Chapter Eight

"Shit." Hugo's voice skyrockets an octave. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, fuck! Oh, hell, oh, hell, Scruffy, you fluffy bastard. That's definitely got a green tinge to it, doesn't it, buddy?"

"It could be the green glowstick you're using," sneers Raffe.

Hugo whips around, rising up from the ground. He flicks the glowstick behind the underbrush, sending it sailing in an arch. Jabbing a finger at Scruffy's raw flesh, he snarls, "Then look with your fucking angel eyes! Tell me his skin doesn't have a greenish tinge! Look me in the eye and say it!"

Raffe falls silent. Reacting to his master's stress, Scruffy groans, twitching slightly.

Hugo turns around, raking both bloody hands through his hair. Collapsing next to Scruffy again, his tortured gaze lands on mine, glinting only by the final embers of the fluttering fire. "Did you get a good look at the thing? Can you tell me what it looked like?"

Worried by his panicked tone, I shake my head swiftly. "I couldn't see much. But it looked like it had a human face. It was about Scruffy's size, maybe a bit bigger. Bulky. Mean talons. Its jaw unhinged or something, it just got really large when it leaned in to take that bite. Long, sabertooth teeth. Tufted tail, like a lion."

Hugo goes from frenzied to hysterical with fear, with this new information, going as rigid as a board, voice cracking. "And you're not feeling anything but the normal pain in your wound? No greenish tinge?"

I shake my head quickly, glancing up once at Raffe, who's holding a bunched up shirt to the slices in my shoulder. He, too, shakes his head. "No greenish tinge. She's not frothing at the mouth any more than usual, either."

I jab him sharply in the ribs with my elbow.

Rabid fear gleams in Hugo's eyes. He repeatedly drives his blood-soaked hands through his hair, eventually drenching his cinnamon locks. Tears begin to well, turning his coppery pupils into mirrors. "Oh, God. Oh, Lord, good, sweet Lord, please, I swear I will give up atheism and become the most Christian Christian to ever have Christianed." Swallowing with evident difficulty, Hugo meets my gaze. "Did it seem to have a fluffier neck, like it had a mane, or any other leonine features?"

I blink. "It – did, now that you mention it. Looked a lot like a giant lion with a weird head."

Hugo wails like a mourner at a funeral. "No!" Hugo howls in agony, clawing down his face, leaving trails of crimson blood over his cheeks. "No! Not here! Please, not here! Not now! Not Scruffy!" Scruffy peels a single eye open, issuing a whine that turns into a rack of coughing.

Ogden rises from his placement kneeling next to the wolf, pacing back and forth, distress obvious in his stance. The gears and other assorted metal fragments tinkle with each step. Raffe's pressure on my shoulder falters slightly.

"What is it?" I ask to anyone who is willing to offer an answer. "What's wrong?"

"You think Penryn ran into a cherub," Raffe guesses, ignoring my question. The features on his face that the fire chooses to accentuate create a frightening god, his leathery wings a terrifying backdrop. "It's impossible."

Hugo's eyes burn. "Is it? Goddammit, Raffe, think! Just for once in your life! I know it's difficult for you angels, but there's got to be a few brain cells in there somewhere! Ariel has never liked you. Some would even go as far to say that she hates you more than She Wolf does. She has no fucking clue that Bryon's out here with you. To her, it's only you and Penryn, and she's willing to sacrifice Penryn, even if it means Dragon and Lion are now her mortal enemies. She doesn't care how many Aurumn Stags she murders. In her eyes, you're a savage, a brutal savage. Even Uriel would be a step-up. And so she's going to get rid of you."

"A cherub?" I explode, mind reeling. "You're saying that thing in the woods was a little baby angel?"

Hugo throws his hands up in the air. "Where the hell did that rumor come from? What part of a cherub looks like a baby? The females have wimpy baby wings, I suppose, but nothing else – wait, I take that back. They've always got the heads of human babies."

"And Ariel?" I demand, pleased upon finally receiving some answers. "Who is she, and what does she have against Raffe?"

"Female equivalent of a Messenger. Leader of the she-angels." Hugo turns back to Scruffy, rubbing his hands over the wolf's face, cupping his head and cradling him on his lap. "You know, leader of the she-angels that don't stay in male aeries. Leader of the she-angels that don't promote misogyny. Lioness Archangel. She's the only female Archangel. She's the one that handles the cherubs, decides when they step in."

"It was a bad decision," Raffe growls darkly, "giving that responsibility to her."

Hugo snorts, the sound choking in his throat. "Misogynic angelic bastard," he mutters, sniffing loudly as he strokes Scruffy's ears. The wolf isn't looking so good – his velvety ears are limp, hanging like two wet cloths from the sides of his head. Thick, goopy snot runs from both nostrils like chunky rivers – they gleam in the light of the fire Ogden had started. His coppery eyes are glazed and distant, his left foreleg stiff as a board, and his chest rocks with labored breaths, each sound like that of a plastic bag being blown in and out of. Salt crusts the pads of his paws from the sweat he sheds.

"How long has it been?" wonders Raffe, dropping to a squat beside Scruffy. His broad hand rests at the wolf's forehead – my breath catches upon the realization that Scruffy barely reacts.

Hugo bares his teeth at Raffe like a wild animal, the gleam of his eyes caught in the green of the distant glowstick and the wheezing embers. "What does it matter to you?"

"This wolf saved Penryn's life. No matter my own personal dislikes" – Raffe's lip curls with disgust – "I can't ignore that. So, if you'd like to sit there and bitch about it, be my guest. I'm saving that wolf."

Hugo's hesitation seems to dangle my hope from a thin string, allowing it to twirl and flail in the breeze. At last, he nods, a small sniffle coming from him. "It's been nearly two hours. The venom should – a cherub's bite victim never lasts more than twelve hours."

"Without the proper antivenin, it doesn't," Raffe agrees with a curt nod of his head. "You said you've got nearly everything buried deep in those packs. Cherub antivenin isn't half as rare as that satanic symbols textbook you showed me earlier."

"I sold my last bottle to a Seraph." Hugo buries his face in his hands, massaging bloody fingers over his cheeks, his forehead, his temples. "God, I don't know what to do. I was going to restock at the next trading center, but… there's no getting out of this, not without Scruffy."

"To be pessimistic about something is to hand your soul over to the devil," Raffe scolds, whacking Hugo with the broad of one of his leathery wings. "Cheer up, Captain Sunshine."

"Think about it, Raffe. Bryon has no clue he's after a cherub. He's going to hunt that thing down and kill it if he can, before it reaches the swarm. If it does reach the swarm before he can track it down, God bless the poor dude. But, either way, the cherubs have a link straight back to this camp by his scent. They can pick up the traces of your odor on him, you know."

"Yeah, but I don't," I interject, nosing into their conversation. "Mind going into cherubs with a little more depth?"

"Well, the one you ran into was just a male," heads Hugo, switching out the filthy drenched rag that'd been pressed up against Scruffy's wound for a slightly newer filthy rag. "A scout to the party. Y'know, to search for any other main predators and chase 'em off, something that might give the females trouble. Basically, big male lions."

"The females are the ones you've really got to watch for," continues Raffe in a heartbeat, a breath behind Hugo. "They travel in – I don't think 'swarms' is an accurate description, but that's what they're called. More like a pack, like a pack of wolves. Body upon body upon body, running over each other, like a tawny tsunami of fangs and muscle and fur. Nasty creatures, millions in a 'swarm.'"

"They're nearly inescapable." Hugo dunks his hands in the bowl he'd been using as a washbasin type thing to at least cleanse himself, staining the water red. "See, even though the males are the only ones with big enough wings to fly for more than a few feet at a time, they're significantly weaker. Only their bites are poisonous, and even then, you've got twelve whole hours to track down a doctor. But with females – you never, ever want them to get their jaws on you. Then you won't even have the agony of your one-hour death, because a singular bite almost never happens except in laboratory circumstances. No, one latches on with barbed teeth and the rest follow. Like piranhas. Their venom grows that much more potent with each new nibble."

"Also, the claws are nasty," adds Raffe. "The venom coating those six-inch bad boys is similar to the strength of the male bite. To best avoid a swarm, angels usually take to the air. Need be, I will do that, carrying as many people as I can handle. But if –" Raffe cuts off. "We should search for alternate routes."

Hugo's eyes gleam as he backs up against the fire, raising his slender fingers to the flames to heat them against the chill of the night. "I'm not leaving Scruffy. Whatever we do –"

Abruptly, Hugo winces, back arching slightly. Curling over with a bizarre expression dominating his face, Hugo stands against the fire attentively, almost as if he's tuning into a favorite teacher's studies. The moment passes, and his taut face relaxes, the shadows of the fire dancing over his body once more.

Hugo frowns doubtfully. He pivots on one foot, turning to a figure half-swallowed by the darkened night. Crossing his arms, furrowing his brow, and pursing his lips, Hugo says, "Ogden, I don't know if that's such a good idea, especially with Raphael. I mean, a lot of work was –"

Hunching over again, Hugo listens, for a shorter period of time. My gaze catches Raffe's and he tilts his head in a gesture of minute puzzlement. The fire sways and flicks like a whip over his face in accordance with the wind's ferocity, highlighting fierce, strong features and black hair the color of the night itself. My attention is once more adverted from the angel as Hugo is brought back to life.

"I dunno, man." Hugo shakes his head, worry glinting alongside the copper in his eyes. "We should wait for –"

This time, Ogden moves in the darkness. My vision can hardly pierce the shadows of the night, can scarcely see beyond their dusky veils, but I do see his fist slam into the trunk of the nearest tree in a gesture of violent displeasure. Hugo doubles over, gasping instead of freezing.

"Alright, Ogden," he apologizes hurriedly. "Sorry, man, I didn't mean it like that. I know you're older than Bryon, and wiser and stuff. Just – thought he should be here before we take off."

Ogden nods. Before I can fully comprehend what'd taken place, the old man steps up to the firelight and beams shyly at Hugo. Apology sparkles in those warm brown eyes, candid and ashamed. Breathing out shakily, Hugo slaps Ogden on the forearm.

"Sorry, man, you pull off the human image so well, I forget sometimes you're just as powerful as Bryon," he chuckles. "And you're right; it's not like there's anything but abandoned medical supplies there. They can always build another one. I'll have to call Baelan to help us out with Scruffy and the packs."

Raffe steps forward, bathing his chiseled body in firelight. "What's going on?"

"Back in the old days, y'know, pre-apocalypse," Hugo explains, striding past Raffe with his usual carefree arrogance returning with each cocky word, "Nephilim would learn how to tell when you or any other angel was coming by the weather patterns. You weren't exactly stealthy with it, by the way. And so, they focused their environments around these holy places called Chazas, named after Chazaqiel, the Watcher that taught his children how to watch the clouds. Now, they're mostly called Nephilim Temples. There's an abandoned one not three miles from here – we passed right by it, not to long ago. Should be safe to harbor us for the night."

"They left because the western coast is dangerous, correct?" Raffe assumes.

"Well, yeah. Honestly, it was a bad idea to build here at all, despite the boom in education and jobs and stuff. Everyone was awfully convinced that the angels were gone for good, though. Good thing your dad chased the Nephilim off when things started getting bad again, Penryn, or they'd pretty much be screwed, and Raffe's reputation would be in smithereens."

I open my mouth to question him, but I don't get very far before my train of thought is stolen from me. A silver knife gleams in the air, hissing in pleasure as it snakes through flesh. My mouth drops open as a thick trail of blood bubbles from Hugo's forearm, dripping down his fingers, landing drop by drop in the sable leaves beneath him.

"Oh, you hellish thing," Hugo chants awkwardly. "You hell angel – that's fallen – so now you're bad. Come to me, bad fallen hell angel." Weariness replaces his odd tone of voice. "Oh, fuck it. I need you, Bay." Hugo's voice cracks. "I need you right now."

"How soon is 'right now'?" rumbles a voice with the depth and complexity of a roll of thunderclaps, and something shivers in the shadows. Raffe drops into a protective stance, legs splaying wide and scythes bristling from their sheathes.

"Bay!" Hugo rejoices, throwing his arms around the shadowed figure. "Oh, God, man, I thought you weren't going to show up! Listen, I'm so sorry, completely and utterly my fault, I was a dick, it'll never happen again –"

"You have no reason to be sorry, it was not completely your fault, you were a dick, I'm sure it'll happen again." The creature darkened by the surrounding night wraps its arms around Hugo as well, the fire revealing a reddish brown skin pallor. "For the record, though, I was coming here to apologize when I heard you calling. Hugo, what's wrong? Why is your face red? Your hair? Why are you bloody?" Almost as if he's grooming Hugo, the creature rubs at his face with a palm and strokes his hair anxiously.

"Bay." Hugo grabs the massive fallen angel by the wrists, pausing his grooming assault. "It's not my blood."

The angel is silent for a long moment, his hands dropping down by his sides. I use the silence to gather Paige against me, clasping her tiny hand in mine and squeezing it. My heart hammers in my veins, my hand gripping the hilt of Pooky Bear tightly.

"What's the matter, Hugo?" the fallen angel questions pensively.

"It's Scruffy." Though I support gay rights, I can't say I'm comfortable as Hugo buries his head into the fallen angel Baelan's shoulder. "He's –"

"I see," cuts off Baelan, his throaty voice as hard as flint. "The cherubs, I assume, are the culprits?"

Hugo nods in the darkness.

"Ariel," Baelan grumbles, striding towards the light, allowing me the first real glance at all six and a half feet of him. "She means well, she truly does. In fact, if things had worked out as they should've, she would've had my highest praise. But the fact that Scruffy was harmed in the crossfires gives birth to a sort of ire, doesn't it?" Without pause, he continues on to say, "Oh, Raphael, quit glaring at me. We have more pressing urges to follow than the tug of testosterone."

"Later," Raffe vows. "I take it you are, however, Hugo's sweetheart?"

"Yes. And you would be Penryn's?"

"No."

"Good for her." Warm approval paints his hard voice a different shade of grey, into something softer. His face cocks towards me. "Good for you. You can do much better."

"I'm not sure you get much better than me," Raffe brags.

"We are testosterone fighting, and wasting time," Baelan negates, turning his back on Raffe to crouch down to Scruffy. Thick fingers caress up the wolf's neck, prompting a whine and a tail wag – the largest reaction I'd seen from the mutt in a long while to anyone. "For the record, though, Hugo is a thousand times better than you. Is Bryon about?"

"Nah, he chased after the cherub." Hugo jabs a thumb over his shoulder. With Baelan here, he seems considerably calmer, even returning to the washbasin to clean his face of blood. "He should catch wind of this and be on his merry way when he comes back to the camp. Ogden wants us to leave immediately."

Baelan nods in comprehension, his head bobbing in the firelight. "Ogden, would you mind giving me a hand? I can take most of Scruffy's weight, but his feet would drag. Oh, wait, can you take a few of Hugo's packs? Raphael, you too. Penryn, since you're the only one who'll have an angel sword who'll be truly accessible, remain on guard. It looks like a nasty wound, and I'm sorry, but you'll need to be a hundred percent. Keep the little girl close – the last thing we need is her wandering off. Hugo, take my sword – show Penryn how extraordinary a real supernatural weapon is, please."

Hugo ambles forward cockily, allowing his fingers to roam about the angel's waistline slightly before gripping the hilt of his boyfriend's sword tightly. With the gentle hiss of metal reveling in freedom, the sword slides from the scabbard. The firelight only illuminates the jagged edges and the black matte material of the metal.

"Alright." The moonlight gleams off Baelan's long hair. "Ogden, do you have a few packs over one shoulder? Good, so do I. Now, help me with Scruffy. Just slightly lift him, I'll take most of the weight."

Scruffy moans gutturally and kicks once as Baelan's muscles strain in the darkness. With animalistic strength, Baelan lifts Scruffy's front half from the ground, ducking beneath the wolf's chest. Baelan plants two hands on his chest, allowing the wolf's legs to droop lifelessly over his shoulders. With Scruffy's chin resting at his forehead, Baelan lifts his gaze to the rest of the group. Onyx eyes glitter in the darkness. For the first time, his dark wings unfurl slightly from his back to prop Scruffy's flaccid body up. They aren't utterly black, either, though the light is too poor to determine what they may be.

"Is everybody ready?" Baelan questions. It seems everybody is – Paige is clutching my hand, and, remarkably, Raffe's obediently got the weight of Hugo's packs over one shoulder. "Wait, no. I hear Bryon coming. Do you?"

"Yes," answers Raffe.

"Affirmative," pants a new voice. Bryon stumbles from the forest, tripping over his feet. His bronze eyes seem even moon lustrous in the moonlight, as if it is his element. Even the dark mess of his hair seems infused with metal only visible beneath the stars, gleaming in gentle shades of copper and gold, like tiger's eye. His staff still swings in one hand, cloak untouched, but the rest of him is battered and bares only the remains of wounds.

"I slowed down the swarm," he informs. "You do know – yes, you know, you've got Hugo with you, of course you know. Nice to see you again, Bay. Are we going somewhere?" He blinks, reflective eyes glinting in the night. "No, of course! The Nephilim Temple! Oh, you clever boy, Ogden. That's why we pay you the big bucks. Here, Raffe, let me take some of those, it looks heavy."

"I've got it," grunts Raffe, shifting the weight to both shoulders.

"Alright." Bryon recoils, a concerned expression hidden in his eyes. "Well, Penryn, can I borrow Pooky Bear? Just for the walk there, things are bound to get ugly. I've been handling angel swords for a little longer than you, just a smidge. But if nah, that's okay, I can borrow Hugo's bow."

"You can't pick up – never mind, I want to see this." Raffe cocks an eyebrow. "Give it to him, Penryn."

Bryon shrugs. "We really don't have time for this. Give it to me, or don't. It's your decision, Pe – can I call you Penny?"

"No," I veto the moment the words escape his lips. "And sure. Give it a swing. But you'd better give it back the moment we step inside this safe haven. That is, if you can hold her. She's pretty nitpicky."

Without another thought, my hand closes around Pooky Bear's hilt. I toss it in the air, allowing the blade to sparkle in the moonlight, seemingly a star of its own. Bryon catches it flawlessly, without an inkling of effort. He throws it up in the air once experimentally.

"Good blade," he compliments. "You don't get many like this. I think I'll call you Schnuckims. Let's go, shall we?"

"How –" breathes Raffe, but he ends his statement before anyone else can for him. "Never mind, let's leave it until later, like all of these other brilliant questions. We should leave immediately."

"That would be wise," concedes Baelan. "But this company isn't quite known for its wisdom."

"Is this it?" My voice is skeptical after the ages of silence, echoing off the hills. The cave is more like a puncture wound in the skin of the forest floor than a temple or a "Chaza", and the dark pit certainly doesn't look big enough for all of us. Yellow grass sways around in the night breeze, growing over the hillside like hair on a head.

"Yes." Bryon lifts his head, relief shining in his eyes. Hurriedly, he claps his staff against the trunk of a tree, drawing any attention that hadn't been on him. "We need to work swiftly, the swarm will undoubtedly be on us in the hour. Bay, Ogden, Hugo – you all go inside to help with Scruffy, but Bay, I want you to return as soon as you set Scruffy down, and you, Ogden, you stay with Hugo to help him with Scruffy. We need to barricade this door up. Raffe, you drop off your stuff right there at the doorway, and come immediately back out. Ogden, also pick up Raffe's stuff, okay? Penryn, here, take Shnuckims back" – he tosses it underhand, and I find that I, too, can catch it in the air without blinking an eye – "you're going to help me guard the backs of everyone working to barricade this place up. Paige, hon, how about you follow Hugo? Everyone got it? Yes? Go."

People split for the opening, carrying the now frothing at the mouth and unconscious wolf on their shoulders. Hugo's eyes gleam with worry, and one of his hands rests on Scruffy's side. Paige trots obediently after them. With a hostile glance, Raffe slinks as the tail of the beast. Ever since his sword had allowed herself to be handled by Bryon, he'd been sulky, like a kid on the playground whose favorite toy was stolen.

"Shit." Bryon curses quietly to himself. "Thought we had more time than that. Penryn, gather closer, ready position." With a swallow, Bryon's voice amplifies. "Hurry up! I hear the snarls!"

Raffe is outside in a heartbeat, next to the large Native American-colored fallen angel. My angel flexes his muscles, the familiar hiss of his scythes sliding from their sheathes filling the bitter night air. Bryon twists his staff expertly in one hand.

"Penryn, Baelan, you're going to need to guard," he orders. "No matter what attacks you, don't let it get past or get a claw through your defenses. We should have enough antivenin for male poison, but not for female. Raphael – you see these boulders, here?" Bryon gestures towards the uneven boulders peppering the hillside. "They were meant to block the hole up. That's our first order of business. The second path in is always blocked, as well as the third, so them finding an alternate path won't be an issue. Alright?"

"Consider it done." Raffe nods confidently. Despite the nerves tingling through my body as I, too, hear the first echoes of snarls and catlike yowls echoing over the ridges, I cannot help but notice the way he effortlessly heaves a boulder overhead to set it down in the belly of the hole. Bryon hefts his and places it besides Raffe's, gesturing to create a sort of tower with them to block up the eight-foot high hole.

"Ever fought a cherub?" Baelan's voice beckons me back to the present. His obsidian eyes glitter, his red skin tenses.

"No," I admit honestly, a slight flush of embarrassment coloring my cheeks. Imitating his ready stance and the way he holds his sword, I cast sly glances his direction. "I'm a bit new to this world of demons and ghosts. Just killed my first angel not long ago."

"I heard about that." Respect steels Baelan's voice. "Congratulations. Many of my brethren had a good laugh over that one. Considering most of the time they sulk about and stir up lives for the worst, it was comforting to know they still have a scrap of – dare I say it? – humanity."

"It's not every day I get complimented by a fallen angel for killing an angel." I smile dryly and shoot him a curious glance. "So, are you guys, like, rivals or something?"

"Not exactly." His muscles tense more, blade swinging up into a batter's position. "More like angel leaders are pissed at demon leaders. Foot soldiers on the fallen side really just don't give a –" his blade whips through the air the exact moment a beast springs from the shadows, tawny coat illuminated by the moonlight – "DAMN!"

The moment of impact is correspondent to the moment his blade hits the side of the creature's head. It wails and caterwauls into a nearby bush, the sound of a bone snapping nearly as loud as his roar.

"Nice one, Bae – Bay-lan?"

"Call me Bay." He smiles friendlily. "And that was nothing. It's going to get a helluva lot harder."

"Can you tell me where they're coming from?" I wonder, eyes still not able to puncture the shadows of the forest. The snarls had gained an octave the moment Bay's sword had hit the cherub. "I mean, I just need to point – oh, wait, I hereby name thee Pooky Bear."

"You had a chance to rename her!" Raffe howls from somewhere behind me. "Why? Why are you doing this to her? My weapon of utmost destruction!"

Though I ignore the necessity to give him an answer, I do not ignore his words – they bring a grin to my face. "I just need to point Pooky Bear in the right direction. If I don't know the right direction –"

"Coming up on your left, eleven o'clock," Bay interrupts, jerking his head about.

As soon as I gift Pooky Bear with this knowledge, she releases her anger at her cutesy name. I hear its snarl and move accordingly, positioning Pooky Bear in the way she orders. I don't even need to truly swing. The creature skewers itself, leaping onto the ready point and sliding down the blade until its chest hits the hilt with a thunk. My face contorts with disgust as I stare at the leonine neck melting into soft human baby skin and a little infant's head, mouth bristled with acid-dripping teeth. With the toe of my boot, I push it off the end, kicking it away from me in repulsion.

I turn to Bay, searching for approval, only to find him ripping his sword from the breasts of two other cherubs. My pride turns into a pout. "Oh, now you've got more than me."

His head snaps to the side. "Two nine o'clock, all yours."

Pooky Bear works her magic, cutting off each of their snarls. Her blade slices through their golden pelts like a hot knife through butter.

"We're almost finished!" cries Bryon. The snarls are almost like a buzz now, the inescapable buzz of the hive. The term "swarm" makes an alarming amount of sense now.

"They're almost on us!" Bay roars back. He grabs my wrist and drags me closer to the entrance of the Chaza, almost against the stone. "Oh, Christo, here they are."

My vision narrows, and Pooky Bear swings into position. The first cherub is met with my rapid downstrike, the second with a parry towards Bay's domain. Bay is like the demon he appears to be, slicing through the beasts in a hurricane-like fashion. Pooky Bear takes me on autopilot, guiding my limbs into swift motions, mowing down plenty of cherubs of my own.

But the cherubs are overwhelming – their screeches grate on my nerves, vibrating in my ears. The choir of snarls isn't background sound simply because of all the different tones of voice and pitches. No matter how many of the cherubs I slice down, no matter how high the wall of dead bodies before me grows, only more seem to come.

Slowly, the cherubs push me back, their grating squeals bringing agony to my ears. Not only do they approach from the front now – the little devils had flanked us as well. Their eyes – luminescent silver in the dark night – glare with unequivocal odium at me. Talons armed with bloodcurdling strength slice through the air like the wings of a thrush. Desperately, I try to duck and weave to avoid those I cannot block. Fanged mouths, I learn, are a perfect target; the back of their mouths are soft, and, with enough power, you can stab them through the maw and up into the skull.

The flightless cherubs pile over each other. A pair of jaws snaps next to my ear, a single thread of gloopy saliva landing on my forehead before I can slice the cherub down. The poisoned claws of the ones lucky enough to have clambered to the top slice into the tawny hides of those towards the bottom. My muscles tremble with effort of fending off all the claws.

Behind me, Bryon cries out. In the corner of my eye, I see him swinging his staff up to smack a cherub from its lithe pounce. Fatigue drags at my limbs; the high of Pooky Bear's fury is wearing off, grounded into fine sand by the wails of the cherubs.

"Fall back, Penryn!" Bay roars, slamming his elbow into the throat of a cherub that'd pierced through my defense system. At first, I do not comprehend the aberration, only shoved away from him by a reckless sweep of his arm. He takes on the full mass, tensing his muscles and splaying his dark wings, perhaps to increase his size. I stumble back and into a pair of waiting arms, watching as the fallen angel's burly form submerges into a sea of golden pelts, listening to their triumphant screeches with horror when he does not appear again.

"He'll be fine!" Bryon roars over the snarls of the cherubs, his grip on my shoulders tightening. He tugs me back against a rocky barrier, and shoves me to a hole in the fortification. "He'll go to hell if he gets mortally wounded. Go! We'll follow!"

Uncertainly, I back away from the swirling vortex of tawny cherubs, crouching down to shimmy through the gap in the stone and allow the cool darkness of the cave to grip me. The stone barricade is thick, and, with each foot that I inch deeper into the mouth of the cave, the screeching of the cherubs quiets.

Gasping, I drag myself out the other end, blinking at the infinite darkness before me. The dampness on my tongue and the slight drip echoing makes it seem like I'm in a long, wet corridor. Panting, I slide from the hole, wondering how either broad-shouldered Raffe or giant-in-general Bryon will make it through. Groping blindly for a wall, I stumble to my feet, Pooky Bear's tip dragging along the stone flooring with an awful scratch.

"Stop that," snaps Raffe. I can almost feel his movement as he, too, squeezes through the gap. "You're going to hurt her."

"I'm ever so sorry," I mutter sarcastically, "about your poor little sword. Is Bryon alright? Did he make it out?"

"I'm ever so pleased," Raffe counters with a snarl, "about your poor little Bryon. He's on my heels. Be out any second."

"Somebody call my name?" Bryon grunts as he slides from the hole, the sound of his wooden staff clattering against the rock. "I can't see worth a damn. Raphael, do you know where we put the stone was?"

"I can try to find it." Raffe sounds skeptical. My skin tingles as one of his hands clip against my boot. His hand roams back, feeling the rubber tip, then patting it pettily in assurance. "Usually, though, I need a bit of light to operate."

Shooting him a puzzled look he doesn't receive, I mutter, "I thought you could see in the dark. Can't angels see in the dark?"

"Like anybody else," explains Raffe with exaggerated patience, "angels need some light to see anything. Whether it's an entire night sky or a single little star, we can see in the dark much better than people. But there's no light down here, nothing for me to see."

"Found it!" cries Bryon. A deep grunt is issued from somewhere to my right as he evidently hefts a boulder over one shoulder. "Should keep 'em out, this barrier combined with the natural guardians of this place. Ariel should call off the attack soon – Hugo tweeted her in annoyance, so we should get results the next time she's on a tablet."

"What?" I don't think I've ever heard Raffe so baffled.

"Twitter. New gambfingled technology." Bryon's smile is clear in his tone. "She-angels like to keep ahead of the game with the most modern technology. Now that this boulder is in place, we should move deeper into the belly of the temple. Welcoming us to the Chaza will be a statue of Chazaqiel and his ever-burning flame. I'm not sure what you two will do – Penryn, praying to an angel may seem like utter bogus, and Raphael, this entire setup may seem primal – but incense burning sticks will be offered, as well. For good luck, you place one at the feet of one of the Watchers."

"Is that a Nephilim custom?" Raffe's voice is smugly amused. "A way to respect their fathers?"

"No, it's a way for Nephilim to respect the first fathers." Bryon's voice is curt, as if Raffe had offended him. "Many of the Nephilim born today and in today's time never had fathers, true fathers. Just… angels raping women case-scenarios. Those angels are revered by every race across the Earth for becoming something greater than the angelic stereotype, for becoming something absolutely beautiful."

Pitted between two wild animals on the brink of battle, I remain quiet as a prey animal beneath the predators' feet, avoiding drawing any attention to myself.

"Hmm," harrumphs Raffe skeptically. "There is nothing beautiful about siring demons."

"But there is something exquisitely beautiful in raising a family." Bryon taps the end of his staff to the stone floor. "Raphael, you may have different views than I, but now is hardly the time or the place to argue."

"I agree," I add. "We need to find Paige and get the hell on our way. Also, find Scruffy."

"I suppose we'd better move." Reluctance drags at Raffe's words. "Down the creepy passageway, then?"

"Down the creepy passageway," Bryon approves, his footsteps already whispering in the echoes of the hall. The wooden clack of his staff hitting the ground on each lope may eventually drive me mad, but, for the moment, it's calming – a beat, a rhythm to keep in sync with.

"Just out of interest, why could you pick up Pooky Bear?" I wonder.

"I was thinking that I was trying to save Raphael as hard as I could, honestly," Bryon admits. "Those swords read thoughts and intentions, as well. It could be partial to my blood, but I think that it's because I want the angels the hell off Earth as soon as possible, and the only way I can do that is get Raphael his wings back."

"May I ask which Watcher will you be praying to?" inquires Raffe in a too-polite tone of voice.

Bryon's pitch drops an octave. "Me? Why, I'll be praying to Sariel, the one who taught me everything I know."

Nearly all of you decided that surely, Scruffy would be okay. Because I can't kill off a character that adorable so soon. Pfft. Wanna bet?

Alright. So. New character introduction… two in this chapter! Ariel will probably never be that important, but… she's cool, you know? Baelan isn't an actual fallen angel… but he will appear again, which is also cool.

I'm not utterly certain what the cherubs actually looked like – the website I got the winged-lion theory off of looked pretty legitimate, with selections from biblical texts, but it can't be verified. However, I liked the idea when I was first investigating angels to picture the cherubs, so I kept it.

Mild suggestion that you might want to look up the Watchers on Wikipedia and see what Sariel has to offer. Might help piece things together a little bit.

POLL: Nephilim Temple. Chaza. Expectations? Beliefs?

Ciao,

~wolfluvermh