A Daemon and His Human

Teleporting took much less effort when on the same plane as the one doing the feat. Once grounded, he found entering the bustling hospital to be easier than breathing. That was, if he did breathe. He would not have wanted to, for the air of the hospital was that of stale saline and old medication. Beside him, a massive canine stood with parts of its shadowy countenance faded in and out with the light. It set about tracking, sniffing the ground and people it could get its snout near enough to. Any mortal it touched trembled and rubbed their forearms as though to rid themselves of a bitter chill. A low growl was the only warning before the beast set off running down the white halls. No one panicked, no one screamed at the sight of the hound. All was as it always was in the Rose Gardens Community Hospital.

The stranger stayed in the lobby, his form drifting to the side where he tucked himself into a corner. He knew the building was small, his hound would find their target soon, all he had to do was wait. Wait and listen. The low voices around him provided something akin to background noise. Nothing about the prattle between nurses or the mutual complaining of elderly women amused him. His mouth twitched at the sound of a child telling his mother a fantastical story, a small smile forming. As he stood and listened, his mind calmed. It should not have; their petty little lives should have irritated him. He wanted to hate them. The little boy came into his view, and he stared at the little freckled face with what little anger he could muster. It melted away, ice beneath the summer sun, as the child’s eyes sparkled in the industrial lighting.

A bark pulled his gaze away. The building seemed to vanish from his sight, with only the shaking form of the hound as what he could see. Space folded itself at his behest, allowing him to take one step and stand beside the daemonic creature. “Good work Asgrod,” he said, rubbing the hound’s ear. “Go back below and await my signal.” His response was a soft whine before it melted into the ground, the remnant of its body spreading out and slipping into the shadows of the room.

The area Asgrod had brought him to was wrapped in a yellowish-beige wallpaper. A white tiled ceiling contrasted the dark wood linoleum floor. Chairs leaned against the walls, their cream color made lighter by the LED lights, leaving an odd halo around the center of the room. A series of machines and monitors took in sunlight that poured in from the window. On the wall, a television set played the news. Though the volume was muted, the scrolling banner proclaimed, “President Clinton Impeached” which seemed like a dramatic way to announce a slap on the wrist. Four humans stood round about the room’s sole bed where a woman laid propped up by pillows. They spoke, rather animatedly if the one’s many hand gestures were any tell, but they kept their voices low and soft.

He would have to have been a fool to mistake the dying soul in the room. The people standing around the bed had their souls fitted to match their mortal forms, various tones of grey with colored threads appearing across them. As for the woman whom they gathered around, her soul had already started to recede towards her chest, pooling together to be collected. The form was still human for the most part. An hour or so, and she would be gone. Looking over the fading soul, his gaze kept being pulled to her head and hands. Envy’s green had laced intricate patterns around her eyes and ears, poisoning the head with covetousness and hatred for her neighbors while Greed’s yellow traced gentle patterns onto her hands to prompt them to take that which she knew was not hers. The green stood out more against the slate grey of her soul, her special sin. Part of him felt like he should smirk. This would be an easy case over the angels. An unrepentant coveter. His lips twitched, but the scowl remained.

Color restored the room to its white glory while he leaned against the window. Try as he might, he could not understand the bureaucracy of his world. Having to wait for an angel to decide the fate of a sinner. It seemed restrictive. The same reason he left Heaven. Better to reign than serve, he thought, the internal voice more akin to the Elders’ than his own. He scoffed as the phrase came again and again to his mind. How many times had he been told that since his Fall? Some number like infinity. They told him that as he was confined to fire and ice. As their blades bit into his skin. As Elder Abaddon ground his face into the ground with his heel. His muscles seized as the hinges of the door squealed. Another human entered, dressed in blue loose clothes. That was not what thoroughly captured his attention. No, it was the being she cradled.

It was pure white, shaped like a human, and no bigger than her arms. It squirmed, but did not seem capable of much more movement than that. As the world returned to its natural way, he lost the small creature in a bundle of pink fabrics. He crept closer until he could see within the mess of swaddling. A face of pure serenity. Her chubby cheeks sported a sweet pink, wisps of dark hair swirling about its head. Eyes closed, soft breathing. So small, was she supposed to be like that? She squirmed. Opening and closing her mouth showed only soft pink gums. Where were her teeth?

Dammit, focus. Take the souls and get back before they begin questioning. Take the souls. All he had to do was reach out. Grab the mother, maybe even one of the others. Drag them down below and hand them over to the elders. Prove his loyalty. Better to reign than serve. Prove yourself, little Nephilim. Elder Azazel’s voice pierced his thoughts. His fingers reached out on their own accord. He reached for the mother, then he looked back at the child. Such blackness against such purity. He grazed her with the lightest of touches.

Her eyes opened.

The heavens should have turned green with envy after seeing the blue of her eyes. She blinked a few times before fixing her gaze so pointedly on him. It’s a fluke, it must be. A quick check around the room confirmed none of the adults could see him. They did not register the danger inches away. She did. Her unwavering stare was on him with such vigor. The shine of her eyes did not dim, nor did it fade.

Her mother cradled her closer to her body and cupped her tiny face. “My Emily,” she said.

Emily.

There was a peculiar feeling in his chest. Tracing his fingers over it led to no discovery, but he was certain there was something there. Her soul. Peering at her soul again, he found himself befuddled.

What was this white string connected to him?

He could not touch it, only see it and follow it back to her. She made a small hiccup-like noise that quickly turned to cries. If he were the owner of a heart, it would have broken. The distress on her tiny face hurt him more than any wound he had felt. Slowly he reached out and placed his hand on her head. Just the palm was large enough to cover her, his fingers stretched down to touch her face. “You’re alright, Emily,” he said.

To the surprise of everyone in the room, her cries stopped. She made a burbling noise that sounded down right happy to the daemon. Again her eyes were on him, his image reflecting. His face convulsed before allowing a smile to form on his lips.

A hazy glow appeared in the doorway. He flew back from the child. The wall slammed against his back, the thud causing the humans to jump. From the doorway, the angel stared at him. Were he to stand up straight, he would have towered over the gaping holy being. “Sup?” His arm moved of its own volition, flashing a mortal peace sign with rigid fingers.

She blinked several times, grey eyes wide and mouth loose but not open. She tucked a lock of ruby red hair behind her ear, but no avail as the gentle wave slipped down by her cheek once more. The divine light grew stronger, and the angel jumped back. Another walked into the room. He approached the bed and knelt beside it. “Ambriel, do not fear the monster. It cannot hurt you while I am here.” The older angel looked from the corner of his eye, more to his companion than to the daemon. Hesitant steps allowed the trembling angel into the room. Her eyes flickered between the two of them, lingering longer on the danger in the room.

Smirking, he winked to the angel. “Don’ worry, sweetheart. Just pretend I ain’t here.” She stiffened, face flushed and mouth gaping. A series of small huff-like noises passed her lips before she snapped her jaw shut and forced her gaze away. Checking the souls, he observed the round grey orb at the center of the laying woman’s chest. “I guess you’re here to collect, right? As the guy from Hell, I-”

“Be silent, hellspawn.” The male angel did not look away from the woman while he spoke. Harsh lines appeared on his perfect face, eyes narrow as he inspected the mortal. He mumbled something to the one he called Ambriel. She gasped, whispering “but Naarai,” only to be silenced as well. Rising to his feet, the angel – Archangel, if he remembered the name right – stretched his hand forward. He grasped the air, and with it the daemon’s breath. A panicked thought crossed his mind: The thread. Sure enough, changing his perception showed him curling his fingers in the white string that tied him and the kid together.

His body moved forward, his legs charging him towards while his hand smacked the angel’s. The thread relaxed, but it was the only thing to do so. Both angels turned to face him, one wide eyed and one stone faced. “What have you done?” Naarai’s movements were slow, but the unmistakable glow of a pure white ring caught the taller being’s attention. “State your name and purpose.” His eyes flashed with white lightening, the pure light obscuring his green eyes like streaks of snow.

Jerking his thumb to himself, the daemon flashed a smile filled with fangs. “Name’s Thalramon, Prince of Hell. I’m here,” he shifted his point to the sallow woman, “to bring her to my Elders.” A machine near his side beeped, drawing his eyes to the monitor. The bumps were shallower now than they had been before, further apart, yet steady.

Ambriel clasped her hands over her mouth. “But, her baby…” She glanced at the pink blankets shrouding Emily. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes. “To leave a child without its mother…”

“That is life, little one.” The Archangel’s voice had a tinge of ice to it, freezing the tears on Ambriel’s face and blocking the flow of more. Her visage turned cold, lips pressed thin and eyes focused on the floor just beyond her toes. Green met black as Naarai stepped in Thalramon’s way, his eyes as bright and threatening as a weed. “What happened to the angel who came earlier?”

Thalramon furrowed his brows and bit at the inside of his cheek. “Whadd’ya mean?”

“The one who formed this connection to the child. Where is that angel?”

Shrugging, he placed his hands on his hips. “Dunno what you’re talking about. It’s only been me around here. It appeared after I touched her – accident, I swear,” He said. Seeing the look on the angel turn from concern to fury, he threw his hands in the air and took a step pack.

“You clearly need a minute to calm down. I’ll see you later, angels.” He threw one last look at the flustered Ambriel before stepping back. He took a deep breath. The floor beneath him faded away, everything following it as he drew his energy out of the hospital. Out of the mortal realm. Standing in the darkness, he let out a heavy sigh and ran a hand through his hair, letting it snag on his horns. That look. It had been the same look his brother Michael gave him when he Fell. The last piece of Heaven he had seen with pure eyes. In the distance, he could make out the shape of a door. Hot air rushed out of the crack, burning his body. He wanted to believe he liked it more than the cool breezes that had flowed through the Pearly Gates.

His hand laid on the black singed wood when he felt it. A sharp tug at the base of his chest, where a heart would be if his kind possessed one. Laying his hand on the point, the door before him vanished. A room constructed itself before him, filled with basinets. White covered everything. The walls, the floor, the ceiling. One wall formed from glass stood out, a few humans gathered to look at the series of basinets lining the floor. He found the source of the tugging, the child Emily laying alone in one of the many beds. She squirmed about in her pink bundles, fussing and hiccupping.

Smiling, he caressed her head and whispered a greeting to her. She opened her eyes only for a second, yawning the next and settling down. Crouching down, he leaned his head against the metal. This is peace, he thought. Everything he once thought Heaven to be, he found in this child. Quiet, serene, beautiful. No doubt Heaven encompassed those, but he felt cold thinking about the home of the Big Man. Everyone, everything, it had all been so cold, so perfect. No place for a person like him. So he traded ice for fire.

“What are you doing here?” With the amount of hate in the voice, Thalramon could only assume an angel stood behind him. Glancing from the corner of his eye confirmed Naarai, holy light blazing like an inferno around his form. “How dare you return.”

He shrugged and turned his gaze back to Emily. “Got pulled here. Ain’t my fault.” His small human squirmed again, whining and squinting her already closed eyes. The light. He rose to his full height and moved between her and the flaring angel. Her whimpers fell quiet as the light passed over her.

For a moment, the light dimmed. “Pulled? You felt the pull?” Naarai shook his head and let the rage twist his face into a look that matched the daemons below. “Impossible. You cannot steal the duties of a guardian angel, it simply is not done.”

Guardian angel? He had heard the term in his mortal life, but it had not been something he had considered with any degree of seriousness. “That’s a thing?” Thalramon asked, quirking an eyebrow. “Guess that didn’t cover that in my orientation upstairs.” He had meant for that to be too quiet for the angel to hear, but his narrow eyes widened enough as though to say he very much did.

“Are you Nephilim?”

Little Nephilim.

Two steps forward, one hand outthrust, and he had the Archangel by the throat. “Don’t.” It was Naarai’s turn to let his face fall from its stony state. “Don’t call me that.”

His mind imagined many scenarios that could have played out then. Killing the angel, being killed, divine intervention. The one thing he did not imagine was hearing the terrified cries of the infants in the nursery. Emily. He dropped his grip and rushed back to her side. He laid his hand on her again, quieting her as she calmed. The sear of divine light at the corner of his eye faded. He checked just to be sure and, seeing the angel nowhere in sight, smiled down at his little human. “Everything’s okay, Emily. I’ll protect you.” He could not see the thread flash red as the promise sealed the bond.

Entering the void, his hand was on the door. This time, a voice called out from the darkness. “Thalramon, wait.” He turned and dropped his arm to his side. The mousy angel from before had no radiance in the darkness that swallowed this place, yet her red locks and white robes stood out in the otherwise encompassing shadows. “Thalramon, right?” She wrapped her arms around herself, head flicking from one side to the other. She moved closer, feet not touching the surface beneath them. “Please, hear me out,” she said in a quiet voice.

Eyebrow cocked, the daemon folded his arms and stepped up to meet her. “The thread, the bond to the child, did you do it on purpose?”

“I already told you, no.”

“I know you said that to Naarai, but I-” She paused, staring at his face with a fierce look that rivaled the look of the Elders, “I wanted to make sure.” The pair fell silent, eyes locked while the void around them writhed and shifted. It made no noise, no grand distractions, but it moved ever so much. Shrinking and growing to match what existed within it. Her jaw loosened, but her lips stayed sealed “I should leave,” She managed to say, staring at her toes.

“Probably.”

She shifted, adjusting the sleeve of her robes. He tapped his foot, glancing around her at the impatient void. The angel vanished, a gentle candle-like glow replacing her before being extinguished. He huffed, turning to the door and laying his hand on it for the third time. Pushing it open let the scorched air pass over him, stinging his eyes. The smell of sulfur and brimstone penetrated his body.

The soul. Ice crept through his being as the thought slipped in. You forgot the soul.

He paused, staring at his empty hands. The Elders appeared in his mind’s eye, grinning with sharp teeth and rotting lips. Pressure from their grips attached themselves to his body, despite their absence. Oh Nephilim, you never seem to learn. Elder Azazel’s voice echoed in his mind, a phrase marking his failures that always ended in Elders Shaytan and Abaddon taking their rage out on his body.

Her large round eyes replace the smiles, her soft skin touching his hands and easing the pain he was yet to feel, her giggles and coos overpowering every scream and plea Hell could muster. His chest ached. Try as he might, he could not imagine himself taking her mother’s soul. The last thing he wanted for her was that bitter cold of loss.

Bloodied and bruised, he would return to her crib and rest near his little human.