Cian

His office smelled like day-old coffee.

It was a cramped, tiny space, made tinier by the strewn paperwork everywhere, cascading over his desk and spilling over half-open file cabinets. The computer keyboard the officer tapped away at was stained in more than one place, as were the emerald carpets. I'd never considered myself neat, surely—but I was far from this messy.

I stayed in the chair at the opposite side of his broad, mahogany desk, which more than one unidentifiable crumb danced across every time I bumped it. A scowl was glued to my face. "Could you be any slower?" I whined. "If he's on the move, we don't have time to waste."

The officer's reply was a grunt. There was more furious tapping.

Whistling, I scanned his desk, my eyes landing on the golden nameplate. It read: SGT. E. WEBER. I picked it up, turned it over, set it back down again. "Weber," I said, and saw the officer tense, his eyes flicking away from the computer screen fleetingly, "if you don't move faster, I'll remind you just how disposable you are."

He'd snuck me into his office, which was smack dab in the middle of a police station buzzing with a jillion other personnel. At this point, getting rid of him wouldn't hurt me in any way.

Weber heaved a long sigh, gave a final tap, then swiveled the screen towards me. "Here...uh, sir. He's not here."

Leaning forward to squint at the computer screen, I asked, "Where's here?"

Weber cocked his head, but didn't ask. "Fresno."

"Ah," I answered. I traced the information before me. A picture of my father stared back at me, his chin tipped half-up, eyes gleaming with something like...reticence. It was him, alright. I'd lived with him for years; I'd know the bastard just by the sound of his footsteps.

He'd always walked heavily, like an elephant.

A four-year-old, naive human version of myself had once thought that was the coolest thing ever—but I knew now that there was nothing cool about that man. Everything of him repulsed me.

Under his name, Matthew G. Horne, was all sorts of intel. It showed his former address, the one back in San Francisco, his last credit card transaction, a more recent address in LA. It even had family information, including the fact that he had two sons, and, surprisingly, was still legally married.

I pointed towards the LA address. "This," I said. "Is it correct?"

Weber craned over the desk, examined what I pointed at, then nodded. "It should be."

"Los Angeles," I mused, and groaned. It was the last place a demon like me would want to be. Let's just say it wasn't called Los Angeles for no reason—the place was crawling with the Order's junkies. If they found me, they'd kill me, and the fun hadn't even started yet. "Of course that's where the son of a bitch would be."

My tongue burned, and I scowled. I suppose my link in heaven was still in tact, which in a way made sense. It could only be removed by the people who had put it there.

Everything about them, those angels, those servants of heaven—was annoying in the worst way. And I could never get away.

"Why are you looking for him, anyway?" asked Weber then, and when I looked up, he was wiping sweat from his brow, his fingers trembling.

I was just about done with him. I gave him a fanged smile; he scrambled back in his seat, yelping. "What makes you think that's any of your business, human?"

Weber crouched behind his desk, as if trying to hide from me. With a scoff, I got to my feet, standing over him. Ink washed within my irises, shadows uncoiling from my back.

Weber's voice was squeaky with terror; I could feel it pouring off of him, a sweet and enervating scent. "But you said you weren't going to kill me!"

"You humans never listen," I replied, folding my arms. "I said I wasn't going to kill you at that moment. But now that you've done what I wanted you to—what use are you anymore?"

"Please, I—I have a family—"

"Family," I scoffed. "Trivial, if you ask me. No one's anyone's family. We're each living in this world for one person, and that's ourselves."

One of the blades shot forward, and Weber opened his mouth to scream, just as a flash of silver sliced through the air.

I staggered backwards, startled, catching myself against the ground; my blade had been swatted, and, defeated, it slithered back towards my shoulders. I peered up, and I saw the wings: arching like stone pillars, polished like white porcelain.

"That's enough," said the angel, narrowing hazel eyes at me, his tangle of stark black hair almost obscuring them. "You won't be laying a hand on this man."

I got to my feet. I would never kneel before an angel. They didn't deserve my respect. "Why? What's he to you?"

The angel shrugged, his alabaster wings seeming to bounce as he did. "Nothing, but I can't exactly let him die quite yet. It's kind of my job."

"Sounds like a tedious job," I hissed. "Let me take it off your hands."

I surged forward, knocking the angel from my way and sliding over the desk. Weber let out another scream as I came down, my shoulders tingling again as the shadows unfurled, sharpening into weapons.

Before I could pierce him, I was yanked backwards. I let out a yelp as the angel tore me away by my shirt collar, tossing me to the other side of the room. As I struck the wall, a bookshelf rattled, some sort of recognition plaque shattering against the floor.

Admittedly I was bit out of breath. I'd forgotten just how powerful wings were.

I tried in vain to get to my feet, but the angel was already there, holding his sword to my throat. I'd heard that guardians had weapons, but I'd never seen one for myself. Maybe if his closeness wasn't revolting me, I would have stopped to admire its spotless silver color, the gleam of its white handle. But all I could feel was the keen of its edge against my throat.

I could feel nausea rising within me: he smelled of heaven and everything pure, and I absolutely abhorred it. "You look familiar," said the angel, and then his eyes widened, the feathers upon his wings ruffling. "You're Cian Horne, aren't you? The mortal angel—"

"I am not one of you!" I screeched. "I am a demon, and I have all the power of hell. I will slaughter you—"

"No," said the angel simply. "You won't."
My eyes burned with wrath. I slid my tongue over my dagger-like teeth, imagining his flesh caught within them. I'd kill him. I'd kill him for humiliating me like this. I'd kill him as a sign to the Order that I was done with them, that none of this was a joke anymore. "Your arrogance will be the end of you, angel."

"Funny for you to say that, Horne," the guardian replied, then prodded his blade in further, drawing blood. I hissed between gritted teeth, reaching a few fingers up. They came away slick with ink. "I'll propose a deal with you. How's that?"

"I don't make deals with your kind."

"Technically, I'm not supposed to either," the angel said. "But my job's at stake, just like your life is at the moment. You'll want to hear this."

I considered my options. I could try and impale him, but observing my current position, he'd probably slit my throat before I could. There was no way out, really, and the angel grinned at me like he knew it.

I hated this.

I hated everything.

"Your name," I said.

The angel's eyes widened a bit. "What's that?"

"You know my name; I ought to know yours."

"A demon with manners: now that's a first," said the angel, and I was taken aback to hear a hint of genuine fondness in his tone. He tightened his grip on his sword. "It's Zev. Not that it matters. If you accept my deal you won't ever see me again."

"Fine, then," I allowed, sitting back against the wall. I moved to fold my arms; instinctively Zev brought his blade closer, nicking me once again. I pretended not to be annoyed. "Spit it out."

"Here's what I want: my job, which means that this guy"—Zev gestured back at Weber, who was still sniveling in the corner like a child— "stays alive. Here's what you want: to be left alone by me and the Order. Here's the deal. You let this guy go, and I let you go. I won't tell the Order that I even saw you here. All you have to do is let Mr. Weber here live."

"That's ridiculous," I countered, practically spitting. "He's seen me. He'll go rattling off about me to all these humans and then—even if the Order doesn't—they'll come after me with torches and pitchforks."

Zev tipped his head to the side; a curtain of hair, dark as pitch, fell to shade one eye. "But think about it. You can take care of humans, easy. We angels are so much more of a pest, aren't we?"

I would not agree. I would not.

"Besides," Zev said, using his free hand to gesture towards the computer, "it seems you're on some sort of mission. It'd be much easier to get that done if the Order wasn't hunting you down."
I would not agree. I would not agree—

"Fine, just let down your sword," I hissed. I grabbed the sword in my palm, but the skin sizzled, and I let it go, cursing under my breath.

"It's hallowed," said Zev. "Why, are you surprised?"

"Put it down. I agreed."

Zev hesitated, but removed his sword. He moved to sheath it—but it was less of sheathing and more of a disappearing. His wings folded around it, silver melting into white.

I sighed, able to breathe now that I wasn't inches away from agony. The guardian angel watched me warily as I got to my feet, his wings disappearing back into his shoulder blades.

Zev turned, pointing at the door. "You'd better get out of here."

I made for the door, but stopped, hovering before the threshold. A part of me was hissing that their was no way I could trust him. That I should kill both him and the officer, here, now, no matter how much effort it took.

But there was no guarantee I'd succeed, not against an angel—and I couldn't risk the Order finding me.

"You swear you won't say a word, angel?" I asked, glancing over my shoulder.

Zev raked a hand back through his hair to clear it from his face, then lifted his right palm. "By the heaven I serve," he said. "I swear it."

I frowned, something inside of me tingling.

But I turned away from the doubt. I turned away from it all, fleeing the room.