Chapter Twelve

We hadn't left the room, still crouching in the center. The golden light from above remains steadfast and sure, casting light upon the floor of which I huddle against. The air is surprisingly warm, perhaps heated by Bryon's presence.

The warmth harbored in Bryon's cloak remedies the shocked shivers racking my body slightly. Each time he glances my direction, I catch the furtive sheen of concern in his bronze eyes. Though he tries to remain intently focused on mixing the powder with his spit to create that weird brown paste, Bryon still seems drawn back to me, as if his concern grows with each glance my way.

"This is a long story," he cautions in advance, bending over his little pile of powder and spit and the beginnings of the nasty paste, "and one that must be told correctly. Be warned, you won't be able to tell Raphael until I give the okay."

I stare at his back as he reaches across the way to rub Scruffy's nose. "Like Ogden wasn't able to say much about my father. He said… something about… wait for family."

"I have no power over Ogden." Bryon meets my gaze, his calm a balm to my fluttering heartbeat. "That old man is a king in his own regard, and I will not be the one to strip him from that."

"You're doing it." I clench my teeth. "Being mysterious. Can't you just start explaining already? What is that brown stuff?"

"This 'brown stuff' is just paint." Bryon smiles, rubbing the last of the powder into paste and scooping it all together. "I'm a very visual storyteller, so I like to jot some things down as I tell, to help people understand my meanings."

"That's the last of it, right there. Can you start now? I'm so sick of being unsure."

"I suppose so." Bryon kneads the paste, not meeting my eyes. "Well. With every story, there is a beginning. I'm going to start out and tell you the nature of things. There is a start and finish to everything, a dawn and a dusk, a birth and a death. Everything, that is, except the world itself. You humans may speak of the universe and its birth and how something started so long ago, but that's nonsense. I've been around long enough to know that, even if an apocalypse wipes out the world as we know it or all the natural resources are tapped or everyone dies of some freak lab accident – anything to finish an era, or the dusk to a bright day – at the dawn of the next day, everything will be back to normal, and the species of the world will start anew. It is upon that knowledge that I know that the Lord in some way exists – for nothing that spectacular can happen on its own. Do you understand?"

Slowly, I nod. Knitting my fingers together, I say, "Sort of like your analogy with days and such. If one day ends, the next is gonna follow. It's not going to just stop. Yeah, I can understand that."

"Clever girl." Bryon smiles approvingly at me, dipping two fingers into his paste. "And, each time the world regenerated, the same species would return." He pauses, fingers hovering over the sable marble. "Of course, there are thousands upon thousands of different breeds and minor creatures that can be treated like livestock, but I will mention only a few special ones: the returning species, or world powers."

I watch as he slowly draws a figure with an arched back and two demonic wings onto the marble, the style simple but skilled in the same respect. "Contrary to the common belief, Lucifer's fall was not the beginning of the evil in men and the invention of darkness. Even the light of glory and goodness casts a shadow, and so does every other light for that matter. Lucifer was the first to fall in this age, however, and, since he has spent the longest time studying the ways of the dark, he is naturally their leader. Nothing supernatural about it. All the other Fallen are not necessarily evil, either – of course, the rejection turns some bitter and some are evil, but not all. You met Baelan, for a short period of time." Bryon sketches a slightly smaller bat-winged man beside Lucifer. "He was thrown into hell because he fell in love. That should not be a sin, and yet, it is, and he is labeled as an enemy."

"He didn't seem particularly threatening," I admit. "Sort of protective of Hugo, and assertive, but not very threatening."

"See?" Bryon smiles at me, his fingers hovering above the floor. "There is good and evil in everything, rarely just one. Except for demons – those are born from darkness, and I hate to have to trust them in any occasion. Most of the time, the Fallen keep them in line. If I was a miserable bat-winged creature, I wouldn't want annoying monsters running around my feet, either."

With his thumb, he paints a bizarre looking creature mulling at the legs of the Fallen angel.

"Then there are the Wolves." With his non-filthy hand and a furrowing brow, Bryon pats Scruffy's flank, reaching quite a ways to stroke the wolf from where he reclines against the mural wall again. "I'm not sure how I should draw these – they're a wild card among the races, each taking a resemblance to a particular species. There are three main categories – Fallen wolves, Monkey wolves, and Angel wolves. The Fallen wolves have a slim, muscular build, usually with darker coats, and always with bat wings. Uncannily like a Fallen angel, right? Monkey wolves – sorry, I didn't come up with the name – resemble Scruffy a bit more, minus the long legs. They're, well, scruffy, skinny, and, between me and you, usually smarter the others. Angel wolves are huge, massive creatures, with plush pelts and burly muscles. You've only seen Jane once, but she's just a female, and she's much bigger than Scruffy. Big things, with huge feathered wingspans. Each wolf has a unique feature; Scruffy has his legs, Jane has her telepathy and intelligence, and Rumbbaa – you haven't met him– has his four ears."

The canine figures are all slightly above Lucifer and such. The bat-winged wolf is slinking, the plain wolf seems to be prancing, and the huge wolf is caught in a majestic pose.

"Now come humans." Bryon's eyes twinkle. "I doubt I'll have to go very much into depth here. You know your little people, and your fascination in your everyday lives. I love humanity much more than any other species, because of your unique diversity. You never, ever will run into the same personality twice, and that's simply magic in a world of cookie-cutters. Back in the old days, before these goddamned angels and their goddamned world domination schemes, humans were respected for their brains and crafting skills. No one else had that much originality. You were just as revered as any other species, though somewhat more amusing than the rest. That was before even my time, so I hear only second-hand accounts."

"Before the angels…?" I cock my head, leaning forward, staring at the painting. "Does that mean that they weren't always top of the food chain?"

Bryon laughs. "Lord, no. Those bastards didn't always rule everything, imagine the chaos! But all in good time; I'll get there eventually. On the subject of angels, we'll go there next.

"You know what many assume of angels. Proud, haughty pigs gifted with wings, brawn, and sentient swords. And most of that is correct – they are not the brightest creatures when it comes to anything aside from the art of war. That is mostly Gabriel's fault; apparently before, they, too, had geniuses, before they were shunned and banned from society. The angels consist of a complicated system, even though, to outsiders, it is only archangels, angels, and the Messenger. They actually consist of many levels and sublevels of authority that are invisible to anyone but angels. Like a wolf pack. Raphael is on the higher end of archangel hierarchy, whereas Josiah – you met him, didn't you? – is dangerously low. They do not reproduce with the she-angels, but they do have a way of adapting to their environments. I'm not sure, I've never asked one about it. Their swords are irreplaceable. Of course, anyone can get their hands on the special metal with enough grunt work – it's difficult but not impossible. It's one thing we steered humankind away from. But the sentient ability? That's lost to us, and of course the angels don't know."

I lean forward to gingerly touch the wings of the largest angel, mind racing. "The Messenger – is he the real deal, or just a phony?"

Bryon settles back on his haunches. "I do not believe that Gabriel has ever felt a touch of holiness. No, with all that I have seen and felt in my many years, I cannot conclude that the Messenger has any connection to God – it is a mere dictatorship, and one of the cleverest kind. What happened with Lucifer is that he started to challenge Gabriel's connection with God. He stood alone, even though he was one of the most popular archangels of the time – the Morning Star, they called him – and his aloofness proved his downfall. Gabriel accused him of challenging God's power, of undermining God's divine highness. And Lucifer fell, forced to become a wretched creature, all alone in the darkness, because he dared to think and to try at being free from Gabriel."

"This Gabriel guy sounds like a real jerk."

"Well, yes and no. He was smart, very smart. You've seen the destruction the angels have wrecked while not beneath his rule. They were even more dangerous before he took power, because there were no laws or codes restricting how they acted. The rules are a way to bind the brutes, to keep them from harming others. I'd like to believe that Gabriel knew that as he made his claims, knew that, without a head on its shoulders, the beast would only strike blindly and clumsily. If Lucifer had challenged that order and dethroned Gabriel, the angelkind would be thrown into a chaos, a chaos that would affect the rest of the world. If it was a choice between dooming one person and yet saving countless other lives, what would you choose?"

I remain quiet, unwilling to answer the question, unwilling to agree with the cruel Messenger.

"Exactly." Bryon smiles in understanding. "You see, like I'd said before, there's good and evil in everything. But we're getting much off topic, aren't we? There are still two races left for us to discuss."

"Really?" I furrow my brow, stroking the clumpy paint on the wolves. "Isn't that it?"

Bryon chuckles, rolling back into a crouch. "Oh, no, there's still two world powers left. First off, let's get the Seraphim, before too many questions arise. The male Seraphim much resemble angels, slender angels with six pairs of wings: two pairs stacked upon each other at the shoulder blades, and a pair emerging from the small of the back. They are beautiful, and have a sort of soft luminance about them emitted from their feathers. Some of the more powerful ones are so light they can float. The females are actually long, slender snakes with six pairs of tiny wings along the spine. They often coil around their mates' necks. I don't know anything about that mating topic, so don't ask. I do know that, unlike angels, they reproduce, which is, quite frankly, bizarre to me. Even with their odd appearances, the Seraphim were once the top of the food chain."

Bryon draws a little sword in the hand of his angel before returning to the Seraphim sketches. "Once upon a time, these were the leading force in the celestial creatures. They're intelligent, smarter than you'd believe, and fast as the light they bathe in. They worshipped God and believed that he wanted good in all places. As healers, they were peaceful beings, wandering and helping those they came across with arrogant distaste. Though they never were satisfied with their duties, they were wise leaders, ones that kept the angels straight until Gabriel rallied them. Gabriel and his archangels hunted down the Seraphim and threw them from heaven – not into Hell, thank god, the angels would've been killed right then and there from the pure radiance of fury coming from the Seraphim. Now they just sort of wander the Earth, killing archangels on sight. I hope you're realizing how dangerous it is to be travelling with that archangel, by the way."

Smirking, I chuckle, "Everyone hates Raffe, don't they?"

"I didn't want to bring it up – and I've tried being very civil around him – but I do." Bryon grins sheepishly. "Two wrongs don't equal a right in my book. It's difficult to get on my bad side – and damn, I try so hard not to have one – but somehow, that snarky archangel did it."

"Raffe doesn't know how to play the 'act friendly to threatening strangers' card," I sigh, shrugging. "It's made things… difficult, in some situations, but he's tolerable. He's handy in a fight."

Bryon tosses up his head with a quick roar of a laugh. "I'd say that Raphael's a bit more than handy in a fight. I've been up against him enough times to know that he's very, very good."

"Acting mysterious," I remind him. "Besides, we still have one category left."

"Ah, yes." Bryon's smile turns sly, a dangerous gleam accompanying the warmth in his eyes. "My favorite. The Nephilim."

I study his face as he refreshes his paint, smearing his fingers into the paste. "You're a Nephilim, aren't you? Dragon. Is that what you look like, really? Your demon form?"

"'Demon form' is some rather harsh terminology," sighs Bryon, straightening and meeting my eyes. "But, though I try to evade the truth, I suppose it is true to an extent." He looks to the ground and remains quiet for a tense moment, a moment I don't dare interrupt. "Please, Penryn, allow me to explain what a Nephilim truly is before you make any harsh judgment of me."

"I'll try," I whisper, but already, my hands tremble slightly. I remember what Raffe had said, about the Nephilim devouring people – but abruptly, I pause, remembering what Hugo had said when I'd first met Bryon, about how he'd wean Paige off of human flesh.

"Penryn, might I ask you what the difference between a wolf and a dog is?" Bryon questions, his fingers hovering over the marble.

"Uh." I frown, thinking. "One will bite your hand off, and the other's man's best friend." Scruffy mewls in protest, silenced by Bryon's caressing hand.

"One is domesticated, treated with loving care, with a family and a home and a happy life." Bryon smiles. "The other is alone. It's been treated like a mangy animal for its entire existence, so it knows no other way. It is a monster, one that will quickly harm animals if it believes that they can be prey. However, you and I both know a benign wolf." He strokes Scruffy's mane, his hand roaming up to scratch behind the wolf's ears. "And any unloved dog out on the streets can go feral. This is the same with Nephilim. You have both options, and neither one is adamant on its path.

"What Raphael and the other archangels saw as during the period of the Fall of the Watchers was a period I call the Terrible Twos." He smiles sadly at me, bronze eyes flashing. "My father claims that I never hurt a soul except for occasionally nipping my mother, but I'm not sure how viable he is. During this stage in a Nephilim's life, we're like any other little child – sticking whatever we can in our mouths, throwing temper tantrums, having mood swings. True, a few of our inherited abilities marked our activities as slightly more perilous, but our parents were always there to keep us on the right path, as any parents are. I suppose…" He trails off, meeting my gaze. "After Raphael found out about the Watchers' fraternizing, the first angel he went to was my father. He threatened my dad disparagingly, and, apparently, I did not like that at all. First, I hissed at him, revealing my existence to Wrath of God. Then, he cursed at my father for spawning a little demon and I grew angrier. I tore a chunk out of his arm, if I remember correctly."

I can't help laughing a short, breathy chuckle. The thought of a little tiny Bryon ripping into Raffe's arm is morbidly amusing.

"Raphael flew off, but of course, his interaction with me had scarred his image of us. If I could, I would take back what happened that day. What soon followed was the imprisonment of my father and the other Watchers." Suddenly, he clears his throat. "I suppose I should've lead with this, but I'll make time for it now, before my tale really hits the fan. We, the sons and daughters of the Watchers, were not the first Nephilim to tread the Earth. Nor were some of us the first to evade the angel's talons. No, Ogden had done it, centuries before us."

"Ogden?" I whisper in surprise.

"Oh, yes. You see, he was the offspring of a pretty maiden and a drunken angel. The angel kept it quiet, and so did the mother. He was hidden in a blacksmith's forge until he reached an age he could control himself in. Ogden was alone for the longest time, but, when the Watchers started siring, he hung around and formed bonds with all of us. When our fathers disappeared, he filled their roles as best he could, using his strength to wallop us into line if that course of action was necessary. When our mothers went into hiding – if they were not killed by the hellions – he held us after we had nightmares, and wiped our tears after we fell down. Ogden became the Mama Bear, and earned the title the First Nephilim. Even though I technically have a better seat in politics to other species, he is as respected as I am among the Nephilim."

"You're king, aren't you? Nephilim King as well as Dragon King?"

"They call me their king, yes, but it'll be explained in good time." Bryon winks and smiles, holding a dyed finger to his lips, leaving a smudge on their full shape. "Ogden hid us, lead us to place after place. Raphael tracked down other groups of Nephilim – there were two hundred Watchers; although only twenty of them were considered leaders, all of them had children. It was a slaughterhouse, because Ogden could not protect the ones that fled from their houses after their mothers left, could not hide them from Raphael's blade if they chose to dine on the humans that so easily strutted up to little bawling children in the street. Not one survived, though I searched long and hard for brothers and sisters. When all the easy leads had vanished, all the little children running free on the streets had disappeared, Raphael went after the big catch.

"There were over twenty of us, in all. Twenty six, assuming I'm remember right. In the time Raphael had been hunting down our brethren, many of our number had begun to grow to full size. I didn't – I had the curse of long life, a life that's extended my days until now. So, when Raphael finally tracked us down, I had the appearance of a three year old boy. I was a runt, a skinny thing, clutching to my father's cloak the way another child may grip a teddy bear." He breathes deeply, closing his eyes, to hide pain. "I remember that night so clearly. I remember the flames, Penryn, licking the chapel like hell itself reaching for the sky, and Raphael hovering over the steeple with sweeping flaps of his snowy wings. The ash fell like tears from the bloody red sky. Ogden had gone out to fight him, to try and ward the archangel off. It didn't work. Raphael sliced off his tongue and left him to die in the smoldering remains of a burning hut, the injuries causing Ogden his misshapen build now. After that, he took off, after me."

Bryon chuckles dryly, still not opening his eyes. "I told that bastard to remember me. I thought that I was going to die valiantly, that the fight I would put up would make a mark on Raphael. To him, I was just a boy. I lead the charge. We were headed for a forest that had these lovely blossoms, a forest I grew up near, a forest where my father taught me everything he knows, and I was confident we could make the distance. Once submerged in the shadows of the undergrowth, Raphael could not be able to find us, surely. We did not even make it." His voice grows slightly more labored. "I had a little sister. She was right at my heels, we were going to make it. When Raphael came out of the blue and stabbed her, I turned around and I snarled at him. I would've leapt, ripped out his throat, but, for the first time, I saw the bodies of all my friends and family, lying lifelessly over the mountain."

"I'm sorry," I whisper, something deep within me longing to erase his palpable agony. "It must've been rough."

"I do occasionally have nightmares." Bryon clears his throat and refocuses. "But that's the past, and it was a long time ago. Ogden and I, we stumbled out of that Hell. Raphael, callous son of a bitch, he'd hit me upside the head – I'm not sure why he thought I was dead, but apparently he did. I had a scar for a long time, but it's gone now. Ogden was burned badly, couldn't even walk. I didn't wake up in his arms. The Wives had returned, the surviving fifty. Those that knew the dead or were the mothers of the dead were all crying. According to Daisy, my mother was stumbling around, bugling my name desperately, searching for my body. She wanted to believe that I had lived, but she just couldn't. I had landed in a ditch after Raphael had hit me, and I was hidden, even as she dropped to her knees and pulled the body of my sister onto her lap and sobbed. It wasn't until I started muttering in my sleep that she realized I was living.

"I honestly thought she was going to kill me, she was holding me so tight. She was happy, of course, but she was also injured. Her flee from the hellions had impacted her, less so than the imprisonment of her husband or the death of her daughter, but she was a changed woman. She, much like I, became furious at the world. The Watchers had left their swords with their wives, since every wife can hold their husband's sword. She took up that sword and she slaughtered the angels that remained on Earth, that's what she did. Thea was always a fiery, creative creature, but she soon proved to be even more lethal than a mother wolf with threatened pups. That earned her the famous codename She Wolf."

"Your mother is She Wolf?" I burst. "That means that your father was Sariel!"

Bryon smiles, his bronze eyes opening. "Clever, clever girl. Yes, my father is Sariel, the Lion, former keeper of the cherubs. With all hopes, we should meet him somewhere along the way. He'll be so happy to see you. My father and I – I realize now we're much in common. Protective of those we love, open to those we don't know, and a dangerous enemy. I left my mother not long after she started hunting the angels, simply because, although I looked young, I had a rebellious thirst for freedom – I wanted to see the world myself, and learn all of its secrets. I do believe I broke her heart, but she let me leave, let me go my own way. It only made me harsh.

"A child is not meant to be on its own, to learn how to navigate the world itself. A child should be given familial guidance, should be shown how to be kind and gentle. I never was taught that by my parents – Ogden fell into depression, so I never stayed much around him, either. As I grew and I learned more about how bitter and evil and strange this world is that I lived in, I became angrier and angrier with it. My belligerence was frighteningly blissful, and it grew with each fistfight I won, each tussle I reigned victorious over. I continued in this fashion for many a year, and, with this euphoric rage, I found relief in pummeling Raphael.

"I had all my motives, of course – by this time, there was illegal offspring from drunken angels and such who'd heard the rumors of human women, as there always has been – so, when Raffe descended to hunt, if he spent all his time battling me, there was no chance he would kill any of my brethren. If I fought Raphael and killed him, no one would ever be hurt by his wrath again. If I earned expertise in the world of fighting, someday, my own children would be safe from any harm that fell upon them. And so, every time I saw that archangel, I would shift into my other form, and meet him on the battlefield."

"You still haven't explained the other forms thing," I remind him softly.

"Oh." Bryon blinks. "I haven't, that's right. I'm getting caught up storytelling, aren't I?"

"Don't stop, it's interesting. I'm piecing together the world along with your descriptions."

"Alright. I won't. But first, other forms." Bryon smiles and shuts his eyes, cutting off the bronze gleam. "Nephilim have two technical 'forms' – we have the human appearance, the one that our fathers or mothers gave to us, and we have what happens when the blood mixes. We have fangs and tails and – well, everyone is different. We can shift between the two with ease. Me? I am a dragonish creature, a dragon without wings. But, Penryn, this person you see here, this form?" Bryon turns to me, touching one dirty hand to his face. "It isn't just a skin, just a tarp to cover up a beast inside. This is me. I am just as much this man as I am that beast. That's something you've got to remember when dealing with any Nephilim – that 'demon form' we have? That's us, too. We're the same, there is no difference. True, usually, when I go 'dragon', it isn't to skip through a field of daisies, but it's the same soul. I am Bryon. Bryon Young. If you look into my eyes and see a monster, you are not my friend. I am Bryon, and that will not change, no matter the form."

Then, smiling sadly, he blinks for a long time. When his eyes open once more, the pupils are slits, like he'd said – the bronze gleam there is somehow brighter, and the sadness just as potent. He smiles, the reptilian eyes sending shivers through me again. With another long blink, they vanish, returning to round dots in the center of his eyes.

"That's creepy," I whisper. "That's… seriously creepy. But I think I can live with it."

"Are you certain?" Bryon's gaze is yearning for understanding, watching intently for my approval, but there is so much fear, so much expectation of rejection there that my heart tugs. "If you are not, I'd rather know."

I square my shoulders. "My mother does dealings with demons, my father had wings, my sister… is an angel ragdoll, and my primary companion is an archangel with bat wings. Bring it on."

Very slowly, Bryon starts to smile at me, warmth touching his expression. Clearing his throat, he tries to realign the conversation, to focus himself, to banish his smile. "So, yeah, I'm a dragonlike monster. Every time I would see Raphael, I would engage him as a monster, not allowing him to see this face. Every time, I would limp away seconds before I was overwhelmed, disappearing without a trace. Every time during my convalescence, I would grow bitterer, more hateful.

"Until I met my father again. I looked about sixteen at the time, and it was millennia since I had parted with him. If it hadn't been for my mother's descriptions of him – how I reminded her of him, how we had the same reflective eyes – I would've not had a clue upon his appearance. I had paired multiple personalities to that face she constructed over the years: kind and gentle, harsh and cruel, warm and soft. None had seemed to fit. I remember it so well, the time I first looked at him."

"But wasn't he imprisoned?" I wonder, eyebrows furrowing. "Thrown into hell or whatnot?"

Bryon nods once. "He was. But it was in a time when Gabriel kept stacking up the rules, kept adding more, throwing angels into the Pit for reasons beyond me. And, with each new force that descended, the defenses grew weaker." He lifts his open hand, forming a blade with his fingers, and sending a fragile quiver through it. "This is walls, the walls separating the creatures in the Pit from the outside world. See it?" His hand jerks suddenly, a major change when compared to all the little shivering. "Did you see that?"

"Yes."

"Good. So did the Watchers. They learned that the walls fluctuate, and, occasionally, broke form for brief moments. They, the ones that had been there the longest, learned how to escape one at a time. Of course, they were intelligent enough to return. Uriel still kept a close eye on Hell, and any permanent absence would be noted and their gap would be sealed. But they checked to see if their wives had survived – and many of the fifty had, drinking my blood to extend their lifetimes. Those Watchers which ascended and searched for the love of their lives, wandering to discover the one of which they had prayed for and dreamed of in that dark hole, only to discover a headstone often went mad, committing suicide or becoming bloodthirsty, eventually to be taken out by the angel hunters. Those Watchers which found their wives – would you believe it – sired more Nephilim. My father, seeing this and frowning upon it, searched for me.

"You see, Penryn, he remembered me as the genteel little boy that wouldn't harm a fly, despite what my mother warned him. He thought that I could teach the new Nephilim as soon as they were born, teach them how to live without human flesh. A human diet never had satisfied me, but I never, ever wanted to be the wise teacher I am now. I wanted to be a warrior, expert of melee. My anger led me there. And so I was not prepared for him."

Bryon blinks rapidly a few times, dispelling a watery glint in his eyes. "I remember, it was a hot day, sticky as ever. I remember I was darting through the crowds, shadowed by this cloak, when I heard his voice." He laughs breathily once, and then allows his eyes to well. "Penryn, that was one of the happiest days in my existence. I remember he said, 'You there! Your cloak!' I turned around, and I was looking him in the eye – he was wearing a cloak in the dead of summer like me. I didn't recognize him, so I cocked my head and gave him an angry glare. He stepped closer to me, expression softening into disbelief, and he said – he said, 'That's my cloak. I gave my boy that cloak. Why do you have my boy's cloak?'" Bryon's breaths tremble. "And I said, 'What kind of cruel joke are you playing? My father gave me this cloak.' And… it hit us both, in the same heartbeat, nearly as hard as Raphael hit the roof of a nearby building.

"If I'm correct, he was actually fighting some sort of demon. It flew off and left him to recover. But I didn't waste a chance – Raphael was wounded, and I was fresh as a daisy. With my father watching in horror, I leapt onto the roof Raphael had crashed on. He was barely conscious, utterly at my mercy. Oh, God, I remember the triumph, crushing his throat. I remember his weak gurgle, eyelids sliding open to reveal those dimming blue eyes. His life was mine. I was not going to give that up, and I wouldn't have, if my father hadn't been there."

"What did he do?" I whisper, the picture of Bryon's angry face and his hand around Raffe's throat vivid in my mind.

"He cried, 'You are not my son!' I paused. I was confused. His voice brought so many memories back, memories I had long forgotten. My father teaching me to be kind. Teaching me to forgive people, even if they hit me. Teaching me how to make flowers float. I turned to him, eyes wide, and my grip on Raphael relaxed slightly. I said, 'He's hurt me.' He said, 'I know.' Then, in confusion, I said, 'He's hurt you.' My father smiled and said, 'I know that, too. But my son would have forgiven him. My son would've taken the blows, and not searched for the fight. Where is he? Where is my son?'" Bryon sighs slowly, looking deep into the past. "I dropped Raphael, leaving him gasping for breath, and took a few steps towards my father – there was now no doubt on my behalf. I was bewildered, confused by his rejection – I was still a child inside, a child yearning for his daddy. I hadn't taken to many steps before I crashed to my knees and started crying, just like I had when I was a boy. My father wrapped his arms around me then, and carried me away. Oh, Lord, I was a mess."

"It sounds sweet." I glow with envy, wishing my father had done something so beautiful for me. "Did he forgive you?"

"Of course he did." Bryon turns his face to me, wisdom playing at his lips. "That's what family does. He took me under his wing, and taught me to live again – he taught me that surviving isn't living. He taught me how to fight without mortally injuring someone, how to lead, how to be a man, not a monster. Between you and I, I think my mother taught him how to be a man, and he preferred it to being an angel. But I owe my father everything. He is the reason I turned my nose up to killing Raphael thousands of times – he'd attacked me upon realizing that I was Nephilim and I'd knock him out. My father is the reason I became respectable King of all the Nephilim in the world today, the reason that I began to live again, the reason I had your father to teach everything I knew about the world."

"My father." The word is a whisper.

"Yes." Bryon smiles. "I have no idea how many times I will say this, but wait, and I'll tell. Around when I was twenty, gauging by appearance, the angels returned. The humans were in the midst of a big boom of wealth and engineering – much like the nineteen-twenties here in America, might I add, but all over the world. They cut that off, cut all those lives short. My Nephilim were also flourishing, learning how to hide and how to love. There were Nephilim falling in love with Nephilim and starting Nephilim families. There were Nephilim falling in love with humans and creating spliced families. And, soon, Nephilim and angels as well. I was respected as a leader among them, a wise man despite my young appearance – I'd graduated from my father's teachings, looking beyond his embrace to find a peaceful path of my own. The angels interrupted that.

"I instantly began a sort of hidden warfare against them – you know what. Angels don't remember humans, and, to an angel's eyes, I look human. It would've gone rather smoothly, dismissing them, if it hadn't been for two she-angels and their quest for suffrage. Ariel, the Lioness, and Audiat, the Wish." He glances up at the wall, looking at the angel hovering beside him in the painting with a grin. "Audiat got stuck in one of the human traps. I, being the gentleman I am, rescued her from the gunshots and marched her home in my arms over a course of three days. Once I was at the aerie, we waved goodbye for a time. But her dreams of suffrage stuck with me, and soon, the Nephilim were allied to the she-angels."

"Wait," I interrupt. "So the she-angels are different from just plain angels? I saw plenty of them at the aeries I've been to."

Bryon rolls his eyes. "Spies, Penryn. And females want to be considered an entirely different species, considering they can't reproduce at all, not even with male angels. Anyway, during the first few stages of their domination, Hugo had joined me, and we wandered the world together. Ogden, too, became attached to the boy's funky attitude. We eventually sent the angels back to their place up in the sky – before you ask, even I don't know about it – and life returned to what it is now. At the end of that period, Hugo – who was twelve at the time – drank my blood, and he, too, became nearly immortal. It blended well with him, leading to an even slower aging than mine.

"But then, I was alone again. I did what I always did – I wandered, I mourned those I had lost, and I helped the Nephilim children learn right from wrong. With each new experience and each new life I rescued and guarded, my legend grew stronger, until I was practically living, breathing folklore. People would whisper my name as I would pass through a supermarket, elders would fantasize of my swollen heart and warm benevolence around the fireside, children would offer me flower necklaces. The Nephilim officially formed an organized government, with me at the head as King. They could've chosen democracy if they'd liked, and yet, they chose the Dragon with the past of blood to lead them through times of crisis and woe. Of course, if they wanted me to leave, I would've, but all the same, I grew attached to the role. That life was lonely in the same way it was beautiful – I hopped from friendly center to friendly center all by myself, never staying long enough to grow attached. I danced, I laughed, I sang, and I left. It was fun, to find the hidden beautiful places of the world and to coax humanity back to its former glory. But I suppose that none of that really matters enough to elaborate upon, not when compared to your father."

I look him up and down, probing for a flaw in his composure. "You said that you're my family. You said that your father gave you my dad. Are you…?"

"If you're going to say grandpap, no. If you're going to say cousin, no. If you're going to say uncle, I'm going to say ding-ding-ding."

My throat chokes up. I study his face, trying to memorize every nook and cranny of it. The harder I look at that skin of his, bathed in golden light, the more I see similarity. The line of his jaw is nearly identical to my father's, and his lips closely resemble mine. Nephilim. The word is a blade, slicing apart all my other thoughts.

"He never mentioned you," I whisper.

"He never mentioned me. Never let you know that you had an uncle." Bryon breathes in painfully, looking off into the distance. "Bet he probably said your grandparents died, too. It broke their hearts, knowing that they'd never meet their grandkids. I made a promise to my brother that I'd never reveal your location to them, but it became harder and harder to keep it. I loved that silly, quirky, little idiot, but he had a falling out with our father. He thought that I was the favored son, thought that he was always second best. Which he wasn't, not in a million years. But we'll tell ourselves funny lies, don't we? He lived the life of a mechanic with the mindset of an angel – common humans are dumb, and not to be meddled with. As he grew older, it only seemed to prove truer. For a time, I think he added 'Older brothers are dumb' to the list, but he never said.

"How he first met your mother always has interested me, surprised me. She was a government agent – I always forget which branch – and she was investigating a few weird deaths in the area. He was hunting down the demon that killed them. It was an entire pack of hellhounds, and one of them had strayed from the group. In its confusion, it had started to kill people. They crashed into each other quite literally, and fought the demon together in some cacophonous union. She wanted to know more, he didn't want to tell her, and she made him show her his world. The first time I met her, I was training with some tempered swords, shirtless. I'd never seen my brother so jealous. It was amusing at the time. I thought he just wanted to be ripped, thought nothing of the human woman. He hated humans, it didn't even seem like an option for him."

"He always did seem a bit intolerant of clerks and telephone operators," I acknowledge with a nod.

Sidetracked, Bryon snorts with laughter. "You're telling me. That guy could argue with a human for hours without pause. But he didn't with your mother. It at first amused, then puzzled me. Over a series of weeks, they tracked down the entire hellhound pack side by side, falling more and more in love with each demon they slaughtered, until there was only one left. It was the omega, the little guy, they didn't even realize it existed. They were in a cave when it sought revenge. You know, thinking back, they never did say what they were doing all alone in a – I'm going stop that thought right there. Anyway, they were in the cave, all alone. The hellhound creeped out and took a chunk out of your father. He apparently died in her arms, and the hellhound escaped into the night.

"You know as much as I do about what happened with Lucius. I really have no clue about your mother. I just know that she was dealing with demons, which is never to be done.

"Your father returned to us. He decided that, instead of being irritated with the human world, he would be irritated with the world he'd known all his life. As they fell more and more in love, he strayed further and further. It wasn't until he cut off those glorious grey wings of his that I realized he was truly drifting from me. It made me sad, to see him go, but I was happy he'd found a place by that madwoman's side. When he completely gave up our way of life –" Bryon's breath catches. "He did it completely. He allowed people like us to come to the wedding, acting normal and dressed like humans, but he didn't let anyone get close to him afterwards. He gave me up for your mother and the little baby you. I'm not going to lie, it broke my heart as much as it did my parents' when he left us. I had no way to look for him, no way to find him. I didn't want to, really, but it was difficult for me."

"Wait." I furrow my brow. "If my father did all of this for my mother and I, why did he leave us? He's obviously hiding most of the truth from you."

"Well, eventually, he sought me out again." Bryon's smile is wry. "Paige had a bit of Nephilim spirit in her as a baby. Nipping, occasional hissing. He wanted to keep her oddities from your mother and you, so he turned to me. I saw you, once, from a distance. After I gave the little girl a bit of therapy, your father made me promise not to tell a soul I'd helped, or that I knew where he was. We shook on it, and… I didn't really leave, I'll admit. I would go on long wanders or take strolls around the planet, but I'd always come back to your city. Your mother's 'demons' frightened me, and I didn't want anything actually coming after his perfect little family, which, in reality, wasn't so perfect. But of course, something did happen."

"What?" I whisper hoarsely, dread slowly speeding my pulse.

Bryon breathes in and then exhales, letting the air out slowly. "Do you remember the day when your dad called you from Wyoming and broke it off with your mother?"

How could I forget? "Yeah."

"He was breaking it off because he was dying. He didn't want you to follow him, to try to find him, to learn the truth about the world around you. So he broke all of your hearts, including his own, and told me to fabricate the evidence. It –" Bryon breaks off, looking at his palms. "It was hard. Harder than I thought."

"Why was he dying?" I demand. "What – why did he leave if he was happy as he was?"

"I don't know," confesses Bryon. "It's not like he told me everything. We weren't pen pals. I do know that this was after he evacuated this very Chaza, and that there were some reported hellhound sightings. For some reason, that idiot was hunting hellhounds again. They're dangerous creatures. He could've probably taken one or two. I have no clue why he approached a pack of fifteen. That secret died with him. I just remember, after having tracked him to those green forests, watching as he fled from a pack nipping at his heels."

"What?" I whisper.

"Don't look at me. Wasn't my idea. Now, your father usually would take flight in such situations, but, as it happened, he couldn't. No wings. So, being the idiot I was, I slid down the ridge and distracted the pack. They focused on me, those red eyes fixing on the Nephilim King. I ran like hell from those things. Your father gave me a glance as I passed over a hill, a glance that almost made my suicidal rescue worth it. Gratitude, and warm, warm, apology. Oh, man, it felt good to see that he didn't hate me like I thought he did.

"I, uh, dispatched of the hellhounds in unpleasant ways. I, unlike your father, spent half of my life training to be a ruthless killer. Of course I could finish off some hellhounds. I don't know what happened while I was gone, really – but I remember limping over the hill, and seeing my brother turn to me. He beamed at me, and lifted his hand to wave hello, blue eyes sparkling the way they used to when he was a boy. Then the most awful eyes in all of hell burned to life behind him, and the omega of the pack pounced before I could do anything. It mauled my little brother and escaped into the night."

I quiver as tension builds in Bryon's voice.

"I held him in my arms, just the way I did when he was a baby squalling for his mother. He gripped my cloak, and his blood – I shouldn't give you the details. He clawed for his phone, made the call with a steady voice, not saying a word to me. When he hung up, he looked me in the eye, and said, 'Make it right.' And then… he died." Bryon swallows. "For the second time in my life, I'd lost my little sibling. For the second time in my life, I buried my little sibling beneath a full moon."

I fall quiet. "He's dead. Truly, properly dead. Do you think it was the same hellhound?"

"Maybe." Bryon takes a fascination in the palms of his hands again. "A demon out to get him. Maybe."

"My God," I choke out. "He's… he's… dead."

"Your mother wanted to revive him." Bryon's voice is soft, guilty, as he stares at his hands. "She pinned me one day outside of your apartment, ordering me to call the demons. But I wouldn't let her gather them. She'd already sacrificed her sanity to Lucius. I was afraid her children were next. I couldn't bear to be around that flat, though, didn't guard you as I should've, and, soon, this whole angel matter erupted – humans were unaware, but signs were brewing for those with clever eyes, and the Nephilim were looking for answers. I've had no real time to grieve."

"I didn't know I was supposed to be grieving," I breathe. I suppose that, all things considered, he'd been an okay dad. If I take out his betrayal, he'd been pretty great. The fact that he'd died, killed by one of the monsters he'd tried to keep away from Mom and I – it hurts, like a gunshot to the chest. "I've always sort of blamed him for everything with Mom and all, blamed him for not being there, but –" A single tear dribbles over.

"It's alright." Bryon surprises me, wrapping his arms around me. Burying my head into his shoulder, I allow myself to be cradled by my uncle. I'm clutched to his chest, held so tightly that his heartbeat resounds through me like a drumbeat. "Somehow, someway, it's alright, Penryn."

This is a long, long chapter. But it's time you got some answers, don't you think?

POLL: What are you surprised by in this chapter, hmm?

Ciao,

~wolfluvermh