God's bounty hunter

The bar was a cavern of stale cigarette smoke in the middle of nowhere. I sat in the corner, the world blurring into a haze of grey, until the heavy thud of an office door closing echoed from the balcony above.

The silence that followed wasn't natural. It was the kind of quiet that falls over a forest right before a predator strikes. Then came the sound: the rhythmic clink-shirr of rusty spurs and heavy footsteps on the wooden stairs.

A tall, pale figure emerged from the shadows. He was gaunt, his eyes sunken into a skeletal frame that seemed too thin for the black duster he wore. Pinning the coat shut was a silver star engraved with the words: DEPUTY SHERIFF.

He stopped at my table and laid a weathered wanted poster in front of me. He cleared his throat, a sound like dry leaves skittering over a grave.

"Michael," his raspy voice cut through the stillness. "The Boss needs you to hunt this one down. Bring him in dead or alive."

I tipped my hat, the brim casting a shadow over my eyes. He let out a weary sigh and turned back toward the stairs.

"Thank ya, Death," I called out, my voice steady. "Tell the Boss thy will be done."

Death sombered back into the dark as I picked up the poster. Now, before you start asking questions, let me clarify: I’m Michael. Yes, that Michael. The Archangel.

But things don't work the way your Sunday school teachers told you. God has four deputies: Death, War, Famine, and Conquest. And me? I’m the one who handles the dirty work. I’m not hunting demons—I’m not hunting the "Fallen." Angels are angels, whether they’re in the penthouse or the basement, and the Fallen generally have a lingering respect for humanity. No, I hunt the beasts. The things that have no respect for life.

I grabbed the poster and stepped through the bar’s front doors. I didn't walk into a parking lot; I stepped out onto a sidewalk in Los Angeles, California.

The Front

I looked like a relic that had crawled out of a 19th-century Western, but in LA, that just makes people think you’re an actor. I checked my map. There was a movie memorabilia store nearby—a known front for the local supernatural community.

Inside, a bell chimed. I waited at the counter until a girl who looked no older than eleven climbed up on a stool to see me.

"I’m Abigail," she said, her voice practiced. "I have just about any prop from any movie—"

She stopped mid-sentence. Her eyes, a deep, unnatural red, met my light grey ones. She began to shake. "Y-You're one of them."

"One of what exactly, Miss Abigail?" I asked, keeping my voice soft.

Tears welled in her eyes. The room began to thick with the scent of her dread. "An angel. A bounty hunter for God."

I let out a soft chuckle. "Where did you get that idea? I’m just an angel."

She relaxed a fraction, though her hands still trembled. "I can see it in your eyes. I know I look eleven, but I’m three hundred years old. I’m wise enough to know that angels only come around our kind to dispose of us."

I nodded slowly. "True, we do that. But only to those who treat human life like a snack. Innocent beings like yourself are safe. I’m just here for information."

I slid the wanted poster across the glass. "Have you seen this creature? A skinwalker by the name of Raven Moon?"

Abigail scanned the poster and shook her head. "I’ve never seen him. But I can put some feelers out. Leave your number and where you're staying. I’ll get back to you."

The Kid on the Bike

I left my info and headed toward the apartment complex I'd rented for the hunt. As I crossed the parking lot, a young man on a bicycle came barreling toward me. He saw me at the last second, panicked, and swerved. The bike flew out from under him, and he skidded hard across the gravel.

I walked over and held out a hand. He hesitated, looking up at me with wide, sheepish eyes, before finally taking it. I hauled him to his feet with ease.

"T-thank you, s-sir," he stuttered.

I scanned him. His skinny jeans were shredded, and bits of gravel were embedded in his bloodied shins. We stood there in a weird silence until he broke it.

"Timber," he said.

I blinked. "Do what?"

"My name," he giggled, then winced in pain. "It’s Timber."

"Let's go to my apartment, Timber. I’ll patch you up."

The Hound

Thirty minutes later, I was sitting him down on my couch. When I started pulling the gravel out with tweezers, he let out a yell that probably woke the neighbors. "SON OF A BITCH!"

Once he was bandaged, I sat on the coffee table and lit a cigarette. "So, what were you running from, Timber?"

He started to shake. "Nothing. I was just... out for a ride."

He was lying. I could hear the tremor in his soul. But I didn't push. "Alright. You staying nearby?"

"I live here," he said, gesturing to the walls. "Alone. There’s only a few people left in this building."

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, Timber grew visibly terrified of the encroaching shadows.

"Why don't you stay here tonight?" I offered. "You can head home in the morning."

He snapped. He stood up, his face flushed with fear and anger. "W-what the fuck you think I am? I’m not staying here! I don’t even know your fucking name, creep!"

He stormed out into the dark parking lot. I sighed and shut the door. I was just starting to drift off on the couch when the night was ripped apart by the sound of splintering wood and a blood-curdling scream.

I grabbed my .44 revolver—loaded with six blessed bullets—and kicked my door open. A neighboring apartment door had been smashed to toothpicks. Inside, a giant mass of black fur was pinning Timber to the floor.

It was a Hell Hound. Forget the TV shows; these things aren't invisible. They’re massive, stinking of sulfur and brimstone, with eyes like burning charcoal.

I fired two rounds into the dim room. Both caught the beast in the shoulder. It roared—a sound that vibrated in my teeth—and scrambled past me into the night.

The Morning After

Timber spent the rest of the night on my couch, curled in a ball and sobbing. I took a hot shower and tried to process what I knew.

Being an angel means I can see almost everything about a person—except what they’re desperately trying to hide. I knew Timber was gay, had no family, and no friends. And now I knew he’d seen something so dangerous that someone had spent the high-level magic required to conjure a hound to silence him.

The next morning, I walked over to Timber’s wrecked apartment to look for tracks. I wasn't alone.

A glowing female figure was standing by Timber’s bike, her arms crossed. "WHERE’S TIMBER!" she screamed at me.

"Who the fuck are you?" I asked, unfazed by the apparition.

Before I could get an answer, a burst of spiritual energy knocked me flat on my back.

"Alright, asshole," she snarled, hovering over me. "One more time. Where is he?"

The apartment door opened, and Timber limped out. The spirit squealed with joy and rushed to hug him—though her arms passed right through him.

"TIMBER! Are you alright? Did this creep hurt you?"

"No, Amelia, he’s fine," Timber said, looking down at me as I picked myself up. "He saved my life last night."

Amelia looked at me, her ghostly eyes wide. "Gee, thanks," I muttered, brushing the dust off my duster. "Save a guy’s life, doctor him up, and I get my ass kicked by a human spirit."

Amelia giggled as I turned to walk away, but I felt Timber’s hand catch my arm.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "For last night. Thank you."

I offered a small, rare smirk. "Name’s Michael."

Amelia let out another squeal. "OMG! I am so sorry! I didn't realize you were Saint Michael! You look way different than the paintings."

I chuckled, shaking my head. "I’m no saint, Miss. And as for the paintings... those were accurate back during the Roman Empire. Everything changed in the 1860s."

Timber’s jaw hit the floor. He finally realized exactly who he was standing next to.