Angel of Darkness

“Nothing like paying for sins you didn’t commit.”

The bitter truth echoes in my mind as I look out over the view of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, from Mount Washington. The Steel City sprawls below, softly glowing with a maze of neon lights that reflect off the dark waters of the three rivers.

My gaze is drawn to the confluence where the Allegheny, Monongahela, and Ohio rivers meet, a merging of waters at their junction. The Point State Park fountain erupts in the distance in a bold spray, its jet soaring high and fierce against the night sky, illuminated in a wash of silver and blue. It’s Pittsburgh’s fierce exclamation point, flowing strong now that winter has finally lost its grip.

April in Pittsburgh signals the end of winter as the crowd below begins to shed their heavy coats and welcomes the spring atmosphere. Fans fill the streets, proudly wearing their jerseys and scarves: black and gold for hockey, black and yellow for baseball, celebrating the start of the Pirates’ season while the Penguins continue their playoff run. I don’t have a favorite team; I’m always moving. But I appreciate the spectacle.

Go Bucs. Go Pens. Whatever.

Down there, everyone’s caught up in distractions—a fun game, a quick thrill—totally unaware of what really happens in the streets when night falls.

They call it a ‘drinking town with a sports problem.’ Pirates, Penguins, Steelers, even the University of Pittsburgh, but I couldn’t care less. They’re all just noise.

I lean back, rolling a toothpick between my teeth. The wood scratches my gums, leaving a bitter, metallic taste. But I bite down harder, using it to keep my mind off what’s ahead. My leather jacket rests comfortably on my shoulders, worn and heavy like armor against the chilly night air. The air is cold enough to feel like a kiss from Hell.

The sharp smell of exhaust wafts up from the streets below, where traffic creeps across Pittsburgh’s maze of bridges, all painted that stubborn, gold. Down by PNC Park, the scent of peanuts and Cracker Jacks mixes with the night air, blending with the city’s grit. It’s baseball season, spring with a hint of promise in the air, and this place—its die-hard loyalty—feels just right to me.

A damn good cover for a fallen angel. Too bad I’m just a sarcastic half-breed.

Or it would be—if I weren’t here on business for my father.

“Do as I say, not as I did, son.”

My father’s voice interrupts again, always at the wrong moment, and always when I’m trying to think. I didn’t come to Mount Washington to sightsee; I came to breathe and find a moment of peace before I’m dragged back into his chaos.

Below me, the skyline sprawls—glass, steel, smoke. Sirens wail in the distance, and bass thumps from the club on the North Shore. The city moves on without me, and for a fleeting moment, I wish I could just let go.

But he won’t stop.

“You’re wasting time,” he growls, his voice cutting through my thoughts. “She’s not a tourist attraction. She’s a target.”

I clench my jaw, feeling the edge of my wings twitch.

I don’t need the reminder.

I know exactly why I’m here, and I’m not stalling.

I’m recalibrating.

My purpose is a joke. I haven’t forgotten that I’m here as both a musician and the Angel of Darkness. She doesn’t even know she’s on my list yet.

I try to push it aside, but the thoughts keep replaying in my mind, and my father won’t stop talking. Is it too much to ask to enjoy the sounds of this blue-collar town without being reminded that I’m here to claim someone’s soul?

But, of course, he has to ruin everything. Just as I start to focus on my band and tonight’s set, he pops up like an annoying jack-in-the-box, ready to shatter the little peace I have left.

A twisted laugh echoes in my mind, crawling under my skin. I clench my jaw, resisting his influence. Even from his prison—his damnation—he still gets to me. I can only imagine how much he enjoys it. Who needs Pittsburgh, “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood,” when I have Satan in mine?

“I’m no son of yours, asshole,” I mutter, grinding my teeth as I stare out over the city. It’s just me here, battling his voice. I can’t shake him off, not while I’m stuck running his errands and paying for his twisted sins.

“You have to take her, Draven.” His voice cuts through again, insistent. “She’s a threat.”

My fists clench, and the toothpick snaps between my teeth. “She’s not a threat,” I mutter. “She’s a single mom in her mid-thirties, working late shifts in some rundown diner just to keep the lights on. Barely staying afloat, but still showing up. Still trying.”

I pause, my jaw tight, staring out at the city as if it might offer me answers.

“She’s not hurting anyone. Just a woman trying to survive this life without losing it. So, explain—why her?”

A low, dangerous rumble echoes through my mind, vibrating against my skull. “Questioning me already, are you? And I thought you might’ve developed some respect.”

“You’re locked in the pit of hell where you belong,” I hiss back. “Jesus Christ, maybe you should stay there.”

Another growl, deep and menacing, makes the night itself seem to shudder. The winds whip harder, colder, and I catch the faintest scent of burning, sulfurous smoke. The scent of him.

“Don’t say that name in my presence.” His voice has a razor edge, sharp enough to cut.

“Who? Jesus?” I can’t resist the taunt, even if I know it’ll cost me. He deserves it, my father, that bastard. The so-called angel of light, fallen to darkness, now clawing at my soul from his damnation. “Careful there, Daddy-O. The big guy upstairs might not be too happy with your plans to meddle in things down here.”

The slam reverberates from his prison, rattling across dimensions, and the vibration alone damn near punctures my eardrums. But I chuckle in defiance. I can’t see him. And I sure as hell don’t want to. But that’s the funny thing about demons. They have a way of slipping in through the cracks, even when you don’t invite them.

"You think this is a joke, boy?" His voice sharpens to a blade. “You think I’d send you on this mission without reason? That I’d tolerate your insolence forever? You’re my son, Draven. This is your purpose.”

I roll my eyes, muttering, “Guess that’s something we can’t agree on.”

“Watch yourself,” he hisses. “You know nothing of what’s to come. Nothing of the forces at work. If you don’t complete this task, you’ll regret it.”

“Really?” I spit, flicking the remnants of my toothpick to the wind. “Why her, then? This girl, what’s her name, Nevaeh—why her, of all people? There’s nothing special about her?”

“She’s marked,” he growls, his voice like gravel scraping against bone. “And that mark makes her a threat. Don’t question me again. Just take her, and be done with it!”

But I’ve seen her, and there’s no way in hell I’m taking her, because I can’t.