How do you know what an angel looks like? Who told you?

When you first saw the concept of a man or woman with wings, didn't you think, well, that is ridiculous? No, you accepted it. As if you've always known what they looked like. Because they are always there, in the corner of your eye, when you're not looking…

The gambler ran. He couldn't believe his luck. This was the second time his life was spared, the third time he had won a game of chance. Yet all of it was part of the same losing streak.

The priest had sounded so certain in his faith, yet the gambler had had no idea, not an inkling of a plan of how he was going to get out of becoming food for these monsters. Anything was possible.

He remembered light radiating from the Angel as it approached the priest, blue eyes full of wonder seducing him as she kneeled by his feet, but the priest closed his eyes and started to pray.

"Yes," the Angel said. "Prey."

She slipped a warm hand into the man's neck and pressed her lips into his with a gentle but passionate kiss. The priest tried to fight it, but the angel wouldn't let him. The gambler had seen the process before and screamed, jumping from his seat and bumping into the stone Angel behind him. He looked, but they didn't look back. All of them seemed to be transfixed by what happened, as the Angel drained the life out of the priest's face.

It started in the tips of his fingers, and climbed up his arms as if he were slowly submerged. He tragically clawed at the wooden cross around his neck, prodding with a hand he could no longer control and fingers he could no longer bend. His lips turned white like chalk, like dry arid desert drained of all moisture until his eyes were filled by a film of soft dust, until his pupils simply faded.

The priest became a permanent member of the christian family unit at the dinner table.

The Angels shrieked when he turned, and the gambler thought they were celebrating, preparing for their next feast, but their faces had turned into maws and fangs. They were angry.

"No!" the Angel cried out, opening her wings wide. Candle flames flickered by a sudden burst of wind. "I won't let you have him! They're my pets! I found them! They're mine!"

She took the nearest plate off the table and smashed it on to the ground, where it shattered at their stone feet.

The gambler didn't stay to stay to see how it ended. He saw an opening to get out and he took it. No questions asked.

He ran out the door and ran without stopping, to get as far away from the Angels as he possibly could. Street after street became mere blurs to him in his complete panic. That's when he ran straight into a man with his eyes closed and a woman called Clara Oswald.

What are the odds?

Tears were streaming down her face. Her eyes, red and wet, suddenly watched the door, before she covered her face in shame, cupping it in her soft hands. She'd curled herself up on the dusty floor, her wings crumpled and lazily folded stuck under her own weight, their colors faded. A shadow moved over her, a silhouette in hood and cloak wielding a scythe that could not fit through the doorway.

"What's this now?" Death said. He tried his best to come up with the right words. "An Angel… crying?"

"Go away."

"You're not the first to break down crying when Death comes a-knockin' on your door."

"I'm not crying because of you."

"Of course not. That would be selfish."

A dog barked outside.

"Don't worry. That's Alex. Short for Alexander. He's my dog. I've got a dog now. I do, at least, what's left of me…"

"Just go away! I don't want you here!"

"Nobody does!" Death smiled. "Death is always the uninvited guest, until he isn't. But I'm still needed. Someone has to take care of your victims."

The family of stone still sat deathly still at their table, joined by their new table guest, the priest. Death took a chair and spun it around, then slid into the seat beside them, still facing the Angel.

"They are your victims, aren't they?"

"They're mine."

"It's like you made something. It's like art. Aren't they beautiful? How does that make you feel?"

"What do you want?"

"A simple life. Respect for your elders, a modicum of respect for the dead. Also, some answers would be nice. Were your friends mad at you?"

"They don't like me anymore."

"They're right. They shouldn't. You didn't share your meals."

"What?"

"That's the first step. Recognizing your own needs. Knowing yourself. It's harder than you think. Go on. What else did they say?"

"They said I was a freak."

"That's good. That's very good. You skipped a step and went straight for social needs. You're becoming your own person by the minute, fulfilling your basic needs. Abe Maslow would be proud. How does it feel to join the land of the living? How does it feel to believe in something, instead of merely being a belief?"

"I don't understand. I killed you, old man."

Death impatiently waved away her trivial recollection of her murdering him.

"Been there, done that. We passed that point already."

He laid his scythe down on his lap. The blade reflected the soft candle light.

"We're here now, together. And I'm sitting here with a brand new lifeform, the first of its kind even."

The angel wiped away its tears.

"Born only hours ago and so beautiful. Terrifying, but beautiful nonetheless." Death sighed. "And I'm thinking about killing it."

They are what the dinosaurs feared. They are the bogeymen.

Whatever humans feared to be in the dark, anything they could possibly imagine, that's what they would be. They are the fear of the dark. They are the scary campfire story. They are the whisper of your name in a crowded room. They are the fire that forged our instincts. They are the imagination come to life. They are the predators in our minds telling us to run.

They are Fear Incarnate. The wolves in sheep's clothing.

"Your Holiness," the friar cautiously murmured, wishing his deepest bow would have his nose touch the ground in humility, like the biblical serpents cursed to roam the dust in shame. One of the cardinals nudged the poor man onward, so the friar cleared his throat again. As he bowed, he exposed his bald scalp to the room. "Pray, do tell…"

The cardinals had chosen him well. The friar was old and familiar in these parts, well-liked and loyal and someone who always arrived on time. You could set your watch by him. As a matter of fact, since he controlled the clock tower, one literally did.

"What is it, friar? What is your name?"

"Unimportant," he said. "I'm only ever charged with the morning service, and ringing the bells to start the day. The heavenly sound has made me somewhat deaf, so I may be a little hard of hearing."

The Pope's interest waned.

"Your dearest cardinals have told me of your plans for this mighty basilica, your grand Holiness. If I might ask, why so many statues? Does a tomb really need that many?"

The Pope didn't look up from his schematics. "It is by Michelangelo's designs, and his eye for heavenly beauty, that I choose my final resting place. It is God's choice, not mine, that dictates both my life, and my death."

When his eye caught something he liked, he smiled. "Oh, I rather like that one. I think I'll keep that, but lose the sepulcher."

"Pardon me, sir, did I just hear correctly, that you'll let a man like Michelangelo determine the plans for the Church? Do you really think it's safe putting the Divine Treasury into the hands of an artist? Statues cost money, your Holiness. Who will provide the expenses?"

"God will."

The friar sighed.

"You simply don't understand!" the Pope suddenly railed, and he faced the cardinals, who flinched when they suddenly realized their subterfuge had failed from the start.

"Art is a reflection of humanity. They are our creation, as we are God's. We are the brush and the canvas. The chisel and the stone. Art is an extension of our soul: immortal, beautiful, our hearts and stories forever captured, so we shall never be forgotten. A cultural heritage, gentlemen! The statues are us! This way, we shall all be remembered. We shall all live forever."

"As statues?"

"As children of God."