Chapter Fifty

The swapping of tales begins, starting off with a story about one angel's idiot maneuvers in air that caused something terrible to happen – I'm not sure exactly what, for Audiat cuts them off by herding them towards the table like a mother with little children at a birthday party.

Hugo's gentle nudge jars me from my reverie. "Penryn, we've got to go do waiter stuff. Come on."

The moment the doors slam shut behind us, I whirl to Hugo in dismay. "Are we just going to be serving them drinks while Raffe and his buddies catch up?"

Hugo chuckles. "I warned you, this whole secret agent thing really isn't as fun as it sounds. We might get maybe one interesting tidbit. Nothing will heat up until the ground starts shaking, maybe thirty minutes from now?"

"That'll be when Bryon arrives?" I question, cocking an eyebrow.

"No, that'll be when he first crosses the mountains. He won't actually reach the valley until thirty-five minutes." Leading me towards the piles of appetizers awaiting servers, Hugo shrugs. "He can move really, really fast, but it drains his energy real quick – the only way he can stock up on that energy is by either eating a couple schools of fish whole or with his flowers. We've got –" Hugo fishes a steampunk pocketwatch from his servant's suit – "fifty minutes left until the sun goes over the mountain. So, for fifteen minutes, he'll be fighting on his own, with all the force he's got – already winded, already wounded. To put that into perspective, your little duel with Beliel didn't last even five minutes. This is going to be quite the risky endeavor."

"How are his flowers going to heal him?" Using expertise from the Italian pizza place I worked at throughout most of high school, I balance the trays of gnocchi and bacon treats on the palms of my hands. "I mean, give him energy or whatever."

"Good question." Hugo grins. "When he taps the ground or whatever, he releases the energy of the flowers, right? It's not his energy in them, it's their own – he's just like a hormone in the brain telling the body to do something. However, unlike a hormone, he can totally harness that energy and use it to aid his own. A few centuries ago, he was even practicing, like, wielding the blue shit – had blue smoke stuff billowing out of his eyes. Looked possessed, he did."

"Do you think he'll be able to do that again?" I wonder, tilting my head to one side as I shoulder my way through the doors. "It'd add a nice effect, wouldn't it?"

Hugo shrugs in silence before channeling his focus upon the party unfolding – he stiffens his back and carefully balances the platters on the tips of his fingers, plastering a controlled smile over his face with disciplined ease. I have less ease in achieving utter professionalism, especially as I draw closer to the warriors guffawing as they pull back chairs they could smash to splinters with a single fist if they put their mind to it.

At the head of the table is Raffe, looking comfortable with his position of leadership and his assumption of dominance. He laughs boisterously at something someone further down the table says, his white teeth flashing. At his right side sits Audiat, swinging her legs from the chair that's much too big for her little body, and on his left sits Uriel, looking only the slightest bit vexed about the sitting arrangements.

"So, what the devil have you been up to, Raphael?" wonders one, shaking his head slowly.

Nodding, another adds, "There have been rumors that… you've gone south, Raffe."

A gleam of sharp annoyance shafts through Raffe's gaze. "I've been informed of those rumors, yes. But anyone that knows an inkling of my character knows that such things are preposterous."

"Anyone that knows an inkling of your character knows that you take what you want," negotiates a freckled angel with dotted wings. "An argument can be made at that angle, to be fair. Personally, I'm glad you've still got your sense in order – we're being attacked from all sides, you realize. Even the Seraphim are up in arms! I've never heard of anything like that!"

"And there has been growing unrest in the Nephilim as well." Raffe sighs tersely, propping elbows up on the table and squeezing his eyes shut. His hands clutch around each other. "I regret to announce that a few of the bastards have tailed me here from Africa. They're like rats – they've already repopulated. Civil wars are breaking out all amongst them – and, to update you all, I'm allowing it. Best to have as many of the monsters knock themselves out, eh?"

"Move out of the way, sunshine," growls the angel I lean in front of to set down a dish of scrumptious looking shrimp, plump and quivering. As I retract, my mouth waters slightly. This food looks – and smells – much better than the pancakes served at breakfast. Only the best, I suppose, for the angelic overlords.

"Where are all of them coming from, Raphael?" Uriel cocks his head to one side, as if legitimately curious. "And what are the bumps in the night we've all been hearing?"

"Africa." The moment Hugo finishes pouring Raffe's drink, Raffe tips it back, his water disappearing in a single gulp. Tapping Hugo's arm, he orders softly, "No water next time" before continuing with his tale. "You'd think that you knuckleheads would actually listen to what I've tried to drill into your heads – Daughters of Men are dangerous."

I try to keep my hands from shaking. A cheese cube in the dish I set on the table topples from its perfect pyramid. The glares of the he-angels scald my skin.

"I was over there trying to clean up their massive slip-up for the longest time, provoking Nephilim as I did so. Drilled myself into their heads as a sort of devil. White wings and blue eyes, that's what they fear. In other words, the only ones they'd run from with their tails tucked would be Titaniel and I."

Breaking the tense silent eagerly, the angels chorus their amusement. Laughter echoes around the table, and they swivel to Titaniel expectantly before realizing that this is indeed Titaniel, and the only sort of response they'd receive would be a twitch of lips, if that.

"But that all changed when the Horse was set loose." His expression blackens. "Just a little bit." Broodingly, Raffe glares down at the remnants of water trickling down the sides of his glass. "My friends, I have never seen a creature look more relieved to have one of those hellbeasts on the loose than those Nephilim. After it became clear that I was hurting the aeries with the Horse rather than helping them, I went my separate path. Have any of you heard anything from them recently?"

As if Raffe had flipped a switch, the faces of the angels go ashen and grim. Most find sudden interest in their empty plates, or shovel shrimp and meatballs into their mouths to find a reason not to speak.

"They've been oddly silent for us, too," Audiat pipes up, wrapping herself in her little wings. "We wanted to check with you before we dispatched any parties to scan the area."

"I wouldn't," Raffe sighs. "If the worst has come to happen, then it's best we stay as far away from their breeding grounds until we've got a good grip on our numbers and theirs. A frail little party of a dozen men wouldn't dent their numbers. Might fatten them up, though."

An uneasy stir passes through the room. Distrustful of the silence, I warily turn my back on the banquet table for only seconds to pick up my next platter of appetizers from a kitchen servant at the doors.

"What if the worst hasn't come to happen?" Josiah questions in a quiet, hopeful voice.

"They'll find a way to contact us, ask for help." Raffe shrugs. "At this point, it's nothing more than a waiting game – but we should consider our losses as if worst has happened. The angelic slave quarters were primarily focused there and, because of their vulnerability, were easy targets. It's safe to say such areas are gone."

"Oh, no," Audiat whispers mournfully, curling up further in on herself, her eyes swimming with memories.

"Oh, yes." Shaking his head, Raffe sets his glass down. "You see all the fun you've been missing on Earth? But oh well – what is to be done? We can only prepare for the future." He leans forward. "And I want to teach each and every one of you how to kill a Nephilim."

Audiat's alarm slices through her sorrow like a dagger, but even that does not last very long.

Starting as a low, distant rumble that causes the plates to shiver and quake, a deep, grating noise begins to grow on the horizon of my hearing. The angels all clench up and begin clutching their ears, their temples, as the noise steadily increases in both volume and pitch, growing higher and louder and throatier until I'm completely certain of its origin. Raffe's cup falls off the table and shatters, the glass shards dancing over the floor. An angel wails, thrusting back his head so far that his chair topples backwards.

It's the sound of a massive, earthshaking roar.

When at last the dreadful noises ceases, I sit there shivering nearly as bad as Audiat, blinking, utterly dumbstruck. Angels moan and groan, holding their ears and cradling their heads, trying to comfort their sensitive hearing as best possible. Raffe merely shakes his head, clears his throat, and stands up.

"It seems we're out of time already." Calmly, he casts aside his black suit jacket, throwing it over the back of his chair. "And on such a dramatic note, too. I'd say it'd be best if you bumbling lot stay behind on this one – the last thing we need is another set of deaths."

"What was that?" Josiah coughs, blinking his eyes miserably through hacks.

"A Nephilim's roar." Audiat's expression of childish wonder leaves me no doubt as to which Nephilim it belongs to.

Hugo bumps my shoulder with his own, his coppery opalescent eyes saturated with concern. Eyebrows doing a little dance, he mouths, "You okay?"

I grin weakly, mouthing back, "Yeah, and you?"

With a shrug and a smile, Hugo chuckles and mouths, "When am I ever okay?"

"There's no way that's a Nephilim," Uriel whispers, his eyes blown wide with incredulity. "No. No way in hell."

"You're not wrong." Raffe barely even glances towards Uriel as he draws Pooky Bear, brandishing her brilliant gleaming length proudly, perhaps to dash any existing doubts about his allegiance to the aeries. "After all, it could be the Horse. We don't know for sure. But that didn't really sound like whinny to me – much more guttural."

"Let's go find out what that was." Looking disturbed with his sensitivity, Titaniel rises, shaking his head to clear it. "The roof would have an excellent vantage point – we're too low to the ground here."

"They're like puppies," Hugo whispers, utterly bemused as they clump around Titaniel. "I thought that my boyfriend was clingy. Look at that! Following the only one with an idea! They're literally a bunch of puppies!"

"Hush, you two," Emilio whispers, materializing behind us. His almond-shaped eyes seem considerably calmer than they'd been earlier – perhaps it's not the actual thick of things that worries him, but the apprehension of it. "Come on. I'm carrying you two heavyweights up the stairs – it's a lot of distance, and I'd like to arrive in time to see the show. Let's go."

"How are you…" I bite my lip to silence myself, thinking better of challenging Emilio's abilities.

Audiat furtively waves farewell our direction, flashing a uneasy smile, before disappearing in the massive spiral of he-angels upwards. To my immense surprise, Emilio returns the smile, as if lending a comforting hand to her – who knows? Maybe she reminds him of some distant, dead relative, too.

The stairwell is already dammed with people trying to stagger down to the bottom floor – when combined with the kitchen frantically trying to escape their posts, it's absolute chaos. Some are shouting about monsters while others scream about earthquakes. No one seems to know where to go or what to do.

"Calm down!" Emilio shouts curtly when presented with the mess, his brow furrowing. "For the love of God! I can't hear myself think!"

For the most part, people quiet, though it's primarily out of shock or indignation. With either anger or tears in their eyes, they turn to Emilio, and I doubt they find as much relief in his expression as Audiat had.

"Listen to me." Emilio's voice is quiet and stern. "There is something very awful going on outside – not an earthquake or Godzilla, though the latter is a better guess. Whatever you do, don't go outside, or try to leave this building. There is a wine cellar beneath the kitchen tiles – no one remembers it, I just uncovered it myself. Find your loved ones and take cover there until these vibrations settle down. And please, please, quit your wailing."

Without another word to the stunned people, Emilio whirls about in a flash of feathers, hooking an arm around my torso and one around Hugo's. First softly inquiring about our comfort, then lifting his slender white wings to repel any humans from his necessary lift-off space, he takes off without another hitch.

To be honest, I'd never truly seen his lean wings as being all that strong – they'd seemed sort of weak, honestly, especially in comparison to Raffe's. And it does seem that he works with more difficulty than Raffe, or Bay, but I can't say I find too much of a difference, considering he's heaving both our weights up.

As we grow higher and higher along the staircases, more and more she-angels clog the path, too. On occasion, wings snag or legs tangle in the stream of feathers. Courteously, Emilio deals with them, treating it as more his fault than theirs – then again, it might be his fault. I don't know any of the etiquettes of flying.

When at last we reach the top floor, Emilio falls to the floor more than he does land. Unfastening his arms from around us and clearing his throat, he squares his shoulders and calms his deep breathing unnaturally quickly. As I glance around worriedly, listening to another softer roar as it echoes down the hall, he catches his breath and composes himself.

"We're on the top floor," Emilio murmurs, his voice not even remotely winded, something that surprises me immensely.

"Really?" Sarcasm dripping from his tone, Hugo shoots the Spaniard an incredulous glance. "I couldn't tell. C'mon, Pablo. Vamanos."

Emilio doesn't bother to respond, tailing Hugo with powerful strides, as if he's abruptly rested and fresh. After a few long strokes, he does pause, however, and glance back at me, as if wondering why I don't move to follow Hugo.

It takes me a second fixed onto his brown eyes to realize that I'm frozen. Blushing, I jar myself from my thoughts and hastily bustle forward. Emilio doesn't begin to move until I'm several paces ahead of him, and even then he matches my pace, all too careful not to encroach on my space.

"This could all go very wrong," he murmurs, half to himself. "I should tell you, Penryn, that if it does, I'm under strict orders to get you and Audiat out of here. …I tend to become callus under pressure. Just as a forewarning, in case any disaster should occur."

"How risky is it?" I wonder, glancing worriedly towards him as Hugo wrestles with the knob on Ariel's door. "I mean, I heard that he wasn't in so good shape, but…"

"I believe that Bryon can take down the Horse." Emilio's lips twitch reassuringly. "The problem is, I don't know if he believes it himself. Not that I think he should be reckless, but he could do with a little more confidence in his current state. There are too many problems he has to deal with."

"He'll do it," Hugo grunts, fishing a lock-picking tool from one of his pockets. "If anything, we'll get Audiat to go out to him, thrust her in some mortal danger. Even though he's the monster princes are saving maidens from, he'd definitely get motivated for beating up the prince's steed." The knob twists, the lock clicking with an almost miffed beat. "Thank you. She said she'd leave that unlocked. Come on, you two. Let's go see Bryon beat up a pony."

My first thought about the Horse of Conquest, Pestilence, and Victory is that it looks nothing like a horse.

For the time being, it's the only one in view – in the distance, I can see the stirring of some other massive creature, but it slinks behind the crests of the mountains, barely visible aside from the bright flash of bronze. Owning the spotlight, it whinnies piercing the sky, the Horse bares lipless gums with teeth like long, barbed needles jutting haggardly out from its mouth. Above it flare grotesquely snot-crusted nostrils.

Seemingly stretched just barely over its skeleton, its bald skin slathered with ugly oozing sores, bursting boils, pulsing warts, and other disgusting features I decide not to identify. Bony hindquarters and bulging knees further furnish its disgusting figure. No pointy ears top its head, and, instead of a mane and tail, rivers of goop strongly resembling a foul mixture of mucus and bile dribble in chunks down its neck, sliding slowly down its rump. Disproportionately large hooves club its legs, and sunken, blue human eyes dart around madly, encrusted with circles of yellow flakes.

"Damn, that thing is nasty," Hugo whistles, almost sounding impressed. "What do you think, Emilio? Would it be able to take down the Triangle?"

"You mean this skyscraper?" Emilio pauses, as if computing it. "Most definitely. It's not as tall, but those hooves could probably pack a mean punch."

"Is it contagious?" I wonder worriedly, praying to some God above that I won't wake up tomorrow morning looking like that. "The Horse, I mean?"

"Only its spit." Hugo shrugs. "Nasty venom, but honestly, no one's going to escape that bristly mouth alive to get infected by it. I suppose it could drool all over you, but I like to believe the person'd have the sense to run."

"People can be stupid." My breath suddenly jars as the bronze shimmer grows a thousand times bright. "Holy – holy shit, is that Bryon?"

"Bigger than this skyscraper." Emilio smiles grimly. "He'd be able to take it out with a lash of his tail. Unfortunately, though, he's going to get too big any day now – his bones are going to start to shatter with the weight he has. Even angel bones can take so much pressure on them, and angel muscles can only be so light."

"Shh, we're watching Bryon," Hugo shushes. "You can bore us to death when the battle is finished."

It's difficult to connect my uncle's benevolent smile to the dragon's malicious sneer as it crawls over the mountain, his scales like tiger's eye with a bronze iridescence instead of gold. The dusk casts his horns in more rosy tones, and sharpens the color of his ivory teeth. Amidst it all, his metallic eyes glow, perhaps the most terrifying thing of it all.

Around his feet, the mountain ridge crumbles into devastating landslides. Rocks tumble down its face like tears. A long tail like a snake wraps around the mountain's base, as if for support or perhaps possession. Watching the slender whip of flesh constrict, smashing trees against the earth, I pray that all the humans had evacuated that particular area.

Bryon's head bobs up and down, almost as if he's nodding, or perhaps taunting the beast. A low, guttural rumbling echoes around the valley, first soft and dancing on the very edges of my hearing, then growing louder and louder into a deafening chuckle. A strange, reptilian smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

Rearing up with two of its heavy hooves slashing the air, the Horse shrieks a challenge.

In response, Bryon falls into a crouch and shakes the ground again with a roar. Spit flies from his pink, quivering maw, catching the evening sunbeams like crystals.

"How does he do that?" I whisper in awe as it at last quiets down, the air around me lessening from its powerful gusts.

"Sets his vocal chords against the ground, and focuses more on getting a vibration than actual sound until the very end." Hugo smiles slyly. "As you can see, it's very intimidating. Nobody wants to go up against a predator that can make the Earth itself shake in fear."

Almost as if prompted by Hugo's words, Bryon takes the first step off of the mountain, encroaching on the Horse's territory. His feet pound into the farmlands, leaving massive craters with their weight. The lash of his sinuous tail across the corn makes delicately beautiful designs, like twisted modern art.

Growling meets threatening nickers in a thunderclap of terrifying cacophony. Spiders of ice dance up and down my arms, causing armadas of goose-bumps to break out across my skin. Slowly, with a ducked head moving from side to side like a cobra's, Bryon begins to circle the Horse, as if trying to place himself between the aerie and its clobbering hooves.

Phlegm sails through the air, silhouetted by the sleepy sun, as the Horse thrusts back its head, screeing a bloodcurdling promise. As it rears and its filmy blue eyes roll wildly in its sockets, I can see a punisher of iniquities, of sin, before me, and, even though acres separate us, the Horse's dead, cold gaze sends a shiver through me.

Instead of dodging or scampering back like any logical creature would've done as it saw the menacing undersides of the Horse's heavy hooves, Bryon blares out a short bellow, and rears up as well – and, as he does so, roaring bloodthirstily, his open mouth catches one of the Horse's limbs and slams down on it like the iron jaws of a bear trap.

Thrown off balance as Bryon continues to shoot up and up with its leg in his jaws, the Horse squeals, falling backwards. It lands with a heavy thud onto its back, and, with the momentum of gravity, had effectively ripped its limb from Bryon's mouth. Though ribbons of red stream from the slashes in its leg, now freed, the Horse brays with triumph, and slams its two back hooves into Bryon's exposed underside.

With a bellow of pain, Bryon stumbles backwards, wasting no time getting all four paws back on the ground to steady himself – though he doesn't fall, not like he'd tipped the Horse backwards, two circles of blood seep from where the sharp hooves had collided with his soft belly. Warily, he edges backwards, heavy dollops of blood staining wheat red.

"Uh oh," murmurs Hugo. "That's really not good. He should've snapped off that Horse's leg when he had the chance."

"It's limping," I announce, watching the Horse retreat back to a safe distance. "But I doubt it'll make that mistake again."

"Bryon won't show his belly again, either," Emilio points out calmly. "Neither are mortal injuries. Both were just part of the opening act."

First, the Horse attempts to slam into Bryon with all its might like a bull rather than a pony, lowering its head as it charges, shrieking defiance as it does so. Its hooves thunder over the ground in a terrifying rhythm, and those wicked blue eyes narrow with bloodlust.

Seeing the Horse's stampede, Bryon sinks his claws into the earth and lowers his head. The monster collides with Bryon's bony skull and horns with a crack louder than thunder, the momentum in the brutal charge causing Bryon's hind legs to buckle. Seeing its failure to knock him off his feet, the Horse again takes action.

Leaning forward, it knocks its head into Bryon's shoulder with a solid smack that has my ears ringing – I cup a hand to my mouth at the sound of it. His front feet lift off the ground from the force behind the blow, and his buckled legs extend. With a short outburst of pain, Bryon flies backwards and crashes into the foothill of a mountain. The boulders he'd dislodged as he'd stood at its ridge melodramatically crash around him, some drawing blood as they slam into his face, his eyes, his mouth. Puffs of dust spiral into the air.

"Bryon's lighter than the Horse because of the same angel muscles that make him more mobile," Hugo explains breathlessly, eyes wide and worried. "The Horse is also much stronger than him. Hopefully, Bryon discovers that he was actually meant to be an agile ballerina soon."

Bryon may not be a ballerina, but, as he rises, shedding boulders from his hide and shaking blood off as if it were water, I can truly see the warrior he really is. My uncle is every bit as tough as Raffe, though maybe, I realize with a small smile, a tad bit bigger. Baring his teeth, he again approaches the Horse, regardless of the beating he'd just taken.

The Horse acts suddenly with its new attack, differing from the brute force of the last one. Leaping forward, it attempts to bury its fangs into the back of Bryon's neck, but encounters an unexpected difficulty: scales.

Upon first attempt, its teeth merely slide over the slick mane protecting the more vulnerable points along his neck – but then, so rapidly that Bryon doesn't have time to react, its equine jaw swings open and snaps shut again in an area not guarded by the mane's bizarre scales, and Bryon roars in agony. Blood wells up around the needle-teeth, staining the yellow bone crimson.

Snarling angrily, Bryon twists his head around and impales the Horse's neck in return, goring one horn through its windpipe. With a strangled cry of pain, the Horse releases Bryon's nape and jerks backward, unknowingly causing itself more pain by wrenching that horn out a way it hadn't come in.

The Horse coughs up blood while Bryon tries to remain standing with the lack of his. In the little moment of rest, Emilio's voice comes, like a comforting dove.

"There's no version of this where the Horse wins," he informs gently. "None at all. Bryon is easily the more wounded of the two and obviously not as mighty as the Horse, but he is much, much smarter, an evolutionary advantage. And, if we do delve further into the physical side of things, we've got to remember that hooves can only kick and smack – his paws can claw and grab and bite and slash and climb."

Again, the creatures crash together, as if some unspoken order had been given. This time, their fanged mouths grapple together, teeth clashing against one another, as if they each attempt to deliver a deadly kiss that can never be given. Bryon's tail lashes angrily behind him. In its haste to come out on top with gravity's preference, the Horse is the one that rears, resting its heavy hooves on Bryon's shoulders as its head bucks upwards, gaining the higher ground.

My uncle's eyes glow murderously.

Bryon's tail sweeps the fields, the low whistling sound heard even at our distance. He lifts from the wheat at the last possible second, pounding the muscled band into the Horse's side. Thousands of pounds of flesh slam into the Horse in the form of a thick whip of a tail. With a startled shriek, the Horse topples like a domino, its hooves dragging Bryon down on top of it.

One of Bryon's paws plants next to the Horse's head in an effort to better balance himself.

Bryon's neck coils like a snake preparing to bite. His lips curl back into a snarl, a reptilian hiss echoing through the valley and causing my hairs to stand on end. The Horse's wide eyes seem to grow even wider. And then, fast as a bolt of bronze lightning, he strikes.

At the last possible second, the Horse moves its head, causing Bryon's strike to slam into the earth with enough force to shake the skyscraper we're in. Nervously, I clutch Emilio's arm, trusting him to get us out of here should this place collapse.

Relatively unbothered by the failure, Bryon shakes his nose viciously from side to side and growls irritably. His muzzle folds elegantly into a pissed-off snarl, each of those magnificent scales holding the evening light on their backs. Something about the furious look in his eyes tells me that the Horse isn't going to last long enough for the sun to set and the moon to rise.

Bryon plants a single paw on the Horse's chest, endangering himself to slashes from its injured hoof – but, unbeknownst to all, he'd purposefully cut a certain tendon in his opening attack, one that made this maneuver simply impossible for the Horse to pull off because of its loss.

The Horse's shrill cry of terror echoes over the valley as Bryon's neck coils again. He wastes no time building anxiety, cares not to live the moment over in his mind's eye, denies his victim its proper brooding time – releasing the tension like firing an arrow, Bryon's jaws shoot forward.

Another panicked whinny echoes about.

The Horse goes still at another sound, this of ripping flesh.

With that paw placed firmly on the Horse's chest and his own daggerlike teeth sliced into its neck, Bryon rips upwards, tearing its head from its body.

Emilio bows his head and, with a single hand, marks himself with the sign of the cross as Bryon, trembling with effort, tips back his head as the moon first crests over the hills and roars powerfully, an exclamation of might for all to hear.

The dragon's roar blasts over the fields, a war cry to the heavens. His bronze eyes blaze with triumph, and his tail whips about in a victorious, twisting dance, as if to ward off any other predators.

Towards the end of its magnificent bellow, however, the dragon falters, one of his front legs buckling.

A tumultuous cheer rings out from above us, causing me to flinch, unprepared for the sudden angelic chorus that sits on the roof. Spooking me, a pair of snowy white wings sail over my head – for whatever reason, the rest of the he-angels don't follow Raffe, perhaps because of some excuse Audiat had cooked up.

Bryon's gone and saved the day, killing the Horse, and now, off flies Raffe, ready to slay the dragon like a valiant knight in folk tales.

"Knew he could do it," Hugo murmurs, beaming out at the dragon crouched in exhaustion, puffing out breaths to prepare himself for the next trial. "Now let's see if he and Raffe are a good acting pair…"

"They've pretended to tolerate each other for over a month," Emilio chuckles. "I think our question is more or less whether or not they'll be able to keep from tearing into each other."

Raffe's wings catch the moonlight in a way that none others can – as if infused with platinum, they shimmer and shine. If I were only shown a single of his white feathers, I fancy that I'd be able to recognize it. He seems to flaunt them midair, spiraling unnecessarily as he approaches Bryon – and the exasperatedly lethargic roll of the dragon's bronze eye tells me that Bryon knows it, too.

As Raffe draws closer, however, Bryon's manner changes entirely, as if reverting back to primal instincts and primitive roles in Mother Nature's great design. First, his bronze eyes swing menacingly to Raffe, held wide and impassively fierce like a wild animal, a movement quickly followed by the snake of his head. Instead of challenging Raffe, like the Bryon I know would've, he reacts in a way a creature at the top of the food chain never would – cringing against the ground and hissing, he slowly retreats, stepping backwards over the corpse of the Horse.

Raffe's white wings flash, absolutely dwarfed in comparison to Bryon. But, almost comically, the Nephilim King continues to retreat, hissing as he does so.

The bristles of his mane stand on end, crowning his head in an aggressive halo, so unlike the holy one which usually encompasses him it seems fundamentally wrong. His tail writhes over the ground, but seems to graze the treetops behind him more than anything, as if warning any straggling humans to take cover.

As Bryon's tail crests over the mountain ridges, Raffe spirals up above him and dives downwards. Hissing in something painfully akin to amusement, Bryon yanks his neck back to avoid the blow – the absolute childish glee in his eyes as he watches Raffe plummet down aimlessly isn't something anyone would've noticed had they not known him personally.

Backing up onto the edge of the mountain, Bryon rears up in a maneuver that doesn't quite seem legitimate, lacking the strong expertise his past actions. Only his two hind legs keep him upright on the mountain crumbling beneath his feet, and it seems suspiciously easy for him to fall over backwards.

"This should work out without a cinch." Hugo reclines over the balcony's railing, smiling confidently. "We're going to say that sometimes, powerful Nephilim bodies turn into things like flowers or whatever to explain the lack of a body after Pigeon-Bat slits Bryon's throat and tips him off of the mountain."

"Raphael does what?" Emilio trumpets, as alarmed by the news as I am.

"Don't worry, he won't cut the jugular or anything like that." With a flash of his coppery eyes, Hugo grins back at us, his hair quivering in the slight breeze. "Watch and find out, young Padawan."

I lift my gaze from Hugo just in time to see Raffe's wings flash upwards, his sword presumably braced in his hands as he glides upwards from Bryon's soft lower belly all the way up to his chin without resistance. A red line in Bryon's soft scales appears in his wake.

Blood fountains from the near perfect slash mark as Raffe pulls away, flapping high into the sky to escape Bryon's few snaps of vengeance through roars of miserable agony. The sheer amount of blood and my unfamiliarity with Bryon's dragon body makes it difficult for me to decipher just how fatal those slices are – which is more or less the point, I suppose, but the ugly wounds don't look all that promising.

Bryon swats futilely at Raffe a few times, forcing the angel into a few nose dives. Raffe dances in the air, more a white streak than anything else – I doubt Bryon could catch that archangel if he tried, especially with how much blood he's losing.

A sense of a finale settles in the pit of my stomach as Bryon roars weakly, edging further backwards, putting himself at more of a risk – my heart clenches, watching more and more red liquid spill over the mountain like lava. It won't be difficult to shove Bryon over at all.

Slicing against one of Bryon's flailing paws, Raffe bursts through the layer of protection, sailing upwards above Bryon's head where he can't reach. There he hangs for a few precious seconds, suspended like Gabriel in a Christmas play, his wings two graceful arches around his body like a magnificent halo and his sword braced between two hands.

Bryon's eyes splay open to an unnatural degree and true, primal fear glimmers in his gaze, caught by the moon's light and cast around for the entire world to see.

Raffe slices downwards deeper into Bryon's throat, just beneath the jaw bones.

The raw power in the unstaged bellow of pain washes over me in great waves of gales. My pathetic maid's skirt flaps stiffly in the wind. I cross my arms over my face and clutch at my ears, just barely able to see Raffe through my arms frantically trying to upright himself as he soars backwards on turbulent air currents.

As Bryon slowly keels backwards, his tail uncurling from around the base of the mountain, his roar softens into a low, rumbling groan, quickly overshadowed by the mighty slam of his massive body against the earth. Those shining bronze scales disappear beneath the crest of the mountain, lost from all our eyes as the tail goes slack.

Dust and other debris floats benignly into the air, taking the shape of a massive mushroom as the sound of his impact ceases.

"Is he okay?" I whisper, searching for a blue flower amongst the dust. "I'm not seeing any –"

"There's one," comforts Emilio, pointing towards the limp tail twined around the mountain. "And there's another."

In a languished wave, the flowers spread over the mountains, slowly undulating up and down the hills in waves of unearthly blue, but they don't draw any closer than the cultivated fields, perhaps because there are none of the plants for the flowers to bloom on. Never before have I seen it in such a godly perspective – in fact, I've seen it only once, and that view doesn't even begin to summarize this. The flowers stretch as far as the eye can see, and begin to slowly twirl upwards in beautiful spires, like little hands reaching for the stars, souls fleeing from this earth to claim Heaven as their own. As slowly and gracefully as the flowers twirl upwards, it occurs to me what I'd just witnessed.

We've succeeded without a hitch.

Bryon is coming home to Audiat.

Everything will be alright.

Finally, finally, finally, everything will be alright.

"Oh, no."

Pausing his game, Luther glances inquisitively up at his brother, startled to hear the demonic child utter a word. He stands, back to Luther, holding up a picture of a creature with two-colored eyes springing from the belly of a dead woman, like some gruesome depiction of a person giving birth. Not yet bothering to question Lucius, Luther watches as his brother pulls out another picture – this one of a terrible beast with only one vivid blue eye burning, and a fraction written with sharpie in Lucius's swirly handwriting beneath it – five-eighths.

Luther's crusted heart splutters in his chest. Five-eighths. Lucius is only three-eighths human, a statistic shared by a suspiciously small few – had he discovered another with the unique number? That creature on the third picture, the one looking as if it's bursting out of another body, like a reptile shedding its skin?

"Lucius?" he inquires softly, this a thousand times more intriguing than the bland storyline of his video game. "What's going on?"

"We need to get to the she-aerie as soon as possible." And, as if he doesn't realize that Luther is watching him flick through them, he selects a fourth picture and glances ever so briefly at it – a picture of a dragon with its head held low and its neck encircled with a living serpent, like a shackle.

He tucks the pictures into is suit pocket without another word.

Throughout the entire flight down the center of the triangular aerie, the angels cheer Raffe on, roaring with approval. The grins spread across their faces aren't nearly as wide as the one stretching Raffe's lips. She-angels clap and whistle, waving their wings towards them in gestures of respect and appraisal as the warriors descend, quite a few screaming out Raffe's name with gratitude. Pure bliss is all I see in Raffe's eyes, as beautiful as any glowing blue flower.

They hit the balcony to the cafeteria seconds before Audiat does, only half a step ahead of us – luckily, so much testosterone mucks up the air that they don't bother to even glance back at Audie's two human companions.

In a roaring, cheering, crowd, the angels flood the cafeteria, causing Emilio to hastily dance back into the kitchen and a few other servants to trickle from their path. Only one little guest remains, though everybody, even me, doesn't notice them in the rush of the moment.

Raffe, face aglow, accepts the pounds on the back and the zesty compliments with a grin. Slowly, he guides the party back towards the table. With each passing minute, he receives more appreciation and more praise from his fellows. Raffe's expression is almost wistful.

Basking in the moment for only a few minutes longer, he seems to reach a decision, and, with a hiss like that of a serpent, draws Pooky Bear – the victorious blade – and lifts her upwards

That, in itself, demands attention, but not all of the warriors quiet at the sight of her steely hlow, a few too absorbed in their bloodthirsty daydreams to pay any heed to Raffe.

The clash of Pooky Bear against the metal dome of a platter quickly jars them rudely from their conversations – and jars another even more so from slumber.

My heart drops to my feet at the sound of a familiar startled whistle.

The silence that falls over the angels suddenly isn't solely because of Raffe's command.

All eyes land on the little dragon halfway hidden beneath the suit jacket Raffe had left behind hanging on the back of his chair. She stretches with a great, yawn – and, with a jolt halfway between fear and mother's pride, I see that she's grown a few pearly white teeth in her previously gummy mouth. With a soft purr, she peeks her head from the collar of Raffe's suit, mismatched eyes bright and curious, dispelling any last suspicions as to the creature that'd dare sleep in a time like this.

"Oh, God," Hugo whispers in horror. "That stupid, stupid lizard…"

My lips move, but I can't hear anything at all. "Belle."

"It's one of the monsters!" cries one of the angels as Belle crawls sleepily out from under the suit, perching atop it and grooming herself with long licks of her slender tongue.

"No," I whisper, my voice lighter than a cloud.

"It was waiting to pounce on you!" realizes another, horror lining his voice. "If you hadn't woken it up…"

"No!" I repeat, only a feather louder.

"He'd be dead!" roars another angel.

"Monster," Titaniel murmurs bitterly.

"Fiend!" howls one.

"Kill it now!" snarls one of Uriel's bodyguards. "Tear off its head!"

"Slowly!" orders another. "Torture it for our brothers in Africa! Make it feel their pain!"

Despite the foul words aimed towards Belle, she doesn't do any more than calmly lift her head and observe them curiously, as if wondering what they could possibly want. On the contrary, she doesn't seem to have much to fear – their threats aren't fulfilled as, with each one, they clump tighter and tighter together, inching backwards, as if expecting her to spring into a massive size instantaneously. In fact, she seems rather bemused with their presence, making a popping noise and watching them all leap backwards with innocent delight in her eyes.

"Well, someone kill it!" shrills an angel with a greenish cast over his black feathers. "We don't have much time!"

"Let Raphael do it." Uriel's voice is neutral and controlled, an evident source of comfort for the rest of the panicked angels. "Let's see how he slaughters one of these creatures, that way we'll all know how to when we meet another."

Raffe seems to unfreeze like a statue, blinking repeatedly, as if banishing sleep from his eyes. But I know that's it's not sleep he's getting rid of. His dark blue eyes sweep over the crowd of terrified angels.

A surreptitious feather of agony twirls poignantly around his pupil, the glimmer of torture so much more severe than any other than self-inflicted anguish. His throat bobs, and, amongst the crowd, he finds my gaze, as if searching for some sort of reassurance, as if seeking comfort, understanding, maybe even acceptance – but he finds none of it.

"Please," I mouth, my lips barely moving. "No, Raffe, please…"

He lowers his head, and his gaze slips shamefully from mine. Again, Raffe swallows, adjusting his grip on the sword as he does so.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he stalks towards Belle – he gives her every mean to escape, every mean to dash away from him at the last moment. Who knows – he might be trying to tell her to run, telling her it isn't safe for her here, telling her that he can't protect her from himself.

Nothing but blind faith shines in those beautiful, expressive eyes – a faith I had placed there.

I bite my lip hard, the lump in my throat becoming painful and dry. Memories of my words to her after her nightmare flow back to me like a dam of emotion. As Raffe approaches Belle, his body turned pitch black by the lights of the flickering candles in the corners of the room, she turns to face him with love, adoration in her gaze, and purrs out a gentle greeting, welcoming him back to his seat with her beautiful doe eyes.

She'd never hurt him. Because she loves him. She'd never hurt him, no matter what. And she still believes that he'd never hurt her.

Raffe's blade shines in the candlelight as he lifts it over his head. It almost reminds me of a reaper, with his scythe raised in a silent threat over his head. Raffe takes one last deep breath, a barely discernable tremble shaking through his body.

Belle whistles in confusion, for the first time seeming the slightest bit wary of the blade hanging over her head. Her eyes find me from where I stand behind him. They swim with misunderstanding, as if not comprehending why the angel that loves her so is showing her all these signs of aggression, not understanding the extent of her mistake. I have no answers for her, shaking my head in horror, pleading with my eyes in a silent language she doesn't comprehend. She flicks her irreproachable gaze back up to Raffe in time to see his blade swing down.

A severed head falls to the floor.

A limp body quickly follows, lolling over the back of his chair with a sick thud.

And a sob rips from my chest as I collapse onto my knees, staring at those beautiful eyes, frozen with their lids spread wide in shock.

Ciao,

~wolfluvermh