A/N Better feedback than I expected last chapter! Thanks, guys-if the positiveness is consistent, I'll certainly write more!

II

The basic problem was that demons were pathetic; they just seemed to have an exceptionally hard time realizing it. Even when the angels would wipe out legions of the ones who managed to creep onto Earth, they never learned their lesson—just kept returning. It wasn't that they were stupid, per se—on the contrary, they were highly intelligent as far as underworld beings went, and they at least managed to outwit humans ninety-nine percent of the time. But, despite some advantages, they just never came near the point where they could overcome angels—though, perhaps because of Lucifer or maybe due to the fact that they were just so stubborn, this fact seemed yet to be acknowledged from their side.

Raziel, the Secret-keeper of Heaven and an angel with far too many earthly dealings constantly on her plate, knew this far too well.

One would also think that, for all her associations with them, the stupid humans would pick up on the fact already that she vastly preferred a female vessel, and quit determinedly referring to her as masculine. It wasn't a huge deal, or at least it usually wasn't, but things grew more complicated when it reached the point of demons trying to track her down and stabbing three innocent human men to death before picking up on the fact that she was wearing a different form entirely.

They were onto her now, though.

There were three of them—all confined to vessels, probably for the purpose of disguise. The leader was the oldest, dressed in what looked like a military suit and watching her with watery, pale eyes, and the other two—younger and fitter—gazed on from the sides. She had to admit that, as it went, they'd gotten her fairly good—she was tied up in plain ropes, cinched tight around her arms and legs and chest, but they had the added benefit of being thoroughly drenched in holy oil, which stung and burned at her skin to the point where she couldn't so much as turn slightly without the threat of blinding agony. Of course, they'd still made a mistake—and that mistake was clear enough to her, even from the start: the chair. Apparently wanting to look as normal as possible, they'd tied her up to a completely ordinary, mundane wooden chair… a chair that would be far too easy to break and shear her bonds with.

She wasn't saying anything yet, though. She was interested, at least a little bit, in what this particular group of demons had to say to her, what they had against her. Sometimes those who managed to track her down didn't even have any particular feuds in mind—just wanted to cut apart every angel in their path—but these three had clearly put some thought into their capture.

"It is a shame," the first demon growled, taking a step forwards and folding his hands behind his back, "that we ended up like this."

"I have to agree. You're awful messes of creatures."

His jaw tightened, a forced, sarcastic smile twisting his thin, withered lips. "Don't pretend to miss my meaning, angel." Though the words were English, it was clear that his vessel wasn't used to communicating in such a tongue, and the words came out oddly cut—not accented, exactly, but with a ring to them that Raziel could identify as Russian with relative ease.

"Angel, you called me? How sweet."

"We know what you are!" the demon snarled, a faint golden light—that of all Hell's souls—flickering vaguely behind his eyes. She forced herself to relax, mentally repeating that she might as well not get cocky—she didn't, after all, want to advertise the fact that she was barely at all threatened by the situation. They clearly thought they had done a good job, and it was in her best interests that they remained under that impression, at least for the time being.

"Of course you do," she relented, ducking her head slightly so that the golden red waves of her hair fell before her eyes, partially blocking her vision. Her wings prickled at her back, begging for release, but she forced them to remain tucked invisibly in place—if she were to extend them now, the oil of the ropes would instantly sever them, and then she really would be in trouble. "I don't mean to underestimate you."

"Of course you don't." He snickered slightly to himself, then paced closer, tilting his chin up. At an apparently silent command, one of his younger assistants strode over to her and gripped the edge of the chair, tilting it back slightly and reaching into his pocket. Her eyes widened minutely as he removed a slim silver object that she almost immediately recognized as a lighter—the sudden panic stirring her stomach caused sweat to break out over her vessel's skin, and she clenched her teeth hard to keep her wings from reflexively springing out.

Fire. Of course they had fire—of course they weren't dumb enough to do this, to just assume that she wasn't going to be able to escape. Were they going to kill her? She couldn't die now, she couldn't afford that—too many people were depending on her. And yet if the stupid demon dared to bring the flame to the rope, it would go up—she'd be damaged beyond repair in milliseconds; nothing hurt her or any other angel like holy fire. She could break the chair, escape now—but, no, she needed this. She couldn't afford a crew of demons this intelligent on the loose—even if she killed this group, they still had a clear external motivation, and it was quite possible that another gang would follow in their place, try to achieve whatever goal they couldn't. There was too much of a chance that they'd find her again, or—worse yet—find someone else, and she wasn't cowardly enough to risk that.

"What do you want?" she demanded, her breath rasping in her throat.

"Nothing huge," the demon crooned, "only a little bit of… information. And we're quite willing to give you smaller burns until you're ready to tell us."

To emphasize his boss's point, the second young one paced over. In his hands was some sort of metal bottle, rusted bronze-colored and etched with intricate letters that Raziel had no trouble recognizing as Enochian, the language of the angels. He uncapped and tilted it, and even in the low amber lighting of the warehouse that they were hidden in, she could see the thin stream of oil that trickled into his waiting fingers. Then he stepped forwards, reaching out and aggressively gripping her chin. She let out a wordless noise of protest, but not before the demon managed to smear the greasy, repulsive liquid over the side of her jaw, leaving a fierce burn where it touched. Her breath hitched up, coming faster, and its rate only increased as the one holding the lighter lifted it, so that its cold metal edge tauntingly ran along her oil-slicked skin.

Well, weren't they crafty. She held back from snarling in frustration—more than anything, she wanted to release a stream of pure angelic energy, blast the demons into bits and be on her way. Sometimes, it seemed, being a designated secret-keeper was challenging—in any case, it was far more effort than it was worth to know everything she could at all times, especially when other creatures proved to be far too keen on getting it out of her.

"Now, as you'll surely understand, it will work out best for us all if you simply answer the questions we have." The elder demon ran one hand slowly over the back of the other, almost thoughtful. "Let's start simple: why are you here? On Earth?"

I could ask you the same thing, you hypocritical, psychopathic scum. She let her eyes lift to the ceiling, steadily breathing in the rusty scent of the warehouse, and gave herself a few seconds to think out her answer before speaking, words steady, voice measured. "I am forbidden to tell anyone."

The demon holding the lighter flicked it open and settled his thumb on the button, ready to scorch off her skin at the blink of an eye. As much as her reflexes told her to either lash out or freeze up entirely, she forced herself to keep breathing—breathing was vital, and despite all the time she'd spent in a human vessel, it was far too easy to forget that little thing.

"The thing is, it's not really our concern at this point what you're forbidden to do. You're the Secret-keeper, aren't you?"

"Yes," she confirmed, not hesitating—it wouldn't hurt her to let him know—but also not giving him her name. She wouldn't hand something that powerful over to any demon, even one whom she didn't intend to let survive the next hour.

"Perfect. Then we have plenty to learn from you. Assuming that you'll be willing to let us know everything that we need to, of course."

"Oh, naturally," she muttered under her breath, wondering just how good demons were at detecting sarcasm. These ones in particular were just awful—normally, their species was more unintelligent than anything else, but this was just absurd. They were irritating, and killing them would be a pleasure—seeing that lingering golden light drain from their vessels' eyes was sure to bring no small amount of satisfaction.

"Good. Since you're so willing, we will move back to the original inquiry—why are you here on Earth, angel? You do know that this is no longer your domain?"

"Isn't it?" She cocked an eyebrow. "Your master doesn't rule over this place. It's securely under God's cover."

"You tell yourself it is, yes, but the time is coming. Lucifer is ready to return, ready to fix this wreck of a planet and bring it to a new level—change chaos into beauty…" The demon's eyes shone glassily, his jaw beginning to slacken as the words poured out of his mouth. "Humans, humans are too crude for this world, for any world. They are animals. It will be a gift to them to take away their lives."

Raziel was sickened. Here it was, undoubtedly—the very worst thing about demons, the thing that led to her absolute lack of guilt every time she ended up killing one. They were genuinely monsters. And perhaps angels had been at one point, too—of course they had, in fact. God's soldiers doubted humans, as well, nearly all of them, though only one dared to stand up to his decision to craft such fragile creatures—the one that then descended to Hell, that created this demented, absurd species that stood before her now, terrifying in its primitive bloodlust. One demon—two, three, probably up to fifty or so, she could manage without much trouble. But their numbers were practically limitless. Thousands, millions, maybe more; most writhing in the flaming pits of Lucifer's damnation, but others here, on Earth. Not many—only a couple hundred in total, those who could manage to sneak through the cracks—but enough to hurt the humans. Enough to hurt an angel, if enough of them banded together.

And if Lucifer returned, with him would come more demons. Hordes of them. Enough to enslave, murder, torture the entire planet—whichever they designated the most painful, she imagined. And that, even though she wasn't going to say it to this vile creature, was one of the reasons why she was here on Earth: to combat their constant forces, to make sure that the demon problem on the planet remained nothing beyond an irritable presence, only a few humans murdered every once in a while. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best she could do—and, usually, it was enough.

"Lucifer's coming back?" she said blankly, her words dropping heavily into the air. For the first time, he had truly hit her hard—she had no idea how to respond, what she could possibly say. Lucifer couldn't be coming back—he just couldn't.

"Aha, so the little secret-keeper does have some things left undiscovered," he chuckled, his lips pulling away to expose teeth just slightly too sharp for his human vessel. "Good to know. Though I am sure that your knowledge will be… sufficient enough… to carry out a decent conversation with you now, yes?"

She opened her mouth to protest, but was cut off by a sudden stabbing ache at the back of her skull—for a single moment, she thought that perhaps one of the demons had gotten behind her without her notice, was causing the dull pulse that was steadily growing into agony. But then she recognized it—it was a sensation caused not by demons, but rather something else entirely, someone else.

Father Fury. It's been a while.

Raziel clenched her teeth together as hard as she could without being noticeable as the pain spread across the back of her skull, swiftly encompassing the whole of her head, so that a white fire rose up behind her eyes, obscuring the shadowy form of the demon standing across from her. Her fingers curled into her palms, nails sharp against the soft skin, and she hoped silently that the demons wouldn't notice anything wrong—she couldn't afford them detecting her communication.

Your prayers are as incredibly overwhelming as always, she thought-spoke dryly, trying to hold her head together, using the small remaining bit of sensation in her jaw to keep it from flying open, releasing a scream. Is this strictly necessary at the moment? I'm in the middle of something.

Raziel?

She stiffened, then—physically and internally. It wasn't Fury's familiar deep, resounding tones that now echoed and rebounded off of the inside of her mind, but rather a lighter, fainter voice, one which clearly wasn't used to communicating this way.

Who are you? Where's Fury?

He asked me to call for you, he—it's an honor—Lucifer—

The words were garbled, and frustration rose up inside of her at the clear inexperience of the speaker. If something was so important, couldn't Fury have afforded to call for her himself? She didn't say anything, though, because the last audible word was pressing enough to overwhelm her irritation. Lucifer. If Lucifer was concerned, then the demons weren't lying or exaggerating—Nicholas Fury was a much more reliable source than any of the golden-eyed scum that plagued the planet, and she believed this man, however foolish he seemed, when he claimed his allegiance to the pastor.

If Lucifer was abound—truly—then she had better places to be.

It took a great deal of strength to force away the pressure of the prayer, but she managed to shove it down, flexing metaphysical muscles to force the light and noise out of her consciousness. Slowly, the warehouse strained back into view—the demon still speaking, apparently not having noticed her brief distraction. Her lips curled into an imperceptible smirk—they really were dumb—and she took a moment to abandon all of her external motivations, to simply see her situation in an entirely tactical way.

The first demon was pacing slightly, continuing to ask meaningless questions and snarl in frustration when she didn't reply to them. With every passing second, the other two demons, the ones still tilting her chair back, would grow tenser, and the lighter was now knocking repeatedly against the oil-stained side of her face, fighting for the chance to open and release its flame.

It would all be, she decided, incredibly easy.

She started by lashing out an elbow to the side, catching the lighter-bearing demon in the stomach. Her enforced muscle and bone immediately punched into him, even tearing his flesh slightly as he howled and stumbled backwards. The lighter clattered to the cement ground, and she squeezed her eyes shut for a brief second, internally preparing—this would be the hardest part.

The harsh shove of the other demon's hand on her shoulder prompted them to fly open again. She leaned forward and then back again in a sharp, half-second movement, force rippling down the legs of her chair and causing them to break on impact with the flooring. It crashed down backwards, and she kicked wildly, her foot hooking under the knees of the other younger demon and resulting in the sharp crack of shattering joints. Her mouth twisted into a grim smile, countering the pain that was arching through her legs and arms where the oil-soaked rope blazed against her exposed skin. It hurt—enough to bring tears to the eyes of her vessel, but she was good at ignoring agony, and she did so now, rolling over sideways with part of the broken chair still roped to her torso and thighs. Wincing slightly, she managed to clench a bit of fragmented wood between her teeth—it tasted dusty, disgusting, but that didn't matter right now, as she ducked down and plunged it into the thick rope looped around her arm. It was crude, primitive, but she managed to tear it apart in a few swift motions, and then her arm was free. She spat out the makeshift wooden knife and ripped the remaining ropes off with her hands. All of this was done within a couple of seconds, and she was on her feet, entirely clear of the cumbersome bonds, by the time the other two demons were struggling to stand.

"You pathetic creature!" the leader demon yelped, taking a half-step backwards.

"I'm starting to think that you really don't know what pathetic means," Raziel replied smoothly, and released her wings.

They unfurled like twin massive banners of dancing shadow, branching out several feet in either direction. It felt wonderful to let them loose after being confined for so long, and she allowed them to twist and flex, catching the dim light so that amber pools formed in their dark, feathery folds. They were magnificent—purest black in the center of each individual feather's shaft, but expanding into an ever so slightly paler palette, navy blue, midnight violet, shimmering with twice the luster of the richest raven.

The demon gaped in terror, but she was already moving, half-running and half-flying forwards, so that her feet scraped only lightly on the floor and her wings flapped strongly, carrying the majority of the weight. She located the knife that he'd taken from her earlier easily enough—it was resting on a small, dusty table nearby; hardly a safe location, she thought with a contained grin. The weight of the heavy silver blade was familiar and comforting in her hand, and she whipped around with it raised high, just in time to see the two younger demons crossing closer to her once again, their eyes blazing pure gold with unrestrained fury.

It was effortless. She slit one's throat, dragging a clean cut through its skin and leaving a bronzed sheen of ichor behind as he released a shriek and folded to the ground, then plunged her knife cleanly into the chest of the other, allowing her arms to fold and bring her in close, so that she was staring him straight in the blindingly bright eyes.

"A word of advice," she breathed into his ear; "never try to light my face on fire."

Rather than wailing like his companion, the second demon died without so much as a whisper—she slipped the now blood-drenched dagger back out of him, and he teetered only slightly before collapsing onto the cold ground.

Raziel took the time to clean off her knife blade, an irresistible smirk twitching at the corners of her lips. It was stupidly self-indulgent, she knew, to be taking so long, but she couldn't resist having a bit of fun with the process, after everything that the idiotic demons had said, how frustratingly they'd behaved.

Only the third remained now—the leader, the one in the oldest vessel. He watched her with wide eyes, a scowl darkening his face, the golden light behind his pupils threatening to break into full materialization. She twirled the knife in her hand and took a couple of steps closer, wings pulsing curtains of darkness behind her.

"As for you," she murmured, disgust dripping from her words. "Do yourself a favor and send a last message to all your little telepathic coworkers. Remind them to never underestimate an angel of God."

Then her hands moved forwards with perfectly contoured smoothness, and the demon was bellowing in pain as she buried the dagger up to hilt just over his collarbone, directing it slightly downwards so that it sank deeply into his chest. She felt his vessel's body clench and spasm below her, his howl dulling to a low gurgle, then nothing.

She wrenched it out and took a deep breath, surveying her work. All three of the creatures were completely dead, lying in pools of their own blood, faces frozen in permanent expressions of shock and pain. Served the maggots right, she figured, and let herself relax again, her wings folding back into invisibility as she released the tight hold of her mind and allowed the prayer from before to sound again.

Now, she thought-spoke, managing to keep her physical senses intact now that she was expecting the communication. What was it that you wanted so badly?

My name is Phillip Coulson, I'm a priest at Holy Shield. There it was again, that eager little babbling. She pursed her lips and tucked her dagger into the sheath at her hip, straightening the black knee-length dress that she wore and shaking out her dark red hair as she began to stride towards the door. And we need your help, Raziel.

What with?

Lucifer. He—he's here.

She didn't quite allow herself to process the words, even though she'd known they were coming. As a relatively young angel—at least in comparison to some of them—she didn't remember the fall of Samael with much clarity; all she knew for sure about the Devil was that he had betrayed them all, that he was a bane and an abomination and that he'd been wanting to come back to Earth and have his revenge for millennia now.

Regardless, she wasn't one of the archangels—she'd be practically useless in fighting her brother, as pathetic against him as the demons were against her. A bothersome fly. What does Fury want me to do about that?

Lucifer took Uriel.

Something inside of her tightened, solidified, and she stopped walking, staring blankly in front of her. The words echoed more fiercely, and the carefully suspended headache suddenly returned full-force, nearly blinding her again.

Uriel.

The only other angel she'd ever allowed herself to call a friend—the one to whom she confided all her own personal beliefs and values; the secret-keeper of the secret-keeper, the only one of her brothers, perhaps, whom she knew for a fact she absolutely and undoubtedly cared about.

Taken by Lucifer.

What do you need me to do?

The gratefulness—excitement—was clear in Coulson's mental tone. Fury told me that you have connections with other angels, he wanted you to—

I'm not getting Gabriel, if that's what your Pastor asked. Archangels don't have time to talk to those of us on lower levels. She didn't bother to keep the resentment out of her tone—archangels, in her opinion, were dreadfully overrated.

No, not Gabriel. There's another one he brought up—one who… exiled himself, I guess? He called him the… the green one, I think, though I'm not sure what…

Coulson's babblings faded to background noise as her skin slowly froze over with ice. Of course. There was only one of her brothers that Fury could have meant—only one, and probably the last she'd ever have asked for.

Gabriel was a relative picnic, after all, next to the angel of Death.