Author's Note:

Anna

Recommended Playlist:

Flyleaf – So Sick

HIM – Wings of a Butterfly

Beatles - Blackbird

Chapter Four:

Rapid City, South Dakota 1:02 a.m.

Monday 22nd September 2008.

She could feel the music thrumming in the hollowness of her chest, the bass dropping as the lights went out for the umpteenth time that night. Girls writhed against each other on stage, skin touching skin, lace against lace, bills ranging from the petty to the pricey adorning the fabrics of their underwear as they pandered to the whims of the their nightly 'clients'. They crowded round like the horny little insects they were, grown men, married men, working men – all with their eyes on the 'evening special', the club's brightest stars displaying what could only be referred to as their 'God-given assets', though it had to be said that three out of four of the creatures on centre-stage had most certainly modified what God had granted a long time ago.

She knew each one by name now, knew their dreams and ambitions, their fears – their futures, the bleakness of which made her stomach turn. They were nothing more than little, silly girls, some saving up for college, others rebelling from beneath overbearing parents and others simply doing what they did for the thrill and the attention. And knowing what she knew she couldn't bear to see them touched by the heavy hands of the clubs regular clientele. Some were rough and marked their skin, others were sickeningly sweet and disgustingly turned on by what the girls had to offer. And – as a new addition to the WhiteChapel family, Anna had had to watch and 'learn' despite her rather extensive knowledge in the field, earning trust, allowing herself free reign over the club floor for her first night 'on show'. And that was what she needed. Neon lights pulsed in geometric patterns across walls and floors, bathing her half-naked body in blue and in pink, her eyes taking on the tone of every colour her irises came into contact with. She didn't care much for the club's dress policy – but Victoria's Secret had been a fascinating learning curve and one that she would happily repeat in the future. It appeared some trends never faded, and a fetish for lace seemed to have transcended the change of time, though the Tudor's had had a far more 'decent' approach in terms of female underwear.

She tipped her shot back and slid the glass across the bar, the girl working it that particular night offering her a quick half-hearted smile before refilling it and sending it straight back. She didn't have anywhere near enough alcohol in her system, nowhere near enough. The thought of her vessel touching him – the thought of him touching her. It turned her stomach. Made her feel sick. She swallowed the translucent liquid in one mouthful, the small glass coming away from her mouth in fragments, shards she soon crushed into dust in the palm of her hand. She had an immense and unwavering respect for the woman she inhabited, an admiration that had just about managed to withstand the corrosive effects of time. But she had a job to do – no amount of undying reverence would change that. Her body may have been her temple – but it was a tool too.

She turned to catch the bartender's eye, motioning for another two shots. She'd been drinking non-stop since the previous day, starting bright and early at six in the morning, emptying the nearest store of its liquor. But it hadn't been enough – it was never enough. And so, a little past sober, she collected her tools and weaved her way through the crowd as best she could in the ridiculous heels the club provided, toes crushed under her heels as a stray hand touched her bare ass. She bit her lip and progressed, battering down her growing irritation. If she had her way she would have decimated the entire population of the fowl little pests a long time ago, last week if she hadn't had a job to do. She'd come up against her fair share of males in the past however many hundred years of her existence in her vessel, though in the good old days men were rather 'under the table' about their desires, never daring to be blatant. But the twenty-first century creatures – they were another breed or race all together. They touched you, groped at you, made remarks that would have made Victorian women faint or a Lord feel almost embarrassed to share the same genitalia as the baboon that would have uttered such a comment. No, the era of the year 2000 was definitely not to her taste.

She could smell them before she could see them, a heady mixture of hard alcohol, unwashed bodies and earth, the scent of pine still clinging to the fibres of their work clothes. The smell pissed her off more than anything. It wasn't that they couldn't wash it was that they fucking chose not to – as though the strippers and the hookers that worked the bar and the stage for the blood-money that lined their pockets would get off on the stale sweat that sat festering beneath their rolls of fat, turning white t-shirts yellow. When she rounded the corner she was greeted with an entirely too familiar scene, one she'd have to wipe from her memory after the job was complete with a few booze stores worth of drink and an extended vacation to somewhere entirely bleak – somewhere like Siberia, where the likelihood of bumping into another damned human being was less probable than being mauled to death by a bear.

Being gored by a bear – she would have found that far more preferable, though if the night carried on as she'd unfortunately envisioned there wouldn't be much difference between the two outcomes. She knew each one of their faces, knew their families and their jobs – even what filling they preferred on their fucking sandwiches. Barry worked the crane, had a wife and two kids who welcomed him home with open arms every day after work despite the fact he'd been out for an hour previous snorting cocaine off the tits of a prostitute he picked up every Wednesday evening. Mitch was happily married and expecting a third child, had jam and cheese sandwiches at one o'clock sharp every weekday and had a lucky hard-hat that he never left the house without. Unbeknownst to his family he had a gambling habit and had lost the family car in a dodgy game of poker and was currently working to get it back. And Richie – well he was engaged to his fiancé and actually wasn't a bad guy. But despite all of this, they weren't actually her problem.

"Special delivery for a Mr Saxx."

The name tasted bitter on her tongue. Mr Saxx – Mr fucking Montgomery Saxx. What a prick, what an absolute tool. If you looked up 'dickhead' in the dictionary you'd get an image of Mr fucking Montgomery Saxx. What a fucking pretentious name. She'd done a lot of jobs in the past, killed a lot of people for far less than he'd gotten away with. Barry was bad – she had to admit Barry was a fuck-up with a record to rival the likes of Tiger Woods but this man – this 'creature' was something else. Monty Saxx was in another league to the bigoted bastards and sad sons of bitches she'd 'laid to rest' in her time, having swindled a local wood company out of thousands for his own personal profit, ignoring hundreds of planning regulations and health and safety laws that made you wonder how lucky Mitch's freaking hard-hat actually was, fat cat of probably one of the biggest building firms in Dakota with more money under his belt and muffin-top than the combined life's wages of all the men that surrounded him. But she could have ignored that – she could have let the money laundering and the blatant disregard of the well-being of his men slide (at least for a little while)- if he hadn't bought out and cleared nearly a hundred acres of green-belt land for his most recent developments. Now that – that would not slide.

His suit couldn't seem to encompass his entire girth, Anna finding herself pitying the poor buttons whose job it was to strain against the tidal bulge of his stomach. She could smell cigar smoke and whiskey even from where she stood, the stale odour of the men around him not even able to penetrate the wall of wealth that he'd encompassed himself with, the half smoked cigar that sat idly between his chubby fingers probably costing more than what one of the girl's would earn in a day doing what they did (a job which tipped unsurprisingly well). He had a hundred dollar bill lazily lounging in his top right blazer pocket and, from the look on his face and the way he settled himself in his chair, it looked as though he expected her to remove it.

"Help yourself sweetheart," he sneered, podgy hands beckoning her in.

Mr fucking Montgomery Saxx.

She inhaled deeply and held the breath, savouring the taste. Her face was borderline indifferent as she lowered herself into his waiting lap, her body seeming ridiculously and almost comically small compared to his massive size. Around them his men seemed to scatter, melting into the background of pulsing lights and swarming bodies, a far too practiced dismissal for her liking, though she was well aware of how regularly Mr Saxx 'aquainted' himself with the staff of the WhiteChapel. He, like all other men, had a preference – had favourites. Money-bags Saxx liked the red-headed girls, the one's he associated with a fiery disposition and an obvious genetic preference towards aggressive lovers. She'd seen him at other bars, plucking at soft little ginger haired girls with freckles, his fat hands in their hair, his arms encircling their tiny frames like shackles. Their particular red-head knew to keep her distance, a little quiet thing by the name of Ella whose only reason for working at such a seedy place was to make her way through med-school. But a black-haired, blue eyed little bird - that was definitely not his 'type'. He loved feminine little girls with big eyes, big breasts and bad mouths, not a pissed off Principality with a pixie-cut and a pistol.

She emptied the shot into his cavernous mouth, taking her own down in one, flicking her glass on the nearest table. His hands were already on her thighs, her cold skin reacting violently to the clammy feel of his skin against hers, forcing her to shiver. She covered up her revulsion by leaning in, trying her hardest not to breathe in the smoke that still sat around his head like a black cloud. She plucked the bill from his pocket with her teeth, making him smile almost endearingly as she rolled it up with her tongue, dropping the (slightly damp) scroll of money into her bra. He seemed impressed and that was good, and somewhere way deep down and despite herself she was proud that a trick she'd picked up in Amsterdam had actually worked for her for once. Every cloud had a silver lining, and despite having to fuck the very dregs of society on the odd occasion or fill her body with suspicious substances in order to bridge the gap between her and a certain 'underground' sect of people she got to travel, taste different foods and learn a few skills that'd made her life easier and far more interesting – obvious job perks. But this – she didn't see this situation having any lining at all, let alone a fucking silver one.

"Can I interest you in a er – private showing Mr Saxx?"

Mr fucking Montgomery Saxx.

He was interested all right – she could feel him getting 'interested' beneath her. Did that make her feel like vomiting all over his plush (two sizes too small) Prada suit – why yes it did! But, silver-lining wise, it meant that she was in fact doing her job right. She gave as good as she got, running her hands down his chest to his belt, offering a little tug of encouragement as she slid from his lap, one hand still trapped within his as she led him away through the thick of the throng, the roll of money in her bra incredibly uncomfortable having unravelled and stuck to the side of her breast. If her Brothers and Sisters could have seen her now – if her Father could have…

Unbeknownst to Mr fucking Montgomery Saxx there were actually no private rooms for employees to go and ravish their paying clients. Yeah they had girls making-out on stage and strippers entertaining crowds of males in dark corners but WhiteChapel found itself above private clientele rooms. Unbeknownst to Mr fucking Montgomery Saxx Anna Elizabeth Partridge did not have any immediate plans to offer him a private showing. Instead, she'd decided a long, long time ago to rip his lungs from his body having previously shredded them against his rib cage. So, in a way, Mr fucking Montgomery Saxx was going to receive a private showing, he just hadn't been told what of yet. And this was how her nights so often ended, hand in hand with the object of her most intense hatred, a desire to destroy and exact her Father's divine retribution burning in the very pits of her Grace. Every fibre of her being had been sewn to become the perfect malevolent machine, and she had killed and killed again in the name of her Father, in the name of her Brothers and Sisters and even in her own name. She had more blood in her ledger than a lot of the men she wiped off the face of the earth for crimes against her Father's creation, but she still managed to sleep at night despite not needing to. And, wherever He was and whatever He was doing, she still hoped that despite all she'd done he was proud of her.

It had been a long few months for her – far too long. She let out a breath she'd been keeping since July as soon as she laid her eyes on the beauty that just had to be the male toilet door, faded wood and graffiti-covered sign painted in Mr Saxx's eyes as the entrance to his night's love nest, the place where she'd obviously suck him off for another hundred dollar bill because that was obviously her primary intention. Her final thoughts as she pushed him through the door were of his children at home with their mother, a girl far too young and innocent to be with such a cad of a man though it seemed that being knocked up didn't go down too well with publicist or press. And, in her rational way of thinking, she was doing her and the world a massive favour. And so all rational and empathetic thought sat dismissed on the faded 'Welcome' matt outside the male restroom, something she'd perhaps return to pick up afterwards if the mood took her, if she felt like wallowing in hindsight or in pity for the creature she was about to skin like a pig.

She couldn't help smile as he stumbled around the room, the click of a lock behind her seeming to echo on a lot longer than it should have. It was quite sweet how quickly the looks of expectancy had faded from his face, how surprisingly fast his overwhelming feelings of longing and lust were replaced by the unmistakable stench of chaos and confusion, two things that actually somehow managed to overpower the scent of B.O that still clung to his skin like a parasite. And all the bodyguards that money could buy, all the armoured cars and the AK-47's in the world could not hold up against God's Divine Retribution in human form.

.:(*):.

He lay hunched in a corner, cowering like a dog, like the family of foxes he'd had gassed and shot in August to make room for a family sized pool. She'd taken that all too personally and had made sure the earth beneath said pool had sunk a good few feet, sending it, the garden and half the house into a sinkhole the size of a small supermarket.

She didn't torture or torment for fun. She gained no joy from it. On her lips were her Father's words as she flayed him alive, Heaven's blessing at her fingertips as she broke every one of his fingers one by one before his eyes, allowing him to bask in the glory of his white bones protruding from his pallid skin, all colour drained from his face as he bled out onto the off-white tiles of the restroom floor. This was her purpose, to punish when God could not, to protect what God could not personally protect. Because the fox, his vixen and his three kits could not protect themselves from the bullets that had embedded themselves in their skulls, nor could the Fae-creatures defend themselves against the wheels of the bulldozers as they found their brittle bones ground into the earth as their Nest was demolished into absolute oblivion. The blood that marred her hands was worth it, and the way she viewed her job helped her move onto the next. His existence was meaningless, as pointless and as expendable as the next son of a bitch on her agenda and the sorry asshole she'd torn to shreds before him. There'd always be another one of him, meaning there'd always be a job for her.

She dragged his sorry state off the floor and up the wall with a quick flick of her wrist, a long red smear plotting his course across the off-white tiles as he rose like a broken doll, hanging in the air like a puppet with its stings cut. He muttered something inaudible, a long stream of crimson tinted spittle roping its way from his lips to land in a puddle on the floor near his feet. The lights above their heads flickered erratically, the water that spilled from broken sinks and urinals flooding the floor around her heels, her toes shrinking back from the oncoming tide. That was another thing that puzzled her about her Father's creations – they never died cleanly. Animals didn't make a mess upon death; they didn't bleed everywhere as they didn't ever seem to have the capacity within themselves to do so. Human beings however liked to make a big 'song and dance' about the whole damned thing, spilling their guts, coughing up their insides – generally bleeding all over the fucking place just so you knew they were dying. And animals were quiet about it too – usually just lay there and took the shit that was coming to them instead of rolling all over the place screaming and crying and begging for it to stop.

And that had been his way, a coward's death. She had been by the book and entirely fair, read him his rights and his charges, said unto him that he would be judged upon his arrival at Heaven's Great Gates and so on and so forth. Revealing herself as one of God's Seven Regents was always a fun one, and like all the others he'd called her a crazy bitch and threatened to phone the police, even managed to pluck up enough courage to pull a gun on her and shoot her twice, once in the shoulder, a second just to the left of her vessel's heart. That hadn't gone down well of course, and when her wings had unfurled in her anger and cast the room in a blackened shadow the colour had drained from him – the son of a bitch even having the audacity to pray for forgiveness as though that would save his sorry ass from perdition.

Anna shook her wings out, flicking the blood and water from the tips of her feathers as they soaked themselves in the growing pool around her feet. She was immensely glad that her wings were not as white as her Sister's, her blackened feathers allowing for stains to go unnoticed for far longer. The immense amount of upkeep fairer Angels had to suffer with was almost inconceivable for her, and although she often enjoyed nothing more than a good preening every now and again to do it daily was a just a fucking hassle. In her line of work, it was dark feathers or nothing, an Angel of her occupation being far too busy to spend her entire freaking day washing the dirt and bloodstains of a day's tribulations from her wings in order to look presentable, that was just ludicrous. The thought of inhabiting any vessel other than a dark haired one was farfetched – and the saying 'once you go black you never go back' often sprang to mind in a situation such as this (a phrase the little Principality had picked up along the way but had yet to comprehend the 'correct' meaning and/or usage).

She sighed and ran a hand through her short hair, swirling her toes in the growing waters. She knew she didn't have long as the water would soon be leaking out onto the main floor, probably causing some arsehole to slip over and give away her position and the problem at hand. She had about five minutes, enough to put an end to the current situation, leave her calling card and make an exit before anyone was any the wiser to what was actually going on.

"You were birthed by God to live by Him and you have failed to do so – Ergo have been selected to die by His Hand. It is regrettable, but it must be done."

She had said those words nearly as many years as she had lived within her vessel, each time the impact on her lessened though the meaning and feeling behind them never waned. She was her Father's Hand when He had no Hand to give, and that was how it had always been. He squirmed slightly in her grasp as she tightened her grip, his misshapen hands rising to his neck as he fought against the invisible force that was currently crushing his windpipe into a shoelace. She wouldn't rip his lungs from his chest, nor would she grate them, deciding that she had made enough mess for one day, enough clutter and fuss for at least another year or so before she'd sentence the next heathen to the same divine end.

"Ple-"

"It must be d-"

Carry on my wayward son
There'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," she muttered, switching her concentration to her other hand as she fumbled in her stockings for her phone, finally managing to pull the thing from the lace after various attempts to untangle it from the copious amounts of frayed elastic and cotton.

Not many things managed to stop her heart, as her kind were fearless and headstrong more often than not, though if you were to hazard a guess as to what would halt the beat of an Angel's heart I submit to you it would not be a caller I.D. But this particular Principality, highest Order of the Third Angelic Sphere, felt her body go stone cold, her world freeze. The light in the top right hand corner of her mobile flashed blue erratically, a buzzing phone symbol blinking on and off as the phone vibrated in her hand. She made no move to answer the call yet, allowing it to ring a little before she even dared slide her finger across the touch screen to accept it.

"Hello?"

"Have I caught you at a bad time?"

Anna bit her lip, "not at all." The Angel dropped her prey like a stone, his body hitting the tiles with a sickening thump and a crack that even managed to send shivers through her thick skin. She even managed to wince a little.

"How may I be of service?"

"You've been called in."

"What do you mean," she frowned, flexing her fingers. "I haven't been called in since-"

"I know. But the orders have come straight from him – so you know how it is."

"But Sam-"

"Straight from him Sab."

Orders came from her 'Brother' as often as compassion or a Father damn sense of humour. Her wings shivered in a sick sense of trepidation, her body fighting its natural curiosity to take a more sensible approach – one that meant fearing the fuck out of whatever it was she'd been assigned to. He'd assigned her to some absolute bullshit in the past, forced her to watch atrocities, commanding her never to lift a finger until the very end. She'd seen scores of men, women and children die, never allowed to punish the culprits unless she was given the green light to do so, having to suffer through each and every event over and over again as history just so happened to 'repeat' itself. She'd met some sons of bitches in her time – but Michael was one big bag of dicks.

"Alright – I'm coming in."

With a final flick of her wings she turned her back on Mr fucking Montgomery Saxx, her phone in her hand, a black feather in her other that she let drop into the raging waters. She blinked out before the real panic started, already managing to hear the confusion outside as men and women slipped on a growing tide of reddening water, the mass darkening the carpets, staining the floor tiles. The place would be shut down by police; the staff would lose their jobs and find a more respectable way of earning a living and Mr fucking Montgomery Saxx would be buried in a gold plated coffin on the family plot and all would be well with the world. With no one to fund the development project on the outskirts of town the men would lose their work and construction would stop, the impact on her Father's creation lessening just that little bit more. It was a win-win situation for her, though the humans would suffer a little (though in her mind they were purely collateral damage – there'd always be more). Though this time round the usually cold and precise Principality had found herself friends amongst the girls, found solace and comfort in creatures like Ella and in Bea. They had shown her kindness, something she never often came across in her line of work. So her final thoughts that night were not of the fat cat's broken remains (as they so often were after a job), but of the girl's that had shown her warmth – others like Ella even going as far as compassion. And that, for her, was an uneasy feeling indeed.

.:(*):.

Have I caught you at a bad time?

Of course he'd caught her at a bad time – he always caught her at a fucking bad time. That was Michael's way. At the end of the day, if it was Michael's way (which it was) it was always fucking Sam's way too the son of a bitch.

The little Angel stormed her way down the sidewalk, heels clicking rhythmically against the concrete slabs, her eyes consuming all colours of the visible light spectrum as streetlamps flashed overhead, some of them exploding completely if she personally walked too close to a lamppost. The night had become thick with panic as car alarms whined and dogs barked, the combined sounds manifesting into one large, deafening wall of noise. He'd made an entrance (as he so often did), his entity completely disrupting all manner of things though she herself had managed to cause at least some damage that night, the sirens that somehow managed to cut through the noise statement to that.

The wind had picked up considerably, collecting in the flaps of her coat and almost pushing the young woman backwards. Her hair was cast across her eyes, leaves and other general litter flittering across the tarmacked surface of the ground, trees bending beneath their own weight. It was completely uncalled for, but she had to admit that he had her attention. The icy wind planted sharp kisses upon her cheeks, dying them pink with its breath, night's safe arms encasing her almost completely, shielding her dithering vessel from prying mortal eyes. To anyone else she looked like a common prostitute, body bare to the elements, eyes and lips darkened by paint and by liner. They couldn't see the darkness of her wings merging with the night, the way the bulk of her feathers blocked great swathes of stars from the sky as though the constellations themselves had been eaten or rubbed away.

"You better have a good reason for interrupting my night."

She took a seat next to him, the bench seemingly empty to any passers-by, non-existent to those who felt the need to take a seat. The lights around the two beings stopped flickering, the strain on the bulbs putting them out entirely for a little while, casting the world into complete darkness. All that was left for them was the wall of noise, the growing mist of natural and unnatural sounds that seemed to be developing ever bigger as long as darkness and chaos had hold.

"It's been a long time Sab."

Her heart stopped beating in her chest at the sound of his voice, a cheery and generally pleasant tone but one that was all but void of feeling. He leant back in the bench as he regarded her out of the corner of his eye; she could feel his eyes roaming her vessel – her body. She knew he'd noticed her state, the bullet holes she wore like badges pinned to her skin, but he did nothing but smile. She closed her eyes, pursing her lips against the bite of the wind.

"Hello Sam."

"It's been a while."

"Not as long as it could be," she uttered under her breath, running a hand through her short hair. "Twenty two years isn't long when you consider the grand scheme of things."

He smiled slightly, "It was such a shame we had to meet under such unfortunate circumstances."

"I think Chernobyl was a little bit more than an unfortunate circumstance," she hissed.

Her last Orders from her Brothers, Michael's words delivered to her on a breath by Sam one late spring afternoon. It had been raining; she remembered the grass being quite wet between her toes. She recalled the aftermath, the environmental impact, the mutations – the pain. She'd been scarred by what her Father's creations had managed to do, what monstrosities it had created in her perfect world.

She shook her head, ridding herself of the memory. "My order-"

"You have a new Charge."

He flicked a nickel idly between his fingers, the small coin disappearing every now and again up his one sleeve, only to appear against his palm where it'd begin adventuring through its course once more. A silly little habit of his, one she found most endearing, though he seemed 'off' slightly, as though he hadn't quite settled fully in his vessel. She could smell it, sense it, how new it was, how his Grace shifted within the veins of the man he inhabited as he tried to make himself comfortable. It was a true vessel, not a temp, but like a new pair of shoes he hadn't yet moulded it to his shape and size, the measurements that little bit off, enough to make him squirm inside his own skin.

"I see you've gone for your usual style."

"Oh – you noticed?" He smiled, taking on a much more pleasant air.

"As predictable as usual," she offered back dryly.

His smile faded. "You know me so well Sister."

Her Brother was unlike her in almost every conceivable way, though if you were to look deeper they shared the similarities of blood and kin. Her glossy black wings dwarfed his creamy feathers, oil settling alongside caramel. They were now as they always had been, black on white, dark against fair. He'd been settled inside the same family of vessels for hundreds of years, taking it a generation at a time, following the bloodline through, maintaining an almost 'Arian' trend of fair hair and bright eyes whilst she had remained in her Anna Partridge, her bright eyed and black haired skin she wore as though it was her own. But, despite his blatant discomfort, Samael's mind was surprisingly quiet and subdued, no mutterings or mumblings of a Secondary Soul, as though there was no one else hitching a ride other than the Angel that had managed to fill the body until it was fit to burst.

"He's quiet Brother. Why is that so?"

The nickel paused in his palm, the tip of his thumb rubbing the textured surface methodically. "Christopher is just a little… subdued."

Anna raised an eyebrow, "Why is-"

"He lost his father."

She shut her mouth. "I see."

Samael sighed, settling back into the wooden slats of the bench, the wood creaking beneath his weight. "You more than anyone would understand – how much they feel. Honestly Sab it's unbearable."

"He called for you?"

"To save him – yes. I could not however – he was too far gone - Reaper had him in his arms before I could even lift a finger. But we'd made a deal, and despite himself he held himself to his vow and – well – here I am."

She sniffed a little, slightly unbelieving. "You sound as though you care."

"You grow attached to them – like pets. As I said – you of all people should understand."

And there it was – the Angelic fucking attitude all the pricks Upstairs held with regards to her Father's 'lesser' creations. Anna sighed and relaxed a little, far more at ease in her Brother's company now that he was acting more like his ignorant self. To walk the line between Heaven and Earth was all well and good, but it didn't give you very many 'people skills', nor did it allow him much 'face to face' time with the very things he interacted with on a daily basis. She however got plenty of time to fight, fuck and fancy the things her Father had built so imperfectly, creatures she knew were capable of bravery, beauty and benevolence alongside their insatiable habit to destroy and misuse. But Upstairs didn't see that – Upstairs were too fucking short-sighted to understand the complexities of human emotion, none of them even bothering to spend more than a few years amongst them on whatever Michael-forsaken errand they had been sent to run before returning back to 'Paradise.' She was just lucky that her Brother wasn't like the rest of them, capable of a limited range of understanding instead of sharing the emotional range of a brick her Brothers and Sisters and Cousins so often demonstrated.

"So-"she began, changing the subject, "my orders?"

"Oh – yeah. Your Charge."

Was the news really that good?

"She's a small and highly insignificant little insect but for reasons beyond my understanding it has been ordered that she must be kept from perishing. I could not care less for her, but it is you to whom she is charged and therefore my own biases can be kept to myself. Enjoy her Sabriel," he sneered, undoing a zip on his leather jacket, his hand disappearing inside some pocket or other to reach for her papers. "Enjoy her while you can anyway."

"What do you mean?" she asked, brow furrowed.

"She's another one with a nasty habit – a Hunter habit. Can't get enough of murder, mutilation and massacre to sate her vile appetite. Here – this is who'll you be looking for-"

"Fantastic," she mumbled, begrudgingly taking the papers into her own hands, flicking through the file as though nothing could interest her more. Photos from traffic cameras and CCTV fell between torn family photos and ID pictures, school pictures of a young, innocent and smiling girl interlaced with gun store CCTV images of a young woman with hard eyes and an even harder smile handling a shotgun with a far too practiced precision.

She'd dealt with Hunters before, bumped into one every now and again on her travels around the world. They'd often arrived in the area after she'd 'visited', the mysterious circumstances under which her 'jobs' perished sparking their interest or curiosity and then the fucking idiots would just have to dig their noses in to take a closer look. And they'd always find her calling card, a single black feather lying atop what would be left of a hand or a chest. She often lay in bed at night tracking the little pieces of herself across the country, wondering where her feathers were, envisioning them tucked away in a case file or another, in an evidence bag in a locker or in a glass case in a museum. She'd also killed her fair share of Hunters-

"And I cannot decline this offer?"

She saw him smile, the nickel restarting its intrepid journey, "not unless you want the full weight of Upstairs bearing down on your ass –no."

She nibbled her lip, tucking the brown file into the inner workings of her coat, her wings humming at her back, hinting at her irritation.

"I suppose I have no choice but to accept then do I?"

Samael rose from his seat, his wings flickering with Grace as he stretched them out wide behind him, doing the same with his arms above his head. A small silver cross sat boldly against his chest, the metal glinting violently in what little light remained. He pulled his jacket a little tighter around his shoulders, the little silver coin disappearing back up his sleeve as he adjusted his zippers. He turned to her and regarded her with a borderline disgruntled expression as she spread her body out across the bench into the newly available space, the cold metal of the armrests digging into the backs of her legs, the very tips of her toes just about managing to brush the floor. She offered him a dry smile as she folded her arms behind her head, setting herself up for the night as she buried her chin into the copious folds of her collar, closing her eyes against the wall of noise that still managed to suffocate the area, comfortable against a bed of feathers and down.

"You're meeting her at a 'Danny's Bar' in Sedalia on the 3rd."

"Am I now?" she muttered, one eye opening. "Who says so?"

"She does," he sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. "It is as she will See and therefore it is how it shall be done."

"I see."

"Oh – and Sabriel?"

"What?" she hissed, her other eye opening, her glare meeting a leather clad back.

She could hear the smile in his voice as he blinked out.

"Put on some fucking clothes."