Chapter Fifty Five

"You've got such gall, coming here, of all places," calls the drawling voice of Lucius, echoing throughout the ornately furnished chapel. With the frost of his malicious wit and bitter presence, the air grows colder, becoming frigid by mere proximity to a heart so cold. "The rest of the aerie is in the midst of a crisis. Shouldn't you be comforting and calming? Is that not your purpose in this world?"

Bryon's hands clench tighter around his staff, the familiar wood like a child's favorite blanket in his grip. Tranquil is the manner in which he turns his head to look at the intrusion upon his peaceful silence. With one great, wise eye, he regards the shadowy figure leaning in the doorway, bronze so steadily trained upon snowy white, uncertain whether to greet the boy with the tempting irritation or his usual tolerance.

"Hello, Lucius." Choosing tolerance, Bryon turns back to the stained glass murals, shutting his eyes and bowing his head. "I need some time for reflection. Everyone does, every now and then."

"Why?" The sound of Lucius's shoes clopping down the stairs into the chapel causes Bryon to clench his teeth, irritation threatening to overtake his control. "Just remembered you're the reason we're in this mess? I wouldn't worry too much about that, you were just possessed. I'd feel guiltier about how you've driven others into her path."

Bryon is silent for a moment, mulling over the demon's words with a heavy heart. "There is a quote from the human's bible I would like for you to recall, Lucius. 'When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit on his glorious throne. All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people from one another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left.' What does that mean to you?"

"I have a feeling you're going to tell me what it means to you."

Sighing wearily, Bryon opens his eyes, staring up at the stained glass before him. "You're right. In the same passage, it discusses the goats being punished, and the sheep being rewarded. The angels are here, upon the Earth. You and I both know there's no Son of Man – but the one the passage refers to is here as well. I simply try to aid them on their journey to become 'sheep', so to speak."

"I suppose I see your logic, seeing Gabriel's little condition." Lucius drifts over to the altar, playing as if he were only marginally interested. "But to give your followers false hope like that… it's truly cruel."

"The belief in God is not what I primarily teach my subjects." Bryon bows his head lower. "I teach them that you can pray to the Lord every night and still be the worst of people. I have tried to relay benevolence rather than the adamant belief in the man upstairs. I do what I can."

Lucius chuckles, remaining silent for several long moments. "And now, your luck is running out, Lord of the Petunias. You've done all you can. Time has come, as they say. So here you are, praying to the God that's condemned you, begging to escape punishment."

Rising on legs stiffened by his kneel, Bryon turns to Lucius, laughing gently. "If I didn't know you better, I'd call that pity in your voice. However, I do, and I can't help but worry about you and that sliver of humanity left in you. The angels are angry, you realize. They will go after whatever they chose to blame for the death of their leader. Just when we thought the carnage was coming to an end, too…"

"That's no concern of mine." Lucius waves a hand. "You're going to need a better hand to convince me into joining the game in your place."

"I don't have to convince you," Bryon chuckles. "I need to remind you why you should fight. You might avoid the fact, Lucius, might try to pretend you have no ties to anyone but yourself. Remember, you are part human too. You were born of a Nephilim mother, and her blood still pounds through you. Sometimes I wonder if you even remember what it was like to be an ordinary child. The joy in the simplicity of it."

"I remember feeling useless as my mother had her neck snapped." Lucius pulls a deck of cards from his pocket and begins to toy with it, as if relieving his nerves through them. "The uselessness, I do not like. They can't even help themselves, Bryon – why should I help them?"

"You've got to figure that out for yourself." Bryon briefly ponders giving the boy a hug, before swiftly dismissing the thought. "But the time has come for you to make your mark in history. How do you want people to remember you? As a simple villain or something more? Everyone has a defining moment, boy. It's time for you to look at yourself and think – who are you? Where will you go from here? What will your destiny be? Look at yourself and all you could be, then decide – man, monster, or saint?"

"Oh, my," Audiat coos, skipping into the room, "it is Gabriel! Well, where the hell have you been, mister? Why aren't you decomposing?"

"Audiat." The very corners of Emilio's lips lift at Raphael's relieved quiver. "You're here. Hopefully, you'll help us figure out what's going on. I take it you don't know why the Messenger's body was buried beneath your floorboards?"

"Of course the bitch does," mutters one.

"Quiet," Raphael snaps.

As she steps closer and closer towards the prize they discuss, Audiat cleaves remarkably well through the sweaty bodies of the fuming he-angels, Emilio decides, reclining against the wall in his nook. The body, displayed rather magnificently on a pool table in the center of the game room, is the object they all group around – though they seem more repulsed with it than even Audiat.

"What was he doing there?" growls one angel accusingly. "You built him into your nest like a brick!"

"Like a twig!" adds another, riled up by one's assumptions.

"He was fertilizer!"

Though he shouldn't, Emilio chuckles silently at the final proclamation, amused with the truth of it.

"Now, now," Audiat chastises, walking up to Gabriel's body and circling it like a hawk, "I'm just as surprised as you are. Who found him? It was Maion, correct? Can I speak with her?"

"She's not here," sighs an angel with maroon wings in annoyance while another points towards the floor in an explanatory manner. Emilio's lips prick in disgust at the stain of dark red upon the carpet, a clear indication of Maion's location – either the clinic or the morgue.

"Oh, well, that's just swell." Audiat lips pinch together with displeasure, a great fire bursting to life in her eyes. Forcibly, she relaxes, releasing any aggravation in a short huff. "Well, how did he get here? He did fall on another continent, didn't he? Did someone fly him here? Did he fly himself here? Were you just waiting to be uncovered, Gabriel, you bastard? This is not a game of hide-and-seek!"

Emilio holds his breath as Audiat leans over the corpse, her finger outstretched. Caught by surprise, the angels simultaneously freeze, like rows of plastic soldiers. Uneasy glances are exchanged, and the room swims with aimless hostility. Ignoring the air of tension, Audiat pokes Gabriel's nose with the tip of her finger.

Waiting for only half a moment, she pokes it a second time. On the third, she makes the cartilage fold around her fingertip, jiggling back into place as she retracts. Slowly, cautiously, with an air of great respect about her, Audiat first gingerly lays her hand on his chest, then her ear, as if searching hopefully for a drumbeat to show any sign of life at all. Shrugging indifferently, she turns back to the group, lips pursed in a manner Emilio's grown quite familiar with.

"Well, I don't know what to say, boys." Audiat lifts an eyebrow. "If he had a heartbeat, I'd say he wasn't dead. But even though he's not rotting and is warm to the touch, he's got no signs of life about him. Those eyes, though, are creepy as hell, wish we could close them. It's almost as if he's got no heart left."

"How did he get there?" hollers one thunderously.

"I don't know!" Audiat roars gutturally, turning to him with a wrinkled nose and her wings outstretched, mimicking his tone with a twinkle in her eyes.

"You bitch!" cries the angel, marching forward ragefully until he's stopped by a more sensible comrade.

"Where's the bullet hole?" demands cynical voice – the maroon winged angel again steps forward. "He was shot down, wasn't he? Dead bodies don't heal themselves, Audiat! Does that mean he didn't die by bullet? Does that mean someone else took his life? Something else, maybe?"

"Don't be stupid," Audiat giggles. "He was shot in the back. The bullet hole is on the" – with a sickening noise, she attempts to lift the body of the renowned archangel, only managing to thrust his torso headfirst off the edge of the pool table – "…back… Oh, dear. Well, there's the bullet hole."

"That's no bullet hole I've ever seen!" shrills a falsetto voice from the shadows, its strained pitch nearly breaking Emilio's professional façade with a chuckle.

Admittedly, the bullet hole doesn't look very much like a bullet hole to Emilio, either. It's wide and clean cut, and, though he can't quite be certain, grooves seem to spiral on the inside of the hole. Though flesh and bone can be seen deep within the recesses of the tunnel, he can't see any blood, or any tearing of the muscle at all. It looks more like a burrowing hole than a bullet to him.

"Do you see a lot of bullet holes?" Audiat inquires snidely. "Aside from that television of yours, Ezekiel, I doubt you had much in the way of experiences with either bullet holes in your hide or anyone else's. The only one with mild entitlement to a claim to fame is Ja – oh, darn, I forgot your name. Freckles. The only one that's been hit with a bullet that I know of in this room is Freckles."

"Jalael," mutters the freckled angel petulantly.

"Yes." Audiat waves a hand. "You. Now, someone help me get the Messenger back on the pool table, the poor guy looks like he's had too many drinks, and that's no way to treat a dead man…"

Audiat struggles with the body alone – no one seems willing to assist her, or to approach the body of their leader at all. Angels, frightened of the dead? Emilio finds it to be entertaining, especially since so many deceased can be accredited to pigeons on steroids. Then again, the dead hardly seem to be staying dead recently – perhaps it's wise, staying away from the warm body of a being without a heartbeat.

"This is all their fault, stupid monkeys!" huffs the thoughtlessly furious angel. "The hell are we supposed to do now, with him dead?"

"Democracy!" Audiat pipes up with childish naïvety, but her voice is lost in a sea of arguments.

"Raphael, do you really think you can take the Messenger's place?" "It's the monkey's fault! We should teach 'em like the vermin they are!" "What are you she-angels hiding? Bodies don't put themselves underneath bushes!" "You're right! It was one of the bitches!" "We should burn this place to the ground!"

"No, that's a very bad idea, we should try to avoid burning anything," suggests Josiah in a timid voice.

"Wasn't this place built by monkeys?" Titaniel purrs, the mere sound of his voice causing Emilio's hackles to rise. "It might not have anything to do with our… sisters. The treacherous pests might've easily stashed him there to frame our own for crimes they committed. Do not jump to conclusions."

"The humans!" gasps an angel on Titaniel's right. "This is what we get for following his orders and letting those little rats infest the land!" He points a finger towards the carcass murderously.

"That's an awfully rude way to talk about him over his dead body," Audiat grunts, shoving his stiff body back onto the pool table.

"Well, of course," Uriel points out, "I'd rather have an infestation of monkeys than of monsters. Humans won't be difficult to stamp out. It's the Nephilim that have me worried! What if they had some hand in this foul play?"

"I heard something about one Nephilim donating especially to the library," Titaniel thunders. "He played a part in even selecting the plants best fitting for the environment. Maybe they are involved."

"Oh, but of course." Emilio relaxes at the sound of Raphael's dubious voice. "Little Metatron the dodo, conspiring against the Messenger. With Nephilim, of all things; yes, of course, that must be it. And where did you hear this from, Titaniel? Little bird tell you?"

"I overheard a demon talking about it," he says seriously. "He was walking out of the library. What was he doing there?"

"A demon," Audiat repeats, evading the question, her tone and attitude almost motherly in nature. "Wow. Titaniel, I really am proud of you. You are such a sleuth. This demon was of course telling the truth. Why would he lie, of course? After all, why would he want to mislead you about the corpse at all? It couldn't possibly have been him in the first place."

"I don't do well with sarcasm, Audiat," Titaniel threatens darkly.

"Good thing, too." She turns on heel, her eyes sparkling with malice. "Because I don't do well with idiots. I thought for a moment there we were going to have a problem. It's good we can sort out our differences and push aside petty irks like that, isn't it?"

Emilio pushes off the wall at Titaniel's enraged grunt, one of his hands flying to the hilt of Otra Espada, his sword. It isn't him, however, that steps between the archangel and the little feather duster. Raphael steps into place, looking as firm in his feet as a stone wall.

In a quiet voice as Titaniel starts forward, Raphael says quietly, "She's baiting you. Don't enter her game."

Luckily, the giant seems to listen to Raphael – Emilio relaxes as, after a single furious grunt, the brute relaxes and paces furiously back to his placement along the wall. Though his nerves aren't utterly calmed and the adrenaline simply waiting to pump back into his veins, Emilio forcibly releases tension in each of his muscles, instead burning his energy on thought.

Force would be idiotic to use against such muscled creatures – if the archangel's verbal attacks on humans do not cease, he'll have to rely on agility and grace to get him out of a sticky situation rather than use Sariel's choice of attack.

"Oh, now, Raffe!" Audiat giggles coyly, playing on the stereotype of a foolish whore for some reason beyond his understanding. "Taking away all my fun! Now, can somebody please tell me – you found Gabriel face down in the dirt, correct? Beneath a bush? What type of bush?"

"It doesn't matter what type of bush it was!" cries one in exasperation. "We need to find out who did this before the next Messenger is shot as he stands!"

"We don't even have another Messenger yet," Uriel reminds them patiently, seeming to be above the bickering of the angels.

"The bloody bastards, those humans!" Vehemently, a green-eyed angel swings his piercing gaze to Emilio. "Look! They eavesdrop even now! Rats hiding in the shadows, waiting to gnaw us to death the moment we close our eyes!"

"Filthy attitude, that one," Titaniel growls, his bright eyes terrifyingly emotionless.

"And how do we know it was the humans?" Audiat shouts, her high, sweet voice unable to attract the same attention as a low, booming one might. "It could be demons. They stir up all sorts of trouble, and Titaniel did see one in our library!"

"They are nuisances, yes, but they hardly have the mental capacity to pick up a gun," Uriel points out. "Demons are more stupid than monkeys."

"What if it's one of those Fallen bastards?" roars one.

Another bellows, "Stirring up trouble wherever they wander!"

"We've had more Fall or go missing in the last few months than in centuries," agrees another boisterously, stamping his feet like a windup toy. "Their numbers might surpass ours now!"

"Still too stupid!" argues another, his lips curved back into a sneer.

"Stop getting riled up!" shouts the maroon-winged one. "Unless you're suggesting we launch an attack on the monkeys in this instant, I advise you quiet down, because my patience has worn thin."

"Oh, go fuck yourself, Harachel," snarls a deep voice.

"Why don't we listen to him?" calls one angel that'd been standing silently. "There's a human base right outside! Why not have a little fun?"

Audiat sighs and kneads at her temple with two fingers, brow scrunched with annoyance, irritation bringing a twitch to one eye. Aggravatedly, her wings quiver, unfurling ever so slowly – but such a dwarf of a wingspan attracts no attention, and the he-angels only grow more and more riled up. If a drop of blood were shed, it could've whipped up into a feeding frenzy, like a bunch of mindless sharks.

Emilio shifts, uneasy. At least he'd gotten the little Young tykes out. Now it's only his hide and Audiat's he has to worry about.

It doesn't make the most of sense, coming here. Truly, it doesn't. Perhaps that explains why the crudely built pews are empty, why no one else bothers to go within a dozen yards of the little church.

Of course, at this moment, few would care to pray to the Lord – with the threat presented by Raffe's brigade of buddies and their fiery tempers, many are finding themselves busy getting as far away from camp as possible, or by readying the few guns this docile little outpost has put together. The residents are unprepared for an attack from angels, which, considering they're pampered by the she-angels, isn't wholly unexpected.

Faced with chaotic badgering from the settlement's leader as soon as he arrived, Hugo quickly split off on another path – out of underneath the angels' lens, Bay took Paige somewhere safer, his black-winged flight only causing a few panicked shots to be fired at the air. Alone in the throes of the panic, I'd decided to seek out a bit of peace before hell breaks loose.

It's not a grand thing, this church – the windows are glass, looking to be left over from the Triangle, and the cross is nothing more than two intersecting wooden beams that'd been sanded down. A tattered bible sits upon a tin podium, its quality far from superior. Birds hop about in the rafters. Even a feral cat slinks off into the shadows after spotting me.

A coil of nervousness tenses in my stomach as I slowly approach the altar. To anyone looking on, it'd look stupid, praying to God when angels are singing for blood. I try my best to swallow down emotions of shame and scorn, instead remembering Bryon's great reverence for the one he worships. Maybe there's something to it.

"Um… hey." Awkwardly, I hover in the shadow of the cross. "Hey, God, it's me, Penryn. Nice to see you again. It's been a while. Listen, if you're there, give me a sign, okay?"

I wait, feeling like an idiot. A bird poops, but nothing fantastical happens.

"Right." I sigh, rubbing my thumb over the hilt of Emilio's knife. "That's what I thought. Listen, God, if you're there… we really need you right now. People are really suffering. We're scared and we're all alone. We don't know who we can trust anymore." I take a shaky breath. "And why shouldn't you like to lend a helping hand? Aren't we… aren't we your people, like the Nephilim, the angels?

"…It's like you've abandoned us, all of us. I know I've asked for stuff before, but please… just lend my people a hand, please. We're scared. I'm scared. Just… please… help us."

Another moment of eerie silence passes.

He won't listen to you.

I start violently at the sound of the voice. Wheeling around, cheeks reddening, I watch a dull-scaled Theobella slink over the ground. Her unblinking blue and bronze eyes remain trained on me.

"I'm not even sure there's a 'He' to listen," I laugh nervously, not taking my eyes off Theobella, even as she moves smoothly past me, slithering towards the altar with fluid movements. "Weren't you supposed to be with Raffe?"

He's in the middle of a meeting. I don't know if you recall, but last time I interrupted one of those, my experience was far from stellar. However, I did not make myself known to you to discuss the archangel. Why do you pray to God when he so little cares for you?

Though I'm not utterly certain as to why, I'm stung by that. "How are you an expert all the sudden on the Lord?"

It's simple facts. We are all like pigs at a slaughterhouse. Have you not ever read the bible? Attended a mass? Heard the rants of street preachers? God tells us to believe in Him blindly. Throughout these sacred pages – Theobella takes her claws and leafs through the raggedy bible – he again and again tries to drill a message into our heads: blind obedience. Live the poor life. Live the hard life. Be kind as others plunder from you. Though you shall not receive any relief in life, He shall congratulate you in the next. What does that sound like to you?

"Pretty godly, actually," I mumble, eyebrows raised.

It sounds like we are dumb animals in a pasture, our minds dulled for a massacre – ask not why, ask not how. He encourages us to suffer. And though that may not be evident upon first glance, it most certainly is upon second. We are the little lab mice, all interacting with each other and bickering and brawling, and he is our enamored scientist. Does a scientist not love his work? Does a scientist not adore his mice? But should many die in the process, shall he look at it as a tragedy, or as an interesting method to draw new data from its subjects? Our Lord cares not for us. In fact, the more we suffer, the more interesting results we provide and the tastier our souls become.

"What?" I squeak. "What are you saying?"

Theobella seems to sigh, shaking out her mane of scales in irritation, causing them to rattle against each other. She lazily curls up the cross, halting at its peak, staring down at me like the star of a Christmas tree. The answer is in other cultures, where their concept of heaven is becoming one with God. We are morsels. The sooner we accept this, the sooner we can advance. So, you see, it is useless to pray to Him.

"Bryon does," I persist stubbornly. "You know what? I don't believe you."

Shame, too. I'm looking at that verse down there… from the John section, I believe… "Very true I tell you, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds." So there you have it – the sick sort of time wheel we're sent through. Even our deaths are meant to spurn sorrow out of others. And, according to the bible, unless we die, we serve no purpose to our Lord.

"The bible isn't all there is. Life through death doesn't sound too appealing to me, and it wouldn't be the sort of thing Bryon'd be interested in, either."

You'd think that you'd believe me, considering I've watched Death rear his ugly head. I'm not here to convince you. It's merely fact; if you do not accept such fact, then why should I bother to use precious energy getting you to think otherwise?

I study her, wondering if I should make a comment about just how different Belle and Theobella are, but deciding against it out of fear for the latter.

Get out.

I nearly jump out of my skin at the strange intruder on my thoughts – it's not Theobella, that's certain. Rough, gravelly, yet warm and massive, bellowing, almost, though the voice is soft. Could it be the voice of Black Wolf? Had he gotten over his pithy grudge against me? Why would he warn me now, of all times?

The roar of a gun sounds outside, giving me another scare. Theobella lifts her head, elegant nostrils whiffing at the air. My skin crawls as shouts and hollers from the camp outside echo around the inside of the church. Memories of the terror I'd witnessed on TV of an angel attack, my legs urge me to do exactly what Black Wolf – or whoever it'd been – suggested. Run as far away from here as possible.

Well, Penryn. From her perch upon the cross, Theobella stretches out her wings, her scales emitting a strangely metallic sound. You have proved me wrong. There was someone listening to your prayers, it would seem.

"What?" I ask stupidly, hand still on Emilio's knife.

There is a reason, Penryn, people pray to the Son of God rather than the Lord himself. It seems that he was listening, and has decided his side in this earthly skirmish.

"I do not think it's a good idea for us to raid the human camp," Raphael insists, slamming a fist down on the table. "I want to crush the skull of whoever put Gabriel in this position, but unless we know for certain who did it, I don't want to waste time on them."

"That's very unlike you, Raffe," Uriel chuckles, his eyes dancing with spite. "Turning down a chance to bust heads? Why, it's practically your only character trait, head busting."

"You like categorizing people, don't you?" Raphael chuckles, feeling umbrage beginning to brew in his stomach. "Like to keep them all lined up in rows. When are you going to learn that people can't be defined so easily?"

"Oh, please." Uriel waves a hand. "You make me out to be some diva, Raffe. As if I keep secrets from any of you."

Raphael cocks an eyebrow. "Raise your hand if you have ever felt personally victimized by Uriel the Archangel."

Uneasy glances are passed among the congregated, as if uncertain to follow their archangel's lead. As more than a few hands tentatively shoot up amongst the eager spectators, Uriel's lips pinch together, and his eyes fill with venom. He swings his gaze upon Raphael, eyes smoldering like balls of fire.

"Raphael, I am one Mean Girls quote away from wringing your neck," Uriel spits. "You need to stop baiting people like one of those she-bitches."

The archangel of wrath purses his lips and shrugs cattily. "I'm sorry that people are so jealous of me… but I can't help it that I'm so popular."

A single malevolent sparkle in his opponent's eyes is all Raphael receives in terms of body language as Uriel registers the quote, all he receives to help him realize that maybe, maybe the other archangel isn't quite as ticked as he pretends to be. Maybe Raphael had just waltzed his way into a trap.

With a roar of fury, Uriel rises from the table, striding towards the doors, waving his arms about to rally the angels once sitting around, once calm, once happy observing a fight, and stimulating their bloodlust. "That is enough, Raphael! I have had enough of your bitching! Come on, boys, let's go wreak havoc!"

I don't know if anyone's been picking up on it, but Raffe's quoted Mean Girls several times throughout this fanfiction, not just here.

The bible passages referenced in this are Matthew 25:31-33 and John 12:24.

Also: I don't mean to insult any religions, it's just a work of fiction.

A review last chapter got me thinking about Bryon's name. It was originally supposed to be Byron, but I didn't want him to be associated with Lord Byron, so I tweaked it slightly in a way that still held its regal sort of appeal. Lil fun fact.

My life has suddenly become erratic and unpredictable, due to the unexpected suicide from a very, very close family member. As I worked on this very chapter, my father committed suicide on the 2nd of December, around noon. It's... impacting. This will more than likely have a toll on my writing – I'll either go on a writing rampage in my grief or move at a sluggish pace. It's hard for me to tell at this point. Please, bear with me through this hell!

POLL: Theobella and Belle truly aren't the same, deep down inside – it's quite a metamorphosis. So far, we've seen a similar metamorphosis through Lucius's eyes, and heard Bryon speak of one. What moments am I speaking of? And what element is the same? Hint: you'll have to go way back for Bryon's.

Ciao,

~wolfluvermh