Heavenly
My name is Zachariah, just that, Zachariah, and I am the Head Councilor of the Supernatural Council. I have been a seated councilor for one hundred and seventy-five years, since the council’s inception. I live in a warehouse in Rome with seven other supernatural creatures, an odd little family bound by politics and proximity that’s become something more than either over the decades.
Sunday mornings feel like heaven because the council doesn’t meet, and we can lie in longer than we usually do.
I’m rolled onto my right side, head still on my pillow, my long hair everywhere like it always is when I sleep. The strands have worked themselves free from the loose braid I’d tied before bed, spreading across the pillowcase in a tangle that will take twenty minutes to sort through later. It’s one of those minor irritations I’ve learned to accept—angelic hair grows faster than human hair, stays cleaner without effort, but tangles with a vengeance if I don’t keep it controlled. I reach up to push it out of my face, gathering the worst of it over one shoulder, and that’s when I feel the kiss against my bare skin.
“Good morning, Feathers,” Mario murmurs against my shoulder blade, his voice still rough with sleep.
The nickname makes me smile, as it always does. He started calling me that in our second year together, saying my wings reminded him of white geese he’d seen once as a demonic child visiting earth. I’d thought it was ridiculous at first—I’m an angel of the Principalities, a guardian of nations, after all—but the way he says it, soft and fond like this, makes it feel like he’s naming something precious.
“Breakfast is probably long over by now,” he adds, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
His arm is draped over my waist, warm and solid, anchoring me to this moment in a way that still catches me off guard sometimes. We’ve been together long enough that I know his patterns—how he wakes up slowly, savoring the transition from sleep to consciousness, how he likes to take his time on mornings when we don’t have anywhere to be. With me, he’s careful in a way he isn’t with much else. Gentle. Like he’s still surprised I’m here.
I understand the feeling. Some mornings, I wake up and can’t quite believe this is my life.
“Mario.” I smile, turning my head slightly to look at him over my shoulder. His hair is sticking up at odd angles, completely ruining the carefully styled image he presents to the world during council meetings. I love it. Love seeing him like this—unguarded, rumpled, real. “We could get brunch? Mimosas and French toast?”
I roll over to my back so I can see him properly, and he takes the invitation immediately. He rolls over me with that groggy, predatory smirk that comes from centuries of existing in a demonic body, bracing himself on his forearms so he doesn’t crush me, but close enough that I can feel the heat of him through my thin sleep shirt. Demons run hot—temperature-wise, I mean, though Mario would argue the other interpretation applies too. It’s one of the many minor differences I’ve catalogued over the years. Angels are cool to the touch; our internal temperature is regulated by grace rather than metabolism. Demons burn, and God, I love how hot he burns for me.
“How about you for brunch?” His mouth moves to my neck, trailing kisses that make my breath catch. He bites at my flesh—not hard enough to break skin, just enough pressure to make me gasp—then licks over the spot, long and languid. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Knows exactly how to make me forget my own name.
I gasp and arch up into him, my hands finding his shoulders, his back, anywhere I can touch. The logical part of my mind—the part that’s constantly analyzing, always thinking three steps ahead—notes that my fingers are trembling slightly. My breathing has gone shallow. You’d think I’d build up a tolerance. Develop some immunity to the way he makes me feel.
I haven’t. I don’t think I ever will.
He sits up slightly, looking down at me, and I watch the change happen in his eyes. They go from warm brown—the color he wears most often, the one that lets him pass for human—to full black. Pupils blown wide with desire, bleeding into the irises until there’s nothing but darkness. It’s his demonic nature slipping through, the careful control he maintains cracking under the weight of want. His tail manifests without him seeming to notice, the appendage appearing from nowhere to wrap around my leg and tighten possessively.
I should probably be more concerned about that. About how much I’ve come to crave the moments when his demon shows through. But I’ve never been good at denying what I want, and I want this. Want him. Want all of him, including the parts that aren’t entirely safe, including the parts I have been told will damn me. They haven’t, by the way. Not yet.
“I think I could have you for breakfast,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. His pupils are so dilated I can see my own reflection in them—flushed, eager, completely undone. “And maybe have seconds.”
“Yes, please,” I manage, already reaching for him, ready to pull him down for a proper kiss. My fingers catch in his shirt, and I’m just starting to tug when—
His phone rings. A blaring alarm of urgency.
The sound is jarring, intrusive, completely wrong for the intimate moment we’re having. I feel Mario tense above me, his jaw clenching in irritation. He ignores it, leaning down to kiss me anyway, and I lose myself in it for the few seconds before the ringing stops. The silence is blissful. We haven’t missed a beat. His mouth moves against mine with familiar heat, his hand sliding under my shirt, and I’m just starting to forget about the interruption when—
The phone rings again.
“Ignore it,” he mumbles against my lips, but there’s frustration in his voice now, the spell broken. He tries to kiss me deeply, tongue searching in my mouth, but he’s stiffer, less fluid. I can feel the shift in him—the way his attention has split.
“Mario.” I push him back slightly, even though everything in me wants to keep kissing him. My hands slide from his shirt to his chest, creating distance between us that feels wrong but necessary. “Honey, check your phone.”
He pulls back with a dramatic groan that makes me laugh despite my own disappointment. It’s such a human sound, that groan. So unlike the controlled, professional mask he wears for council business. “Don’t move,” he orders, pointing a finger at me with mock seriousness. “I’m checking under protest. This better be important, or I’m blocking everyone in Hell from my contact list.”
He reaches for his phone on the nightstand, and I stay exactly where I am, watching him. Watching the way his expression shifts immediately from annoyed to confused, then concerned. It’s like watching shutters close over a window—that professional mask sliding into place, hiding the vulnerable man who was looking at me with pure want just moments ago.
“Mario,” he says into the phone, and I can hear a voice on the other end, but can’t make out the words. His free hand finds my ankle under the blankets, thumb stroking absent patterns against my skin while he listens. It’s instinctive, that touch—like he needs the physical connection to ground himself while dealing with whatever crisis is unfolding.
The thought makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
“Quakes? In the First Circle?” A pause, and I watch his eyes narrow slightly. Processing. “How strong? No, no—get a geologist down there immediately. I want readings, I want measurements, and I want to know if there’s any pattern to them.”
My attention sharpens. Quakes in Hell. That shouldn’t be possible. Hell isn’t built on tectonic plates—it exists outside normal physical laws. Which means if the ground is shaking, there’s something fundamentally wrong with the structure of the realm itself.
The thought sends a chill down my spine that has nothing to do with my angelic temperature.
He winks at me, but I can see the concern in his eyes now, the way his brow has furrowed. I prop myself up on my elbows and wait, listening. His thumb is still moving against my ankle, a reminder that he’s here, present, even while dealing with whatever Hell has decided to throw at a Sunday morning.
“I’m sorry, I was in the shower,” Mario continues, the lie delivered smoothly even though his attention is clearly elsewhere. I almost smile at that—he’s still in bed, obviously, hair sticking up and eyes sleep-soft. But the fiction of being in the shower gives him an excuse for not answering immediately. “I’ll handle it. Keep me updated every hour—no, every thirty minutes until we know what we’re dealing with.”
There’s more talking from the other end. Mario’s expression doesn’t change, but I can see the tension building in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens. Someone on the other end is pushing back, questioning him, and Mario doesn’t tolerate that well.
“Yes, of course, today.” He rolls his eyes at me, making a face that clearly communicates his opinion of whoever’s on the other end of the call. I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. “You had better call me back if anything changes, or so help me, Lucifer will have your horns. Do you hear me? I mean it—”
I hear the click of a disconnected call. “Asshole didn’t even say goodbye, he just hung up on me,” he mutters, tossing the phone back onto the nightstand with more force than necessary. It skitters across the surface, and I wince slightly, half-expecting it to fall to the floor. It doesn’t. Barely.
“Everything okay? You said something about quakes in Hell?” I ask quietly, pushing myself back up on my elbows to see him better. The shift in position makes my hair fall forward again, and I leave it, knowing Mario likes it when I look slightly disheveled.
“Just Hell being Hell,” he says, but there’s genuine concern underneath the casual tone. His fingers have stilled against my ankle, no longer stroking but just resting there. Holding on. “Some geological instability in the First Circle. Limbo is experiencing quakes.”
“Quakes? In Hell?” My mind races through the implications. Hell is eternal, unchanging. It doesn’t shift or settle like mortal ground. If it’s shaking now...
He waves a hand, but the gesture is less dismissive than uncertain. “First time for everything, I guess. Hell has a geography; it stands to reason it could have geology too.” He’s trying to convince himself as much as me. “Probably just some settling. The place is older than time itself—bound to have some structural issues eventually.”
I don’t point out the flaw in that logic. If Hell has existed since before time began, why would it start settling now? What’s changed?
But I can see he’s already thinking the same thing.
He crawls back over me, trying to recapture the mood from before, but I can feel the distraction in his movements. The way his mind is elsewhere, even as his body goes through the motions. “Where were we?”
“Right here.” I smile up at him, running my fingers through his sleep-tossed hair, trying to ground him in this moment. In us. But his kiss is different now—still warm, still Mario, but preoccupied. I can taste the worry on his lips. “But now I want mimosas and French toast.”
He doesn’t even look disappointed, which tells me the moment is well and truly broken. “Then get dressed, I’ll take you out.”
He slides a hand behind my neck, pulling me closer to kiss me more deeply, and I push into it with enthusiasm, using the momentum to roll him back onto his back on the bed. I end up straddling him, my hair falling around us like a curtain—golden with those platinum streaks that catch the morning light. He grins up at me with that sharp-edged smile that still makes my chest tight even after all this time.
“Mimosas,” I say firmly, even though every part of me wants to stay exactly where we are.
“Gonna need to watch that,” he teases, his hands settling on my hips with casual possessiveness. Then I grind down deliberately, watching his eyes go wide and dark. He gasps, fingers tightening on my hips hard enough to bruise if I were mortal. “But we don’t judge in this family.” He taps my thigh lightly. “You need to pick me or mimosas? What’s it gonna be?”
I want to pick him. Want it so badly I can feel the wanting like a physical ache. But I also know he needs the distraction right now, needs to process whatever’s happening in Hell.
So I hop off of him reluctantly and head to the closet to pull out something casual, which for me mostly means my usual suit without the vest and tie. Simple. Professional enough for Rome’s streets but comfortable enough for a lazy Sunday. I glance back at the bed and catch him adjusting himself as he gets up, his jaw tight with the effort of restraint. “Feathers, that was rude.”
I’ll pay for that later with interest, I’m sure. The thought makes me smile. “Oh?” I ask with absolutely no remorse.
“Oh yes,” he says to my back, but I focus on getting dressed, fingers working through the familiar motions of buttons and fabric. Behind me, I can hear Mario getting dressed—the sound of fabric, the quiet rustle of movement, the small exhale he makes when he’s trying to compose himself.
When I turn around, he’s in black slacks and a short-sleeved black button-down that fits him perfectly, and I have to take a moment to appreciate the view. He catches me looking and grins, that sharp-edged expression that makes my stomach flip, and waves a hand casually. His eyes shift from demonic black back to warm brown in an instant. His tail vanishes from view as if it were never there. His horns recede until there’s no trace of them, leaving him looking perfectly human except for the particular fluidity in his movements that no human could quite replicate.
“You look good enough to eat,” I tell him, and I mean it. I touch his chest, his face, his arm.
“But you want French toast, so I’ll have to wait.” He crosses the room to me with that smooth stride, reaching up to unbutton the top button on my shirt with deft fingers. His knuckles brush against my throat, and I swallow reflexively. “Live a little,” he says softly, and I lean down to kiss him again because I can’t help myself.
I could never tire of kissing him. Never tire of the way he tastes—like smoke and something sweet I can never quite identify. Never tire of the way he fits against me, the way he makes small, pleased sounds when I deepen the kiss.
“When we get back—” I start. “I want you to exhaust me thoroughly,” I murmur against his ear, pitching my voice low. His breath catches, and I feel a thrill of satisfaction at the reaction. “Please.” It’s so soft a plea, barely audible, but I know he hears it.
His mouth covers mine in response, and I moan into his kiss, my hands coming up to grip his shoulders for balance. For a moment, I let myself get lost in it. In him. Then he pushes me up against the wall next to the bed, his body a solid line of heat against mine, and I forget why we were leaving in the first place.
When we finally break apart—and it takes effort, actual physical effort to stop kissing him—I’m breathing hard, and my heart is racing in a way that has nothing to do with angelic physiology. He reaches to the shelf in the closet behind me to the left, and retrieves my golden bangle—a gift from Michael that I wear everywhere except to bed.
The metal is warm from sitting in the morning sun that streams through our bedroom window and hits the closet head-on. I take it from him, noting the way the light catches on the inscribed wards along its surface. Protection. Blessing. A reminder of where I come from, even as I build a life here. I slide it on my wrist, the familiar weight settling comfortably, grounding me.
We turn to leave together, and I’m halfway to the door when Mario catches my arm gently.
“Eyes, angel,” he reminds me, his voice soft. “If we’re going out, it’s best not to frighten the locals.”
Right. I keep forgetting about that. I nod and blink deliberately, reaching for the glamour that makes me look more human. Less obviously other. I feel my eyes shift, the celestial multifaceted gold—like looking into a kaleidoscope of amber and honey and molten sun—dimming to a warmer golden brown that won’t attract attention on mortal streets. It always feels slightly wrong, like putting on glasses that don’t quite fit, but it’s necessary. Humans don’t react well to obvious displays of divinity.
Mario runs a hand over my head in a tender gesture, and I feel my hair respond to his magic, straightening out from its sleep-tangled mess into something presentable. The strands smooth themselves, arranging into the carefully casual style I prefer. One of his more useful talents, honestly. I’d spend an hour fighting with it otherwise.
“There we go,” he says with satisfaction.
We pass Anton and Senet’s door on our way out. I can hear the low murmur of their voices inside—the vampire councilor and his ancient mummy partner, probably still in bed themselves. Marcus, Lucia, and Marsh’s suite is silent, which either means they’re still asleep or they’ve already left for the day. Their triad tends toward early mornings, all three of them disgustingly cheerful before dawn.
The warehouse is quiet otherwise. Peaceful. It won’t last.
We head out into the Rome morning and end up in a little café we’ve been coming to for months now, tucked away on a side street where the tourists rarely venture. The staff knows us—or knows our human facades, anyway—and they don’t ask questions about why we’re always here on Sunday mornings.
The walk there is pleasant. Rome in the early morning has a particular quality—the light is golden and warm, the air still carrying a hint of coolness from the night, the city just beginning to wake up. We pass other couples, families, people walking dogs. Everyday human lives playing out around us. Sometimes I envy them for that normalcy. Sometimes I’m grateful for the complexity of what Mario and I have instead.
We sit outside in the sun, at our usual table under the awning. Mario keeps his sunglasses on because the light bothers his demonic eyes, even when he’s hiding them. I never wear eye coverings. I like the warmth on my face, the way the world looks in full color instead of filtered through tinted lenses. I close my eyes and tilt my face up slightly, letting the sun warm my skin, and hear Mario make a soft sound across from me.
When I open my eyes, he’s watching me with an expression that makes my breath catch.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“Nothing. You—you look happy.” He says it like he’s surprised. Like it’s remarkable.
Maybe it is. I’m an angel sitting in mortal Rome with a demon I love, about to drink alcohol before noon. By Heaven’s standards, I’m living in sin. By my own standards, I’m living exactly how I want to. “I am happy, Mario.”
The waitress—Giulia, who’s worked here for three years and always gives us the table with the best view—approaches with a warm smile. She’s quick with our drinks, taking our order with the easy familiarity of repetition. A mimosa for me, bubbly and sweet. A Bloody Mary for Mario, which he claims is basically a vegetable and therefore counts as healthy breakfast food.
The French toast arrives shortly after, still hot from the kitchen. Strawberries and bananas for me, arranged artfully on top with a dusting of powdered sugar that catches the light like snow. Peaches for Mario, caramelized to golden perfection, the fruit glistening with sugar and heat.
“I didn’t know demons liked peaches,” I observe, watching him cut into his food.
“You’re a peach, and I like you,” he says without missing a beat, not even looking up from his plate.
Heat floods my face immediately. I turn red and look down at my own plate, trying to hide the flush creeping up my neck, burning the tips of my ears. He always does this—catches me off guard with casual affection delivered like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“There it is,” he says with satisfaction, clearly pleased with himself for making me blush.
“Stop,” I laugh, still not looking at him. My hands are wrapped around my mimosa glass, condensation cool against my palms. “I hate that you can do that to me.”
“I bet you really don’t.” He reaches across the table for my hand, and I let him take it, squeezing his fingers with mine. His skin is warm—always warm—and the touch grounds me. Reminds me this is real. We’re real.
We sit like that for a moment, connected across the small table, sharing space and warmth and this perfect morning that feels like it could last forever. I watch the way the sunlight catches in his eyes, turning them from brown to amber. The way a small smile plays at the corner of his mouth. He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world worth paying attention to.
Then his phone rings again, shattering the peace.
He stands immediately, pulling it from his pocket with a grimace of apology. I watch him walk a short distance away to take the call, watch the way his body language changes as he listens to whoever’s on the other end. More tension. More of that careful professional mask sliding into place.
I start in on my food while he’s occupied, trying not to watch him pace and trying not to read too much into the tightness of his shoulders or the sharp, clipped quality of his responses. The French toast is perfect—crispy on the outside, soft and custardy on the inside, the strawberries fresh and sweet and slightly tart. I focus on the taste, the texture, the simple pleasure of good food on a Sunday morning.
This is pretty normal for all of us. The council never really stops, even on Sundays, even on days we’re supposed to be taking time for ourselves. I’m honestly more shocked my phone hasn’t gone off yet. Give it time.
Mario comes back to the table, sliding into his chair with a sigh that sounds bone-deep. “Sorry. The quakes are spreading. They’ve reached the Second Circle now.”
That makes me look up from my food, my fork pausing halfway to my mouth. “Spreading? That fast?”
Hell’s circles aren’t close together. They’re separated by vast distances, by layers of reality and space that shouldn’t be easy to cross. If tremors are jumping from Limbo to Lust in the span of a few hours, that’s not settling. That’s not regular geological activity.
That’s something else entirely, and the realization sends ice through my veins.
“Apparently.” He picks up his fork but doesn’t eat yet, his mind clearly elsewhere. “Geologists are saying they’ve never seen anything like it. The tremors started in Limbo maybe two hours ago, and now they’re registering in Lust. Moving deeper into Hell instead of dissipating.”
“Is anyone hurt?” The question comes out quieter than I intended. I’m thinking about the souls down there, the demons, the complicated ecosystem of Hell that most angels never consider. Most of Heaven thinks of Hell as punishment, as suffering deserved. But Mario’s taught me to see it differently.
“Not yet, thank God—or, well, thank whoever’s appropriate to thank down there.” He manages a weak smile. “Mostly just property damage. Cracked foundations, broken infrastructure. But if it keeps spreading...”
He doesn’t finish the thought. Doesn’t need to. I can do the math myself. Seven circles. If the quakes keep progressing at this rate, they’ll reach the Seventh Circle within hours.
And if the foundation of Hell itself is failing...
My stomach twists. This isn’t normal geological settling. Hell doesn’t work that way. Which means someone—or something—is causing this. The political ramifications alone could destabilize the entire supernatural world, never mind the immediate danger to everyone living in Hell’s circles.
“Do you need to go there?” I ask quietly, setting down my fork. My appetite has vanished.
“Not yet.” He finally takes a bite of his French toast, forcing himself to eat. Practical. He knows he needs fuel if this turns into a protracted crisis. “They’re monitoring it. If it gets worse, Lucifer will call. For now, they’re evacuating the deeper circles as a precaution, just moving people to higher circles.”
We eat in relative silence after that, the easy comfort of the morning replaced by a low hum of worry that I can feel vibrating in the air between us. Mario’s phone rings three more times during brunch—updates, status reports, questions about evacuation protocols. Each time he steps away to take the call, and each time he comes back, his shoulders are tenser, his jaw tighter.
I watch him pretend everything’s fine. Watch him try to maintain the illusion of a normal Sunday morning even as Hell literally shakes apart. And I love him for trying, even as I wish he’d admit he’s scared.
By the time we pay and leave—Mario insisting on covering the bill, a small gesture of control in a situation spiraling beyond his grasp—the quakes have reached the Fourth Circle.
“This can’t be geological,” I say as we walk through Rome’s streets, hand in hand. “Hell doesn’t have fault lines, Mario. It doesn’t settle. Something is causing this.”
“These are quakes, Feathers. Measured tremors. Physical movement of the ground.” But there’s doubt in his voice now. A crack in the certainty. “If it were political, if someone were making a move, there’d be other signs. Power shifts. Territorial disputes. This is just... shaking.”
“That seems worse somehow,” I say quietly.
“It really does,” he agrees, and his hand tightens on mine.
The rest of the day passes in uncomfortable limbo—and I note the irony of that word choice given the circumstances. We try to enjoy ourselves, try to pretend this is just another Sunday. We walk through the city, stopping for gelato that melts too fast in the afternoon heat. We sit in parks and watch families play.
But Mario’s phone never stops ringing. The quakes keep spreading. Fifth Circle. Sixth Circle. Each update brings more urgency, more fear in the voices on the other end of those calls. I don’t need to hear the conversations to know they’re getting worse. I can read it in Mario’s face.
By early afternoon, the Seventh Circle is experiencing tremors. The deepest circle. The one farthest from any escape.
We’re standing in our living room when the call comes through. Mario answers it immediately, his hand shaking slightly as he presses the phone to his ear. “Mario.”
I watch his face as he listens. Watch the color drain from his skin. Watch his eyes go wide, then distant, like he’s seeing something I can’t.
Something terrible.
“I should go,” he says when he lowers the phone, his voice hollow. Empty. “They’re evacuating the Seventh now. If the whole circle goes—if the foundation cracks—” He swallows hard. “Feathers, if Hell collapses, I don’t know what happens to the souls trapped there. To the Sinners who can’t leave. This isn’t just about property damage anymore.”
Fear, authentic and visceral, finally breaks through his professional mask. His hands are shaking.
“Then you need to be there,” I say, my mind already moving through the logistics. “We both do. The council should be there.”
He looks at me, and I can see the conflict written clearly in his expression. He doesn’t want me in Hell. Doesn’t want me exposed to that darkness, that danger, that fundamental wrongness that exists in a realm built for punishment. But he also knows I’m right. This is what the council does—we respond to crises, offer aid, bridge the gap between realms.
And if Hell is falling apart, we need to be there.
“Let me call the others,” he says finally, his voice rough. “We’ll coordinate with the council, see what resources we can offer. And then...”
He trails off, looking at his phone as it rings again.
“Then we’ll go,” I finish for him.
He nods once, sharp and decisive, and lifts the phone to his ear.
I watch him coordinate, watch him slip entirely into that professional mask that barely hides the fear underneath. And I start making my own preparations, my own mental calculations about what we’re walking into.
Hell is shaking itself apart.
And we’re about to walk straight into the epicenter.
The logical part of my mind—the part that’s always three steps ahead, always planning for contingencies—whispers that this is a terrible idea. That we should stay in Rome, offer support from a distance, let Hell handle Hell’s problems.
But the rest of me knows better. Mario needs to be there. His home is crumbling. His people are in danger.
And where he goes, I go.
