"THAT, on your leg, is a device from LiMag™—short for Light Magic Industries, one of the primary producers of Angel technology. It has several functions. One, most importantly, it'll keep you from actively harming me, which includes trying to...eat me." He shudders, face welling in disgust. Handsomely. "Two, it will track your location, give me information on your vitals, magic, whatnot—and three, it keeps you close to me."

I want to talk. I keep trying, but the spear's still there, still lodged in me. The pain has faded. Adrenaline is pumping, and it's doing its job damn well, but there's pressure in my chest, and I'm wheezing, and I keep pointing with my eyes to the weapon that is lodged in my goddamn chest and the angel gives an apologetic, slightly awkward laugh, leaning forward, remembering that, oh yeah, there's the weapon right there, in my chest, because apparently he forgot.

"Right. Sorry, sorry..." He steps up to me and grabs the device with both hands and presses a button on the shaft. The pointed arrow edge withdraws so it becomes a staff, and he pulls it out easily. Blood flows harder. It's become an undammed river. I can barely move, but I turn my head, blinking, wincing—

"You...talk a...fuck-ton about...rules..." I breathe, trying to shift back, but I'm too weak. There's too much blood on the floor, too much lost.

"Well, as archangels, we protect humans in need from dangers like demons, angry ghosts, monsters, evil of all sorts. And the best protection is found—"

"Shut up and...make sure I don't die..." I mutter, cutting him off, pressing a hand against the wound. The pressure leaves me dizzy, but I need to hold it. He nods, clearing his throat, and kneels in front of me, watching me closely.

"You have...a lot of confidence...in that...device."

"Try to behead me, if you doubt LiMag." He rubs his hands together. A low growl rips from my throat.

"It's...significantly...less fun...when you're asking me to kill you."

The angel smirks, tilting his head up, exposing his long stretch of neck. His alabaster skin is untouched. The bloodlust, the rage, the urge to cut it open—it was there a moment ago. And I try to dig back into that feeling as I lift a claw, curling in the rest, and I angle it against his skin. Upon contact, we spark—that happens with angels and demons—and I try to dig the talon in, drag it across his skin, tear it like a knife into meat—

But I can't. My muscle locks. And it hurts, so I withdraw, wincing, snarling. I pull back.

"See?" the angel's lips smugly curl. He breathes into his palms, cupping them. His skin shimmers; he's so bright, so warm, and without a warning, he sets his hands against the hole in my chest and whispers a spell, and I yelp, thrashing, as the muscles and veins and nerves re-knit where the hole once was. The blood everywhere—on me, the floor, the wall—retreats back into my body. Scales re-form over the wound, closing it, but the scales are indented and dyed gold. It's a strange sort of scar. The mark of an angel.

But I'm not bleeding out anymore. And my leg's healed, the bone re-fused.

Energy's ebbed back into my bones. I ache terribly, but he's healed me.

The angelic, light magic feels all wrong, and itchy, within my body. I shudder, but focus on becoming myself again, and retract back into my normal self, clothes returning, anklet still firmly on, even when I try to rip it off. No wings, no horns—I look human. I want that.

The angel's larger and taller than me again, now that I'm back to normal. Maybe I should've stayed as a monster. Kept the intimidation up.

"Fine...I can't kill you, unfortunately. Congrats." I mutter, still catching my breath. "I'm not thanking you for saving my life, because you're the one who nearly ended it."

"I offered to stop, but you—" he exhales. "Regardless...in the trade-off for not being taken to Heaven, and questioned there, you will help me here on Earth."

"With?"

"Gathering information on this hotel, and its...tenants, because the angels would like to shut it down. I have a plan to convince the Seven Aces to bring their peoples below. So many demons being on Earth tilts the scales of balance and order. More evil in the world means more chaos, and—"

"You angel assholes just...don't like to have fun." I say, sitting upright against the wall, rubbing my temples. Heaven is cultlike, I hear—seraphim all pedantic, following their rules, Commandments, laws. There's no freedom, no rules, for them. The humans live perfectly happy, boring, dull lives in Heaven, under the angels' watchful gaze.

He rolls his eyes. "No. We don't like millions of innocent humans dying because Earth has become the new Hell! Earth has always been a middle ground, the space between. It is neutral territory—humans either go to Heaven or Hell. Or, if alternate faith followers, or non-followers, they go to their respective afterlives. Regardless, we don't interfere with their time here, on Earth."

"Right, right...like how you guys talked to Mary? And Moses? And Jesus?"

He exhales. "Look, just—this is bad. For everyone, including the demons. I am here to gather information, and stop this hotel, before the rest of the archangels arrive—and use force. And they're fierce."

"Unlike you."

He glares at me and stands, rolling his sharp shoulders back. I watch. The veins pop along his long-fingered hands, knuckles white from the strain. His feathers ruffle. "Your petty insults are no spear in my chest. They mean nothing." I almost point out the fluff of his wings, but the continues too quickly. "I am a defender of the divine law. I nearly killed you, and I purposefully aimed just right of your heart. A few inches off and you'd die, and fade into smoke and ash and fire...or whatever happens to cambions. Or hybrids, if you prefer that term."

I have no clue. "Not planning on finding out yet, thanks." I start. "Why are you here alone? I'd expect the heavens to open up and—"

"Because I'm trying to be subtle. And I'm not Michael, or Gabriel, or Raphael—my bosses, God aside."

"Your name?"

"Riel, Second Rank of the Archangels, Assistant to Gabriel, Servant of the Lord."

"All I needed was your name."

He ignores me and looks around the room, humming, raking back his light hair. I continue to take a few breaths. Security must be coming, right? How in Heaven did he get here?

I watch him. He studies the room, feeling around, scanning things with a sleek glass sheet, some strange device, before tapping into it a few times. It beeps. He turns toward me.

"Now to you, Iris. I need you to book a room here for me—under a false identity, which I will supply you."

"And if I don't? I'm just a cleaning lady..."

"Then contact someone who does bookings, and have them rent a room. If you cannot do this, then you rise to Heaven with me. They do not enjoy demons, but I have a feeling that the spawn of a demon and a human will only make them angrier—and curiouser. You want to know how we approve and create such complex technology?" He lifts the device in his hand. "Testing. Experimenting. And we can just heal and test you, again and again—"

"That sounds unholy. Running experiments on people who didn't give their consent."

"It's justice for demons' sins. An eye for an eye." Riel says, voice slick. And he waits.

Outside, beyond the glass doors and the balcony, a pool party has started. People cheer. Distant music hums. I continue to hold on, firm, saying nothing—and Riel stares back, glancing at his sleek golden watch, tapping his foot on the ground. He's not going to budge.

Dammit.

I finally throw my hands into the air. "Fine. Fucking Christ, I'll do it—"

"Don't. Don't—"

I laugh at him, tilting my head to the side. Right. He can't handle his precious God's name being taken in vain.

As I open my mouth, he does. We both keep talking over each other, harsh against smooth, high against low. We stop. As a slight act of peace, he hands me a card. A simple ID card, but instead of being carved of plastic, like humans' IDs, it's made from bone. The photo is of a different, but similar-looking man—scruffier, with his blonde hair traded for black and his softness swapped with a sterner expression. Reym Nox. It's a common name, like a "John Smith" in America.

"Before you ask, no, I don't know how they do it. Just book the room before it's taken, please." Riel asks, tapping his foot on the floor. He's watching the door, then the balcony.

"How did you get in here?" I squint. "The hotel's on an island."

"And, more importantly, it's warded against non-demons." he adds. "I got past the barriers with some technology and some...low magic."

Fallen angels were demons. Did he Fall? Become a demon? Use demon magic?

No—then his wings wouldn't be white...

"That's not an answer."

"It's enough to where you should be satisfied." he says, letting out a low breath. "Now. Booking."

"Impatience isn't a virtue."

"And neither is sassiness." he responds, typing something into the glass. I scowl and pull my work phone from one of the loops on my belt. It's big, and clunky—more like a pager than a smartphone in style. Demons want familiarity, apparently. I glare at him, silent, and type in the information, checking for room availabilities. It's late August, usually swelteringly hot, usually little rain. The end of summer's peak season.

"One room—" I start to smile. "King's Suite."

His expression fades. "I have a limited budget."

"Bring it up with God, then, because it's all that's available. Look. Proof." I lift the phone, and he leans down, frowning at the screen.

"I do not want to draw attention to myself with a fancy room...what else can you do?"

"Sleep in the worker's lounge?"

"Then, since there are no other options, I'll...take this. How long until a different room opens?"

"Five days."

"Order it, please. Hopefully my plans will be completed before then. Here's my card." Another slat of bone. He even has an account with the Bank of Hell...

I stare at it, turning it over. Same name. Looks legitimate.

"If I get in trouble for this, I'm dragging you to hell."

"Oh, don't worry—I'm already there." Riel gives me a kind, sarcastic smile. The urge to claw it off rises back through my throat, my fingers. Instead, I stifle it and type the override code into the phone. My boss got lazy one day; I spotted him, seared the code into my brain—

It gives me permissions that higher workers have. So, useful right now.

(Also useful when he doesn't put in my overtime.)

I gnaw at the edge of my lip, typing in the details—

When the door knocks so loudly that I fear it'll swing off its hinges.

Shit.