on Michael's shoulder as he supported her bodyweight, "Very good."
Michael tried not to listen as the strange appearance of the situation caught up to him. A fallen angel was apparently not a suiting title, and now, he was feeding from Satan herself? He pushed the thoughts from his mind and stepped to the side of his superior, allowing her to move from the wall that now needed repairs. In an act of generosity, Lilith rested her hand on the sheet rock, and in seconds, the drywall had mended to its previous state. The power she possessed had always fascinated Michael; fascinated and consumed him.
"You're aware, Jet, of the little... hell... we're in?" Lilith asked, her question followed by light laughter. Her comment had been referring to the spy that had reported information to Genesis, and it would be absurd to think that Michael knew nothing of it. Everyone knew, and had to be extra cautious because of it. There had been no clarification on who the spy was, or what all had been disclosed; just that there had been an unintentional leak. Michael pushed himself from the wall, swallowing the lingering taste of blood in his mouth, and locked his eyes with the Devil's.
"Well aware, my mistress," he answered, sure to obey the laws of respect that she had laid for all of Sheol, "But I know nothing more than you. I spent three hours tracking Feylens this morning... none were of any particular interest. All are dead."
Lilith laughed and dropped her arms in a slouching manner, throwing her eyes to the ceiling in a dramatic fashion that seemed almost inappropriate.
"This is what I love about you, Jet!" she yelled, standing up straight and falling back against the wall. Michael wasn't sure of what had invaded her system, but he knew that she wasn't completely sober, and unlike the multiple rings of both Genesis and Sheol, the leaders were practically human.
Long before the war, it had been decided that the only way to understand the human race was to join them, and the leaders had. While they did not age and they contained power specific to their reign, they could be killed almost as easily as any human could. The reason they remained so untouchable lay in the numbers of allies they had; if Genesis were to fall, millions of its members would be in the mood for revenge. In fact, for almost every one human, there was one member of Genesis, and one of Sheol; humans had discovered this long ago and dismissed it as myth, instead subscribing to the "angel on the shoulder" theory.
"You're so apathetic," Lilith continued, "Such a killer. Cold. Heartless. I love it-"
Michael smiled to appear as if he enjoyed her comments, but instead, he hated them. He knew he was a killer, but it didn't appeal to him. He did it because he had to. If, for whatever reason, he were to tell Lilith that he no longer wished to kill, or disobey Sheol in any manner, he would be disowned by Sheol entirely, and be considered Fallen. When a member of Genesis or Sheol was considered Fallen, they were sent to an area similar to the human definition of Purgatory. If the other side did not take them in, they were doomed to fate within the bounds, and it usually involved being born again human. Michael could not risk excommunication: he had already fallen from Genesis.
"Do you want to know how many you've killed?" Lilith asked, but the question was not in need of an answer. Instead, the woman placed her hand on Michael's shoulder, and closed her eyes with the touch of skin on his lower neck. He knew that she was reading him like an open book, flipping through his past as if the pages were bold and neatly ordered.
"Nearly a thousand, Jet," she whispered, falling against him with the grace that seemed unnatural for someone so evil, "I knew you had this... this strength. It's why I offered you this chance... the glory. Pride. Lust... unsuitable for members of Genesis... they call themselves Angels, but they have no fun, no peace, no love for the touch- we could end this crusade, Jet-"
Michael closed his eyes, partially entranced by the melodic tone of her voice. She seemed so innocent, so pure, and so frail, but he knew better. Her power rested in the very sins he had avoided as a human. Once again, he was fighting himself, and fighting the hold she could gain on him. He had to get out of this somehow; he knew what was coming. The offer was all too constant.
"We could win this together... sign your name, Jet..."
Michael tried to distract himself. The Silent War between the heaven and the hell was taking a toll on both sides, and if one side were to gain an advantage, the war could be decided. Signing the Devil's Book was a phrase given to Lilith's means of gaining power; she kept contracts, so that a member of Sheol could die at her hands in exchange for a peaceful resting in the final rest of the fifth ring. She inherited the soul as if it were oxygen.
"Not yet," Michael whispered, fighting the offer that seemed so appealing. If he were to rest, he would no longer have to kill. He would be free to an eternity of calm. On the other hand, his strength to Lilith's could be the one soul to win over Genesis- it was widely accepted that one member of the fourth ring might be all that would be needed. Michael would not be the one to bring Hell to the humans, not when he longed for humanity, "Wouldn't you rather I be stronger... ?"
Lilith laughed, accepting his answer as the truth. She didn't think to doubt that he didn't want to help Sheol further- his intentions seemed nothing but true with the numbers he had killed.
"You're right," she replied quietly, stepping away from her follower, "You could be stronger... but there are others who show no improvement. There is a member of the Mist who shows promise. Adrian Martelle. Know of him?"
The question was almost comical. Every member of Sheol knew of Adrian Martelle. He had gained a reputation at first for his acts of stupidity, of causing rumors to spread of ghosts and hauntings. When rumors spread, the humans were more alert, and things were more complicated. It was easier when things were untouched. Once the rumors had settled in the late 1900's, Adrian had begun his quest to become a member of the fourth ring. His killings were ruthless, and he showed no sign of pity or weakness.
"Yes, my mistress," Michael answered, eying the sofa just feet away to his side. His night had been long, and although members of the fourth ring were notorious for never settling, he had too much to think about. Lilith noticed his attention and smiled, her lips curving slyly.
"Go to sleep, little man," she hushed him, wandering for the door where her coat was thrown over the hooks on the wall, "But be alert tomorrow. If Genesis wants a war, we'll give them a war."
Michael watched silently as she left, and then threw himself down against the furniture, angry. He was tired of being Lilith's pawn, a killer, but more than that, a name that every member of Genesis feared. No one spoke to him unless they were just as cold as he had become, but he needed the contact. Needed the outreach. If it were his decision, he would have fallen from Sheol long ago; but it wasn't his decision. It was the devil's inside of him.