Prologue
Valentine should have known things were different the day they announced the stars were wrong. But then again, she never gave a shit about them to begin with.
More had appeared, or whatever. A lot more, according to all of the frantic news headlines. The most Val did to educate herself on it was save a couple of memes onto her phone. Her single contribution to the chaos was a single tweet: who tf cares about space all of a sudden?
And then things started getting weird.
Now she sat in her dingy apartment. The electricity still worked fine, though Val couldn’t totally be sure, given the fact that all of the bulbs in her apartment had shattered. The only illumination came from her mother’s votive candles—the tall ones with saint’s likenesses painted on the front. Some had prayers on the back.
Not that the prayers did much. She recalled her mother desperately reciting the prayer to Saint Michael the Archangel right before she died. Her brother had already been dead for a week—it wasn’t until her mother went, her frail hands wrapped around rosary beads, that Val realized it was her that was killing them.
Val heard the wail of a siren, then spotted emergency lights in the distance. Her time was up.
“Saint Michael the Archangel,” she said, staring at the candle, “defend us in this day of battle.”
It was her mother’s nicest, to venerate her favorite saint. Not that he did much to protect her from her insides melting. Her brother was too young to know much about saints to have a favorite, save for Saint Nicholas—and that was only because he brought presents once a year.
The officials were closing in on her apartment complex. She’d heard the rumors, of course. That people were getting snatched from their homes—detained by the government or something else entirely. And now it was her turn.
What the government wanted to do with a woman who’d killed her mother and brother other than put her in jail, she didn’t know, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to stay put long enough to find out.
Pounding footsteps stopped outside of her door. She could feel the heartbeats of three men. They purred at her, ratcheting up as they prepared to kick the door in.
“Be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil,” Val said. She could feel their heartbeats in the palm of her hands now. She squeezed them into fists.
Choked sounds came from just outside the door, followed by surprised shouts and orders.
Val stood, donned the backpack she’d packed earlier that day, and picked up the lit candle to Saint Michael. He stood tall, his foot on the devil’s head, keeping him to the ground. The sword he wielded was awe-inspiring. No wonder he was her mother’s favorite.
“May God rebuke him, we humbly pray.”
She tipped the candle back and drank the wax, choking on it as it burned its way down her throat. Her mother’s voice finished the prayer as the candle fell and shattered on the floor. And do you, O prince of the heavenly hosts, by the power of God, cast into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who prowl through the world seeking the ruin of souls.
She had to laugh at that last part. Evil spirits indeed. Let’s hope good ol’ Michael finds me sooner rather than later, Ma. For now, I’ve got more souls to ruin.
