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My heart pounded in my chest, my knees wobbling.
“This dagger,” the enigmatic male said into the heated space between us, “is forged in Hell. As such, it is one of the few weapons that can make me bleed.” For a moment, I could discern the swirl of silver eyes amid the vague outline of his face. “And kill me.”
I sucked in a breath. My fingers around the hilt trembled ever so slightly, and he gently firmed his grip around mine.
“Now,” he murmured as he leaned in further, the blade digging precariously into the vulnerable skin at his throat, “can we talk?”
I jolted awake, yanked out of the dream by the pillow that had hit me square in the face. Heart still pounding from the tension of the scene with Tall, Dark, and Mysteriously Handsome, I blinked at Bifiel’s annoyed expression as she stared me down from where she stood next to my bed.
My roommate was blessed with looks even more enchanting than a human supermodel’s, her skin a healthy alabaster streaked with a rose blush, her golden locks framing a face of graceful lines so finely drawn that it was like God himself had breathed beauty right into her.
Unfortunately, she mostly wore an expression so sour it counteracted the natural amiability of her features.
Like now, as she regarded me with the same countenance one would a cockroach that had inexplicably survived multiple extermination attempts and had the gall to still infest the room.
“I can’t believe how lazy you are,” she hissed. “Sleeping every single night. What are you—human?” She clucked her tongue. “Get up. Your shift’s about to start. You don’t want to be late again, do you?”
“What’s it to you?” I grumbled as I heaved my butt out of bed.
“I don’t want to live with someone who doesn’t take being an angel seriously.” She jabbed a finger into my chest. “You dishonor the Heavenly Host. Lazing around like you’re still a mortal…it’s unbecoming. A waste of powers and grace, if you ask me.”
“Well, it’s a good thing no one’s asking you,” I said and bumped my shoulder hard into hers as I passed her.
“You besmirch—” she called out after me.
“The name of angel,” I yelled as I shut the bathroom door behind me. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”
Rolling my eyes, I undressed and stepped into the shower.
Bifiel was an angel-made, like me. Not born to the privilege of serving in Heaven, but selected upon her death due to charitable behavior in life. Considering her attitude here and now, I had a hard time believing she’d ever been selfless as a human, but maybe the whole memory wipe thing when she’d ascended had done a number on her character.
In any case, Bifiel was overzealous when it came to being an angel, as if she wanted to make up for the fact that she hadn’t been born one, or rather, live up to the honor bestowed upon her when she’d ascended. It was like she’d made it her whole personality. As though she wanted to win some sort of Bestest, Most Pious Angel in Heaven Award and, at the same time, audition for a position on a yet-to-be-founded Inquisitorial Angel Squad whose sole purpose it was to police other angels and reprimand them for their lack of angel-like behavior.
Perhaps I should let Naamah sprinkle her bed with itching powder after all.
Luckily for me, Bifiel was nowhere to be seen when I emerged from the bathroom, ready to go to work. She’d probably gone to brush every single one of her feathers or practice conjuring a halo over her head.
The only thing shaking up the dreary monotony of the day ahead of me was that after my shift, I would finally get to meet the angel who would train me. Naamah had sent me word yesterday, a week after we’d talked, that she’d arranged a meeting time and place with Aziel, giving me instructions on where to go.
Excitement fizzed in my belly when I thought about the meeting. I both looked forward to and dreaded the encounter, because while I definitely wanted and needed someone to train me in order to rise up in the ranks, I was apprehensive about how it would go. What would Aziel be like? How would he act? He was kind of forced to do this due to the favor he owed Naamah, so would he treat me with condescension and thinly veiled resentment?
I’d come across enough higher-ranking angels to know that they often openly sneered at those who ranked below them, as if someone’s position in the hierarchy immediately determined inherent worth. As if being of lower status and having less power meant one didn’t deserve to be met with respect and compassion.
There were exceptions, of course. Naamah didn’t act like that. And here and there, I’d encountered a cherub or even a seraph who, while acknowledging my difference in rank in terms of decision-making power or assigned tasks, didn’t make me feel inferior.
I could only hope that this Aziel dude would not be an asshole angel. Otherwise, training with him for weeks would be torture. And I couldn’t exactly say no to Naamah’s offer and just not train with him. For one thing, because I didn’t want to disappoint Naamah, but more importantly, I really needed the training, and it wasn’t like any other high-ranking angels were lining up to help me with this.
Well, I’d just go into it hoping for the best, and if Aziel gave me an attitude, I’d give him one right back. After all, he couldn’t say no to this either. Not with Naamah’s favor compelling him to train me. Depending on how Naamah worded her request for recompense, he’d be honor-bound to effectively train me until I reached my goal of winning the competition, and he couldn’t just walk away from it.
So, if he wanted to sneer at me, he’d have to face my contrary nature for the time he was bound to me. If I had one thing going for me, it was to give as good as I got. I might avoid confrontations as much as I could, but there was a limit to what I’d take when someone poked at me. My mouth had gotten me into trouble more times than not, and a snarky response was never far from the tip of my tongue when I was backed into a corner.
With these thoughts running through my head, I made my way to my assignment today—taking care of Derdekea’s souls.
* * *
The sunlight streamed through the windows of the apartment, painting the scene in warm, golden hues. From my vantage point in the far corner of the room, I observed how the woman reacted, adjusting the projection minutely to the cues I picked from her mind.
This wasn’t the apartment she’d lived in right before she’d died. It was the one she remembered from her youth, when she’d first left her parents’ house to brave the world on her own. It was the first time she’d been happy and carefree in a long while, her childhood having been fraught with tension from the behavior of her parents, who—going by her memories—should absolutely have been to therapy yet had refused to acknowledge that they needed it.
