Chapter Sixty One

"Hello, Lucius," Bryon murmurs, glancing over the edge of his latest report. "May I ask where you've been?"

"You may," the boy sighs, "but you already know. Don't play dumb."

Bryon's lips quirk. "Hmm. Alright, then, how's this for a question." He hurls the report down on the desk, shooting to his feet, lips bared in a snarl. "What the hell do you think you were doing?!"

Unperturbed by Bryon's fury, Lucius chuckles, playing with his deck of cards, his lips pulled back cockily and his eyebrows arching high. "My, my, it seems someone just let their hair down. And, last time I checked, Bryon, you have no right to lecture me like you're my mother." His grin grows catty. "I see the beginning of a speech there. Shut that mouth of yours and save your words for someone who cares."

Bryon's firm resolve slides into place. Levelly, he squares his shoulders and stares darkly down at the boy, keeping his face clear of emotion. "Then you can take whatever sop story you have for me this time and do the same, Lucius. I am not a carpet for you to walk all over."

Lucius is quiet for seconds, as if taken aback. "I'm sorry, what did the ever-so-benevolent Lord of Petunias just say? Could you repeat that?"

With a sigh, Bryon turns his back on Lucius, an ache pulling his heart down to the pit of his stomach. Though he knows that it'll throw the boy, that the child will be confused and hateful for the rejection, every snappy teenager must be dealt with. Since the job was neglected by Lucifer in the years for prime molding, he must drive the message in deeper this time.

"I told you to fuck off, Lucius." Bryon picks up the report calmly. "I can't be bothered by you right now."

"Can't be bothered?" Lucius echoes, sounding furious. "The information I have gathered might help your measly hide survive this war."

"I'm uncertain what part of my words was unclear." Bryon narrows his eyes, glaring up at Lucius. "Would you like for me to repeat myself again?"

"Do you know how much I risked to get this little tidbit, how much I sacrificed?" Lucius hisses, stalking forward and leaning over Bryon's chair, his lips perked back in a snarl, his tongue batting at the air like a snake's. "I am at a fraction of my power because of what I've endured."

"Go whine to someone else." Bryon flips to the back of the paper. "I'm not your mother."

"No, but you're my family." Lucius whirls away, turning his back on Bryon. "And isn't that the same thing, dearest Bryon? I thought family was your one and only motivator. Maybe you're not the nice and cozy family man everyone believes you are. Maybe you're just as bad as me."

"Oh, Lucius." He sighs, shaking his head. "You're so naïve. You forget, boy: I'm so much worse than you've ever been. I was here first. I am a thousand times larger, a thousand times smarter, a thousand times more deadly.

"You are just entering the arena, just a little puppy boasting its first displays of aggression. I have been playing this game for centuries. God help you if you think you can pull this high and mighty act on me. I have tolerated you, Lucius, but from now on, you either treat me with respect or as an enemy. I refuse to tolerate your teenage insecurity any longer. Now, scram, or I'll give you a little taste of what's to come."

"You are a monster." Lucius, grasping at straws to keep his control of the situation, desperately pulling at strings to get his head wrapped back around the sudden twist in the tale, smirks. "I suppose I've always known, but it's amusing to see you prove it."

"I am a monster." Bryon's eyes flash, burning like beacons. "This is your last warning. Leave now and I won't have to show you just how much of a monster I am."

"Hey, Raffe," I murmur into his hair, "when do you have to get up?"

Softly, he grunts, stirring groggily beneath my arm with ripples of muscles. Muttering incoherently, he half-rises up from the pillow, then crashes back down with a groan. While he repeatedly tries and fails to jar himself from slumber, I bury my face in his wings.

"I gotta go," he mumbles, laying his hand over mine. "I'm already gonna be late."

"Okay." I snuggle closer against his back, laying my cheek against the skin between the two crests of his furled wings, which, remarkably, don't smell much like musty feathers. "You sleep well?"

"Yes, actually." He half-turns, his face seeking mine and gently nuzzling against me. "Aside from, you know."

Sometime around two o'clock in the morning, his wings had burst open to their full glory, slapping me as they did so. He'd shouted a frightening battle cry, and then proceeded to viciously punch at the air, kicking off all the blankets in the process.

I laugh quietly, trying to keep my ribs from shaking. "How often does that happen, by the way?"

"Only when I'm comfortable." He shrugs, casually wrapping an arm around me as he does. "In a place I call home, most of the time. Didn't know I'd grown so attached to this bed. Would've warned you otherwise."

"I wish you had. You scared me to death. I was in the middle of a nice dream, too."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mmmhmm. I was stabbing Lucius through his slimy heart."

Raffe's chuckle rumbles through me. "I was beating the will to live out of him, so I suppose we're just mentally linked."

"There's no way I want a mental link with you." I cup his cheek, propping myself up on an elbow, wincing only slightly at the searing pain that flares up in my ribcage. "Hey, Raffe, last night, I was thinking about… about my deal with Lucius."

His eyes darken with hatred, but he leans into my hand, prompting me to continue.

"I realized that… that the rules were that you couldn't kiss me." I swallow, uncertain how to phrase the bombshell without sounding like a self-centered bitch. "He said something like if you kiss me, he can kiss me, on and on. But… there's nothing in our arrangement that says I can't… can't kiss you."

Raffe's breath hitches. His gaze meets mine sharply, narrowing with intuition, judgment.

"Not that," I hurriedly add, "I think I should. I mean, that's why I'm… telling you this. I… trust you enough to figure out the right answer. If you want me to… I can kiss you on the cheek or something. But it seems unfair to me. It's just up to you, okay?"

"So…" In a motion that would be awkward if anyone but this graceful archangel tried, he reaches an arm back and gently rubs his finger along my cheekbone. "You can kiss me. But I can't kiss you." He inhales sharply. "Rather cruel twist of fate – but I guess that's what that bastard's good at, cruelty."

"I'm sorry, Raffe." I advert my eyes, shame butterflying in my stomach. "So, so sorry. …I had no idea that I would do this to you."

For a long time, he remains silent, stroking at my cheek. His eyes are so lost that I dare not interrupt his deep reverie – Hugo and many, many others seem to think that he's stupid, that Raffe doesn't think before he acts. But, in personal opinion, he thinks more than any of them do before he says anything.

"I think," he sighs, softly nuzzling against me, "that it might be better if you keep those lips to yourself. As much as I want you to –" He cuts off abruptly. "Penryn, I'll be frank: you're a point of weakness for me. It's a weakness I'd rather not have. Especially now that you can suffer because of it. So, let's say that I broke down after a kiss of yours –"

"And didn't end it with a line like, 'I don't even like you.'" A grinning face pops through the balcony doors. "Right, Pigeon-Bat, you're learning! Soon, you'll be an acceptable ship!"

Cursing quietly, his face contorted in an annoyed scowl, Raffe chucks my pillow at Hugo. The boy ducks behind Bay, but, being a cushy, gentle, drifting pillow against a firm, stocky body of muscles, it doesn't do more than slightly puzzle the Fallen angel.

"That was mine," I scold, poking Raffe in the chest. "I can't get out and get it back, either. I can't even move, you dick."

"Have mine." He shoves it towards me, still scowling at Hugo. "Should smell like me. Your animal sense will be nice and tingly."

"If you know what he means," Hugo growls in a syrupy imitation of a sexy voice.

I shiver at the cold nip of morning November air as Raffe throws the covers open and leaps out of bed, jarring the springs sharp enough to make me gasp. Bay's eyes light up with concern, and, abandoning the two to their feud, he comes and kneels beside me, smiling softly.

"Hello," he rumbles, beaming down at me. "I haven't seen you in a while. Are you alright?"

"Okay, I guess." Concerned, I glance towards the rising sun. "Aren't you supposed to keep a low profile during daytime hours?"

Bay shrugs, still smiling with a dopey sort of happiness. "Emilio wanted to sleep in after all that's happened, so we gave him a day off. I'm supposed to stand watch over you today. Unless" – his expression of giddy delight drops slightly – "you feel well enough to be walking around. Then I guess… I'll stay here." He glances towards the table. "Emilio did gather quite an impressive cache of magazines I could look through."

I hesitate, trying to ignore the boisterous arguing of Raffe and Hugo, praying to some higher force that they won't be heard by any important enemy. "Well… I was thinking about seeing Bryon. But after that, I'll return to you, I promise."

His kind smile reminds me of a puppy dog. "You don't need to sit in a boring bed all day to accommodate me, Penny – can I call you Penny? Hugo says 'Penny Poo' but you don't seem to like that…"

I shrug – why the hell can't the kitten of a Fallen angel call me by my embarrassing nickname? "Sure thing, Bay."

"Okay." He beams. "You don't have to sit here all day, you realize. After all… I've got a TV. And" – his tone becomes official – "Hugo wants me to do research."

"Yeah." I do not lie when I say that Hugo appears at Bay's shoulder, resting his chin there and grinning madly down at me. "Turns out Tallulah is totally addicted to this show called 'the Devil is a Part-Timer.' It's one of those anime things – Japanese animation – and Bay doesn't mind watching them, so he's got a mission. He needs to figure out why Lucius likes it so much."

"Oh." Blinking, I frown, glancing down at the floor. "Okay."

"Why are you even here, monkey?" Raffe spits, crossing his arms over his chest, glaring out at Hugo. "Baelan, you, I can understand, you're like the BFG, but you?"

"Bay and I are a partner package." Hugo leans his head against Bay's cheek, closing his eyes and sighing blissfully. "We are two for the price of one."

"I would never sell you, Hugo. And if I did, the price would be too high for anyone to buy, so I'd keep you by default."

Hugo chuckles, kissing his boyfriend's neck. "Thanks, Bay. Means a lot. I'd never sell you, either, big dude."

"Get out of my apartment," Raffe mumbles, pulling off his navy blue T-shirt to replace it with a crisp, white one. I watch him do so, trying to convince myself that it's not perverted, studying how adeptly a guy can do his tie, how sexy he looks while tugging on the jacket to his suit.

"Well, you're hardly one to act all high and mighty." Hugo's voice roughens in a manner that seems to disturb Bay as he imitates Raffe. "I'm Wrath of God, and I have only one weakness. A hint: it's you, babe. But you can't kiss me. I know it's tempting. I kiss the mirror sometimes. Why? Never mind why. Oh, you mean why can't your lips touch this? Why indeed. More sexual tension, I guess."

"Stop that," whispers Bay, a shiver running through him.

Raffe puffs up, bristling. "You are so lucky I've got more self-control now than I did a month ago, else you'd be walking around tongueless."

Bay chuckles quietly, the sound of it a soft threat to Raffe, but his anger is sated by Hugo's gentle caresses.

"Don't let him get under your skin." Lazily, I bury my head in his pillow, and tug at the covers, trying to pull them back over me. In the process, however, I jar my ribs again – a soft, breathy sound escapes my lips, and I go limp against the mattress, deciding that I'm okay, half-frozen to death.

"Oh, you silly monkey," Raffe sighs, moving forward to fix my sheets for me. "I'm not your maid, you know. When you actually get reintroduced into the real world, I'm going to have to teach you how to eat again."

"I don't think my ability to eat is the problem. Actually, if I don't get breakfast soon, I'm going to resort to cannibalism." Despite his flinch at my matter-of-fact tone, I catch his hand in mine and squeeze it gently. "Raffe, you should get going before Hugo gets under your skin again. I hope you won't be too late."

"I'll be later than late." If a shoulder-poke can be called affectionate, his is. "Don't die while I'm gone."

"I'll try my best, but it'll be a struggle."

I knock at the door as I push it open, my entrance done with hesitation, uncertainty. A guilty reluctance to face my uncle nails itself to my heart. His cloak waterfalls over his chair like silk, and his staff leans loyally against his leg. He looks up from a pile of papers, his bronze eyes gleaming just the way they should, and smiles, beckoning me silently in.

Unwilling to break the thin ice of quiet sealing over the scene, I limp forward, wincing at every step. Bruises and broken bones ache and sear, each new throb of pain reminding me of Emilio's words of caution against anything remotely like this. Even the makeshift crutch Bay had fashioned for me does little to help – if anything, it jolts more against my ribs.

Bryon watches me, agony hidden poorly in his eyes.

"How are you, Penryn?" he asks redundantly, rising from his seat to pull out my chair and help me into it. His hands are ever mindful of my injuries, avoiding all the areas that hurt like hell.

"I'm okay, considering." I study him, watching as he settles into his chair again, watching him brush aside the letters. "And you?"

His lips quirk. "The same. It's been busy, and I have no earthly idea how I'm getting hate mail – is there still a mail service that's up and running? If so, good for it."

Slowly, I nod, eyeing him in search of true reaction. "Emilio told me that your people are confused, yeah. What are the odds like? From a political standpoint?"

"Well, let's put it this way." He leans on the table, looking up at me through his lashes. "I have to do something – soon – to prove that I'm still an able-minded leader. Somehow, one of Ogden's spies got ahold of… all the information regarding my little..." With a falter in his voice, he looks aside – I follow his gaze to a painting of a hillside that looks at lot like Audiat's.

"Penryn…" His gaze swings back to me, intense emotion broiling inside. "I am so, so sorry. Not only for" – he gestures in frustration towards my bandages, towards the crutch – "but for ever putting you in a position like that. I'm sorry about being the reason the world's gone to shit, I'm sorry that… that I took your grandmother from you." With a shaky breath, he bows his head. "There is no way I'll be able to take that back. Ever."

"Bryon…" I lean across the table, ignoring the twinge in my ribs, and clutch his hands comfortingly with the arm he didn't sprain. "It wasn't your fault. I know you're probably not going to believe me and just go on hating yourself, but… it wasn't. I don't blame you."

A deep, resonating laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside him, bitter and sharp. "Look at you here, consoling me. I'm sorry even for that, Penryn. Things were supposed to change for you when we met. I thought… I thought I could protect you and give you a happy life again in the streets of Secrem Domu."

Somewhere, subconsciously, I realize that this is the most Bryon has ever opened up to me.

"Well, I don't need protecting," I insist with a raised brow, "and I'm happy right now. We're family, Bryon, not superman and a bunch of little damsels in distress. So, tell me. What's on your mind?"

"I shouldn't heavy the weight already on your shoulders." He smiles frailly and squeezes my hands back. "You already carry too much."

"Okay, then, we'll both talk," I offer, raising an eyebrow at him. "Do you want to start out or should I?"

He laughs, a hint of his real-self shining through for a moment. "You sound like a kindergarten teacher. I'll go first. …I almost knew… beforehand that it was me. That I was the one that… pulled the trigger. Whenever Hugo would report on his fruitlessness, I'd get this sort of… smug glow. And… at night, I would have troubles sleeping, even though my dreamtime conversations with my patron are the things I look forward most to these days."

"…Can you not remember what happened, then?" I tilt my head to one side. "From recently?"

Puzzled, he stares down at our hands, lost in thought. "Now that you bring it up, that is very strange, for I do remember… every excruciating minute of… recently. The memories are fuzzy at best, but they still… Maybe it's because she put conscious thought into my memories this time. It was a punishment, after all. Last time, it was just her disposing of unfortunate playing pieces."

"I guess that makes sense."

Bryon shrugs. "Honestly, this is all guesswork. …You have been informed of Theobella's… past?"

I grimace. "Yeah, that was an object of discussion with… my patron. Poor girl."

"Yes, she lives a sad life, one that is likely never to improve or grow lighter ever again." Broodingly, Bryon stares intensely at some point above my head. "Strange, isn't it, how such a small act of belligerence, in one tiny family, can equal the unhappiness of so many people? Then again, I am not one to talk about loss of life."

He sighs, removing one of his hands from my grasp to rub at his brow, closing his eyes and biting at his lip.

"You didn't kill those people, Bryon," I insist.

"You're right, I didn't," he agrees gravely. "But it's because of me that they're dead. Had I not been too curious, they would've all been alive. And I'm perfectly aware that it wasn't my conscious mind aiming the gun, but that sort of realization… it haunts you, Penryn, and I'll be frank: it probably always will. If I had never been around, this most likely would've never, ever happened."

"Then something else awful would've happened and we'd all still be where we are now." I wave a hand, surprised at my own forgiveness, considering a month ago, I would've strangled the man that shot Gabriel on the spot. "If you can't forgive yourself, then you should stop… stop torturing yourself about it, at least."

"I'll try." He looks up at me again, eyes softening. "And what about you, Penryn? We agreed to swap tales. Tell me what is bothering you. I shall do everything in my power to make it better."

The tides turn, and I am the one blushing and hiding my eyes from him. With a long, heavy sigh, I mutter, "To tell you the truth… I'm scared."

His concern grows ever more visible, saturating the color in his eyes. "Oh?" he intones.

"I'm scared of…" I shake my head, still hiding my gaze from him, reluctant to look up at him. "I'm scared for everyone. The Tyab'la… when I saw how… how utterly powerful it was… I was scared. The only thing in my mind was that I had to run. I had to get home to Paige and hide. And… and I've never felt like that before. Or at least that strong.

"It hasn't really worn off yet. I'm jumpy. The angels… the angels I saw walking here, the guy ones, they gave me the creeps. I'm just worried that, because I'm so scared, I'll screw something up."

Bryon's smile grows kind and depthless, coaxing me to sink into the sense of comfort he emits. His eyes gleam softly, the wisdom there calming my nerves and keeping me grounded. Massaging at my hands, he squeezes my fingers.

"It's okay to be scared, Penryn," he murmurs gently. "In fact, it's good that you are."

I stare up at him, uncomprehending.

"People say that being without fear on the battlefield is a good thing. That a heart devoid of fear is the heart of a Lion. It's not true. The ones with the greatest courage are the ones that fear the most, the ones that are afraid. They – we – are the best fighters because we have stuff to lose, we have things to fear for. Those things make us stronger. Do not skirt around your fear. Embrace it, for you are human, and you shall not throw your life away – you will fight until the very last breath for those you love."

"But –" I gnaw at my lower lip guiltily. "Bryon, I'm scared of what happens next. I want… I want everything to turn out okay, but… I don't know if it can. I'm trying to reason with myself. What if – what if this does turn into an all-out war? Michael's here, and he's the war dude, right? What if…?"

Mindful of my bandaged arm, Bryon rolls our hands across the table, rotating slightly from side to side. He watches me, his eyes tranquil, as I fret about everything that might go wrong. A smile lifts the corners of his lips.

"Have faith in Raffe, Penryn," Bryon urges. "People around here pretend that he's a heap of dog-shit, and I'd be lying if I said I've been the most open-minded of fellows towards him. Truth be told, he's smart. Not academically in any way, shape, or form, but intelligence isn't measured on test sheets. If he comes through for us, if he wins this election, there will be no war. All we can do until the results roll in is keep our heads low and support him in all ways we can."

"What happens if he doesn't win the election?"

"You're a smart girl." His hair falls into his eyes as he cocks his head. "You know the answer to that. But, between you and I, I think he'll pull through for us. True, he's not as eloquent or tricky as Uriel, but he's got a great heart."

"He does," I agree quietly.

"That's really what matters more for simple men like angels. Just have faith in him, and in my judgment." He cocks his head to one side. "Besides, overthinking the future won't help you at all. We don't know what's coming next. There's no way to prepare for it, to cushion any blow. It's best just to have faith in our decisions and carry them out to the fullest instead of sitting here and worrying."

My lips twitch into a smile. "You're really wise, you know that, Bryon?"

He grins, rubbing his thumb against the back of my hand. "Well, at least I know all my suffering these long years was not in vain – now, I get to help you through yours. That's enough of a reward, I think. Listen, Penryn…" Gently, he squeezes my hands. "I'm not going anywhere in the foreseeable future." Bryon smiles tenderly. "Come to me if you ever need to discuss anything. If you ever feel overwhelmed by fear or if you just need a moment of calm, I've got my own flat now, and it's plenty quiet enough for relaxation or therapy discussions. I'm still here for you. I'll always, always be here for you."

"That goes double."

He raises a single eyebrow, smirking at me. "I'm sure it does. Now, skedaddle. You've got more interesting things to be doing than watch me pore over letters."

"Yeah…" I hesitate, smiling. I rise from my seat, leaning forward to squeeze Bryon's shoulder. "Hugo's bringing me food from downstairs. Bay promised me that he'd save me some food, but, well, Hugo's top dog in their relationship. I can't leave them waiting too long in Raffe's flat, or else they'll eat it all."

"I'm sure." As I walk back to the door, casting farewell glances over my shoulder, Bryon bows his head into the letter. "Oh, and Penryn? Leave the door unlocked – I'm expecting another visitor."

"So, this monster, Raphael…" Michael leans forward across the table. "Does it still dwell in these halls?"

Raffe shrugs. "Hell if I know. It's a ghost more than anything, and that's like nothing I've ever faced. Demons, Nephilim, Fallen – it's different."

Broodingly, the massive archangel stares into the foam of the beer before him. "And you said you killed it once? You severed its head from its body? How many witnessed this?"

"We all did," Josiah pipes up quietly. "Every one of us watched his blade slice off the creature's head."

Uriel's head jerks up, and a frown pulls down his lips. "Why are you skulking in the shadows? Go find something to do."

Unable to protest on his friend's behalf, unable to do anything but watch, Raffe sighs with frustration.

"Is what he said true?" Michael studies Raffe, his eyes glittering with the muted intelligence of a strategist. "Everyone saw it? Is that why it attacked no one? Safety in numbers?"

"I suppose so." Raffe shrugs, grasping at straws to keep himself afloat. "I'm not that much more enlightened about this thing, Michael. I don't have all the answers."

"Well, we'll just go with safety in numbers." Michael pushes up from the table without another word, soaring upwards in height. His armored plates scrape painfully against each other, and his heavy boots thud over the marble floor. Without of word of explanation, he strides from the conference hall.

"Where are you going, Michael?" Raffe sighs, feeling all-too-much like a babysitter.

"I'm calling my elite squad, telling them to move in."

"What?" Uriel lifts his head. "Why the hell would you do that?"

Michael glances back. "There's a monster on the loose, and I intend to catch it, if not slay it. I will do so by any means necessary. They're the best way. After all, I know they'll leave no stone unturned, unlike treacherous she-swine."

"That is not necessary, Michael," Raffe growls, standing and walking quickly after him. "Trust me. None of us can take this thing. Not even you."

The gleam of his eyes through his helmet is slightly amplified as he stares down the smaller archangel. "Why not? Because you couldn't?"

Uriel's hissing laughter echoes through the room. "Damn, Raphael."

"Stay out of my way, Raphael, and get back to your politics." Michael lifts his gaze to Uriel. "And you, quit your sniggering, you sound like a snake on a high. Pull your acts together, both of you. Farewell and good luck."

"I have not seen many renditions of Sariel on television," Bay rumbles, cocking an eyebrow, "but this is by far the worst. A perverted, blue-haired creep, he is not."

"Then again, Satan doesn't work at McDonalds," I argue, watching the big-eyed people speak in their tittering voices as they argue back and forth.

"Hmm." Bay chuckles, grinning at the TV. "That's true. And the Hero's name, Emilia – that's the female form of Emilio. I think there's a reason this is my Prince's favorite show – the idea of the Nephilim being stuck-up little snobs and Satan being a part-time worker at McDonalds could be very appealing to him. Personally, I think he most resembles Lucifer, don't you?"

"Yeah." I watch pervy-Sariel obsess over the Japanese-sexism-girl's huge breasts. "Or maybe this guy."

"He's not quite that sex-driven." Bay lowers his voice. "Actually, there are rumors that it's just a method of intimidation – the real reason there have been no more Satan-babies is because Lucius is firmly against Lucifer's treatment of women, according to Luther. He says that Lucius hates rape of any type."

"Luther…" I frown. "That's his video-game obsessed brother, right? I'm not an expert on demon politics, but I heard they don't have the best of relationships."

"Lucius has no good relationship with anyone but himself," Bay acknowledges, "but the only thing that comes close to a mediocre one is with his brother, Luther. I had the great honor of fighting Aperture Science beside Luther one day when his usual gaming partner had been off on a business meeting. The demon truly is hard to disagree with – but, then again, I hear his genteel attitude can waver when presented with pretty women." He glances sharply towards me. "So maybe it'd be best if you steered clear."

I elbow him softly. "Thanks, Bay. I love you, man."

He inhales sharply, his cheeks reddening. "Penryn," he stammers, "I'm flattered, really, and you truly are a nice young woman, but my heart belongs to Hugo, and –"

"Not like that!" I interrupt, elbowing him again. "Friendwise. I love you as a friend."

"Oh." The color on Bay's cheeks only reddens. "Oh. My bad. I love you, too, then."

Stomaching laughter that would further embarrass him, I shoot Bay an understanding look, and bump his shoulder with mine. After another minute of silence, watching the Devil strip and Sariel make provocative comments, I ask, "Bay, what happened to that angel that Lucius turned?"

"Oh, he's dead now." Bay shrugs. "He had never been vaccinated or even exposed to viruses that you humans grow tolerant of during your youths. Bad way to go. It's a fate I wouldn't wish upon anyone."

"So, Lucius basically doomed that guy?" I shiver. "Yikes."

"He's expanded his protection, if you can call it that, just like he promised," he adds. "So far, there've been eighteen cases that we know of. It's scaring the pants off of angels everywhere – and it should."

I lean further back into the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. "Not that I'm ungrateful for the guy's help, I mean, sure, whatever we can muster, but I really… I really just don't like his methods."

"Lucius is a dangerous enemy to make," Bay says with a tip of his head. "Our relations have to be delicate with him. It certainly is good he has impartiality to you. I do believe he rather enjoys your presence, though he'd never say anything."

"Oh, yeah?" Somewhat disturbed by that, I turn to look at him. "What let you know that?"

"Well, I've never really seen him say anything truly demeaning to you. Most of the time, if he's got something to say, he'll say it. I don't know if it's because of indifference or true fondness, but he doesn't say anything truly terrible about you. In fact, I think there are only a seldom few that truly have his malevolence."

"Really?" I frown at him. "Hugo's right; you notice the most bizarre things."

Shrugging, Bay smiles sadly. "I wish I'd noticed more things about Theobella before this all happened. I made a loose note about how different all the interactions with her were after her rebirth, but I made no action to tell anyone. For example, the human brain is wired to recognize three things, and it is impossible for it not to: food, attractiveness, and danger. When usually, all eyes would first fly to Bryon or Raphael as the most dangerous force in the room, people would instead look at her. I thought it was odd, but decided that maybe she was more attractive in a fetish way than before."

"You're so strange, in a good way." I look at him long and hard. "Anything else you've deduced?"

Bay leans his head back, thinking hard. "No, not really. For a time, I will admit to having the quiet belief that Jesus, or 'Nephilim of Religious Bat-Shit' as Hugo calls him, was a love-child of Sariel and Mary. It would explain Bryon's hatred of him, and why he is so often depicted with the Young features of beauty. However, due to recent events, I've scratched that out, seeing Sariel's immense care for his wife and realizing that he would never, ever do anything like that to her."

I remain quiet. And, for a time, he does to, as if realizing that he'd screwed up. Hastily, he rushes onwards with more observations.

"I've noticed strange parallels, too," he says, smiling coaxingly at me. "For example, your father's eyes were blue as the sun above, and your uncle's are bronze. Many seemed to believe that Belle was a perfect blend of Bryon and Raphael, but it's not the only thing there is, is it? The realization that Titaniel maintains a strong similarity to Black Wolf and Lucius is almost exactly like White Wolf was made by me, too."

"What?" I jerk my head from its pillow.

"Oh, yes." Bay blinks benignly several times. "Lucius is the one most likely to be White Wolf. Did you not know anything of that?"

"Look what the cat dragged in." Bryon hardly looks up from his paper, his pen skating over the lines with only the whisper of ink. "Why are you here, Lucius? Be blunt."

"To apologize." Moodily, he toys with his deck of cards, glancing sourly around the room, as if hoping to drive the potted plants mad. "I need you as much as you need me, so it's best if we're on good terms, yes?"

"Is that the only reason?" Bryon sighs, giving the boy a stern glare. "When you stomped out last time, I could've sworn you had something to tell me."

"…I do." Taking back his arrogant drawl, Lucius saunters to the window, locking his hands behind him, looking out upon the world. "…As I was chasing after Tyab'la, she was… difficult to follow, more difficult than I would've desired."

"Yes, well." Bryon nods towards the chair where his niece had sat earlier, gesturing for the demon to sit. "She does have mastery over time. Trying to follow her through it would not be easy."

He slinks into his seat, almost sheepishly so, as if still trying to understand if Bryon's rage is still blazing or whether the full assumption of his asshole-façade would be allowed. "And it wasn't. She took me places I didn't want to be. She made me relive things I didn't want to see. And after I survived through all her different version of hell, she spoke to me."

Bryon chuckles solemnly, memorizing the boy's troubled face. "I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that you didn't like what you heard."

"She spoke to me about many interesting topics I'd rather not bring up." Lucius snorts. "One of them being that she always had a crush on me when we were children. Funny, the things that come to a lunatic's mind in a time of danger. However, most of it was none of your business – there is only one thing I wish to have… clarification on. Call it a sort of closure."

"Well, then." Bryon rolls his hand. "Speak your mind."

Lucius shuffles with the deck of cards he keeps with him at all times, his face full of thought, showing depth Bryon hadn't truly believed the Prince had. "She told me that everything was my fault. That… she only exists because the deal I struck. That my mother would've never followed her sister to such lengths to escape me had I never waltzed in. According to her, it's all on my shoulders, everything that's happened, everything that will happen. The deal was the domino that put things in motion."

Bryon's words are soft, pitying. "And you're wondering if that's true."

He remains silent, shuffling through his deck of cards, eyes downcast.

Sighing, the man bows his head, wondering how one could tackle such a subject gently enough for Lucius. "I'll be frank with you: it was the first domino to actually fall. However… the wind that blew the domino down was, through me, the Tyab'la. You knew nothing but what you'd seen as a child, and only then were you first introduced to the world beyond your doorstep, only then did you take the slightest interest in… everything. At the time, you only thought of saving those you loved."

"Do not dismiss my failure as being just," Lucius says coldly, "because I did it out of kindness. That's like saying Hitler should've been spared because he meant well. If anything, I proved my own point; I must always avoid acting on my heart's desires. For saving her, it seems, was not met with rejoice. I am hated, Bryon. I am despised. And I've figured out why, too.

"Here I am, torturing the very Wrath of God. I've taken away what he loves, his new fascination, and I keep appearing at every bend in the road. I'm driving him mad. In order to escape me, in order to… equal me, to fight me as a rival rather than a flea, he'll harden himself. He'll become that awful, callous man I knew in my childhood." Lucius cocks his head clinically to one side. "Not because of war or anything that it was dismissed as. Because of me. And because of him, I committed my first evil act, and thus was lead on this path to become stronger, to save the one I love most from him, while he attempts to save the same from me. We, dear Bryon, are a paradox, each of us driving the other mad."

"Then break free." Bryon studies the child, his heart pounding with pity. "You're driving each other mad because of your hate, the hate that the bitch is using to bind your lives together. Let go of that hate now, before it's too late."

"Oh, I tried." Lucius sighs, rubbing at his forehead. "Was that not clear? I tried to… right it all, make it so that I never existed. A simple deal that would've remedied everything. And then I started it all. So, you see, there's no way out of it."

"Yes, there is." He furrows his brow, wondering how to make his point clear. "Even if you believe your life is cursed by Raphael, you can still fight against the Tyab'la. You and her, you are equals. To lay yourself down at her feet like a carpet to blanket the ground would be truly pathetic."

"You're right, we're the same, she and I." Grouchily, Lucius rakes a hand through his hair. "But, contrary to popular belief, you can't fight fire with fire. We would be redundant, a match dealt with utter equality, lasting on for infinity."

"You two are very similar, I will admit." Bryon leans forward, gazing intensely at his student. "Very powerful, very aware of that power, both attempting to avenge things long forgotten in time's great spiral, and both whining children on the inside. You're both so very, very immature. Is it clear now?"

Lucius lifts his brow. "Is this a puzzle? Well done, Bryon, consider be stumped."

"You're not stumped, you're not even thinking," Bryon chastises. "She's a spoiled rotten brat, Lucius, and I've shown you how to take care of her. Just now. The reason you had to apologize to me in the first place. Do you remember what I did?"

"You toyed with my emotions," he recalls. "You told me off, yet you didn't even bat an eye when accepting my apology. What does that have to do with anything?"

"I don't remember accepting your apology." Bryon spears his paper with the tip of his pen. "Oh, come on boy, think. I treated you like an adult should treat a little brat, and that's the only way to deal with one. She's a little brat, Lucius. Don't fight fire with fire. Grow up."

Bryon is having none of Lucius's shit.

Have a happy 2015, friends!

Also: "The Devil is a Part-Timer" is a show my sister watched a few weeks ago that I realized has a few creepy parallels. Not only does it star a Lucifer obsessed with the computer, a kindhearted demon general that does housework, and a Satan in love with McDonald's, but the main Nephilim hero is Emilia, which, as stated above, is the female form of Emilio.

POLL: Lucius is speaking of a deal when he discusses what evidently screwed him over. For all you thinkers out there, it'll be fun to see what you try and make of it. So the poll is to make something of what he's saying.

Ciao,

~wolfluvermh