Chapter 1
“The demon has already extinguished seven souls. Do not allow it to destroy an eighth.”
“Yes, Sarathiel.”
“Good. Now go.”
Cassiel takes to the skies.
Contrary to popular belief, good humans do not become angels when they die, just as evil humans do not become demons. This is not to say that angels and demons do not exist; in fact, they walk upon Earth as plainly as humans themselves, yet they are rarely noticed.
This isn’t because angels and demons are masters of stealth, nor do they have any particular prowess in mimicking human behaviours. Humans are merely unobservant.
Moreover, angels and demons often struggle to blend in with humans since they have no need for requisites such as sleep or food or, unfortunately, clothing, but due to their sheer oddness they tend to fit in with humanity anyway. Humans, as a species, are rather accepting of things that shouldn’t be accepted.
Cassiel, for instance, is extremely grateful for the fact that the human he has been electronically conversing with has failed to notice his formal manner of writing. Some members of the species may have frowned at the extravagant adjectives and slightly archaic verbs, but it appeared that ‘Mr. Orwell’ found it rather charming – or at the very least, intriguing.
In Cassiel’s opinion, Mr. Orwell was likely to be an intelligent and all-round wonderful human considering he shared a family name with such a great author. It could not be coincidence alone.
The reason for the electronic communication was quite simple; Cassiel has been tasked with finding the deranged demon that thought it an excellent idea to annihilate human souls. Discontented with slaughtering humans and stealing their souls for Hell’s use, this psychotic creature had deemed it appropriate to eliminate any possibility of an afterlife for its victim. This was forbidden to both angels and demons – human souls were, under no circumstances, to be destroyed.
The rogue demon had committed a crime punishable by Unmaking.
Cassiel shivers at the very thought.
If he is to find the demon, he must investigate its last known location – a primary school in Liverpool, England. He will need a base of operations; a place to collect his thoughts and build evidence, and flitting back and forth between Earth and Heaven will hardly be conducive to that, not to mention take a great deal of energy. A house will do; one in close vicinity of the school.
This is where Mr. Orwell and his landlord, Mr. Wellers, come in. Mr. Orwell is looking for a housemate – someone to split rent with – and Cassiel has been eager in his response. He will meet his lovely human housemate in an hour or so and he has been careful to replicate the appearance of a recently-graduated history teacher moving out of his parents’ accommodation. With a little help from his grace – his source of magic and life and the very essence of his angelic status – he has breathed functionality into an old, battered Ford Ka and he has filled it with sealed cardboard boxes that are actually empty but somehow manage to feel heavy.
He has already decided that he doesn’t particularly like the cramped car and that he will spend as little time as possible inside it.
When he arrives at the small terraced house, he eyes the motorcycle parked outside with appreciation. It claims to be a Triumph Bonneville and it is an impressive vehicle with chrome curves and black finish. It is a truly beautiful work of art and Cassiel already regrets his decision to drive the dented, blue monstrosity behind him. What will Mr. Orwell think of him?
With a thin mouth, he gathers a box into his arms – like he has seen in countless human films – and makes his way up the small garden to the front door. He knocks awkwardly, since the box restricts him somewhat and he musters a friendly smile, hoping that Mr. Orwell is as witty and cordial in person as he is via e-mail.
The little green door swings open and a man in his early thirties appears in front of it. He is pale-skinned where Cassiel is dark and he has piercing sapphire eyes where Cassiel’s resemble milk chocolate. They share the same dark hair but where Cassiel’s is cut short with designer facial hair that he copied out of a popular modelling magazine, the other man is clean-shaven with wavy, shoulder-length locks. Where Cassiel wears an outfit more suited to the Victorian era, the other man wears jeans and a T-shirt.
“Shit,” exclaims the other man before he slams the door in Cassiel’s face.
Cassiel glares at the little green door and it flies open without him having to touch it. He drops his empty box and storms inside the quirky house and the door seals itself shut with a single thought.
He hears the other man scrambling up the stairs and he races after him, grabbing a leg before he can make it to the landing.
“Get off!” snaps the man as he kicks at Cassiel and the angel yelps when the man clicks his fingers and the steps beneath him flatten into a ramp. He slides to the bottom as the man manages to drag himself to the top of what is essentially a long slide.
“What have you done with Mr. Orwell, demon?” Cassiel demands as his blade slides into his palm.
“I am Mr. Orwell,” snaps the demon. “Who are you?”
Cassiel’s wings, hidden up to this point, unfurl from the fifth dimension and he rises to the first floor with ease. “I am Angel Cassiel, Third Choir of the Third Sphere, Warrior and Protector of Humanity, and you, demon, are about to pay penance for your reprehensible crimes against The Universe.”
“What crimes?”
Cassiel brandishes his blade at the demon. “You extinguished the souls of seven humans, which is forbidden by Universal Law.” He scowls. “And you have killed the lovely Mr. Orwell.”
“I am Mr. Orwell,” the demon repeats before lifting its chin defiantly. “And I didn’t extinguish any souls. I’m here to find the psycho that did.”
Cassiel eyes the demon with distrust. “Liar. You can’t be Mr. Orwell. Mr. Orwell is a human.”
“Like how Mr. Shrewsbury is a human?” drawls the demon and Cassiel purses his lips at his own false identity.
“Enough of your tricks, demon,” Cassiel declares before lunging towards the demon.
The demon dodges him, barely, and sprints into one of the bedrooms and before Cassiel can reach the door, the demon flings a hand out towards the light above Cassiel’s head, causing it to crash into the angel and send him stumbling.
With a snarl, Cassiel blows the door off its hinges and is immediately smacked in the face by a pillow and then a rather heavy radio.
He recovers in time to see the demon attempting to crawl through the window and he grabs its long hair and pins it to the wall, spluttering when a huge, black, leathery wing slaps him across the cheek. When he opens his eyes, the demon is half-way out the door.
He races across the landing and ducks when a picture frame sails through the air, followed by a porcelain cat ornament, and both shatter against the wall behind him. He leaps over the banister and slams straight into the demon, and the two of them wrestle as they slide down the long stair-ramp. He manages to carve a deep wound into the demon’s arm and the creature hisses in agony before kicking him in the stomach and winding him.
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” insists the demon as it crawls to its hands and knees and hurls the television remote at Cassiel’s head. “I’ve only been here a couple of weeks!”
“Falsifier,” cries Cassiel as he pounces upon the demon again. “Murderer!” He pins the demon by its throat and raises his blade above its chest.
He grunts when pain explodes in his side and he glances down to find the demon’s own blade lodged deep into the flesh of his hip.
His momentary distraction is enough for the demon to headbutt him in the nose and for their positions to suddenly be flipped.
“I am Imp Seir, Third Order of the Third Sphere, Trickster and Manipulator of Humanity, General Pain in the Arse.” He narrows his eyes. “And I didn’t kill anyone.”
Cassiel glowers at the demon and is surprised when the hands around his throat slip away as Seir kneels above him.
“I give my word.”
“Your word means nothing, demon,” Cassiel huffs and Seir rolls his eyes before snatching Cassiel’s blade from his palm and tossing it across the room.
“I was sent here by the Djinn Astaroth,” says Seir, still straddling his opponent. “Despite what you might believe, demons don’t exactly encourage their ranks to slaughter humans and obliterate their souls – that would be rather detrimental to our cause, wouldn’t it? We’re supposed to tempt as many souls into Hell as we can, not snuff them out before they leave Earth.”
Cassiel wriggles and dislodges Seir enough to warrant Seir pinning him by his wrists. The demon’s blade jostles uncomfortably in his hip.
“I’ve been sent to find the rogue, same as you.” Seir pulls a face. “Annoyingly, we’re on the same side.”
“I would never side with a demon.”
“Great,” snorts Seir before he yanks the blade painfully from Cassiel’s flesh. “Then you won’t mind me asking you to get out of my house.”
Clamping a hand over his bleeding hip, Cassiel glares at Seir. “I’ve already paid Mr. Wellers the advance.”
This earns him an incredulous stare. “Seriously? You’re an angel. Money means nothing to you. Just leave.”
This is somewhat of an insult to Cassiel, who did actually work an entire month as a history teacher in a high school in order to earn enough cash to pay Mr. Wellers. Thus far, he has created fake identification documentation, a fake address, set up a bank account with these details, changed the address his account is registered so that it will reflect his new rented accommodation, completed a driving test and the corresponding theory examination, and passed two interviews with Sacred Hope Primary School so that he may work in the building that serves as the rogue’s last recorded location and thus earn a wage that he can pay Mr. Wellers with. Not once throughout this process did it occur to Cassiel to simply create money to pay Mr. Wellers with.
“You leave,” Cassiel says indignantly. “Now that Heaven is searching for the rogue, you have no business here. Unless you are indeed the rogue.”
“I’m not,” snaps Seir before his gaze tracks to Cassiel’s bloody side then to his own bloodied arm. “Well, this is just fantastic, isn’t it?” He frowns at the red-spotted shag-pile rug. “We’re never getting our deposit back.”
Cassiel throws Seir off him and winces at the burning sensation in his side.
“That’s going to need stitches,” Seir says before gesturing to his own arm. “As is this. Thanks very much.”
“Don’t you have an off-switch?” Cassiel grumbles as he staggers to his feet. He looks about the small house curiously and notes all the mismatched furniture and porcelain figurines. It isn’t quite what he had expected and it certainly doesn’t fit a demon’s destructive and chaotic personality. It resembles an elderly lady’s home – one who likes to hoard useless pieces of the past.
“I’m not living with an angel,” Seir pipes up. “Find your own house.”
Cassiel ignores him in favour of wandering into the kitchen, great white wings trailing after him. The kitchen is painted a hideous shade of green and looks like it might have once passed as modern in the early sixties.
“Did you hear me? You can’t stay here.”
Shouldering past Seir, Cassiel walks into the dining room and finds himself faced with an overpowering mahogany showcase filled with China plates, crystal glasses, a dozen cat ornaments, multiple candle holders, and various other objects that serve next to no purpose. The wallpaper is blue and white striped.
“Mr. Wellers… collects things,” Seir says quietly and he sounds quite uncomfortable, which is very strange for a demon.
Cassiel turns to the demon and they stare at one another for a long moment before Seir sighs. “You aren’t going to leave, are you?”
“I have a mission to complete.”
With a mutter, Seir clicks his fingers and everything that was broken or altered during their skirmish returns to normal – except for the shag-pile rug stained with their blood. Celestial blood is not an easy substance to remove.
“There’s only one bedroom besides the one I’m occupying. It’s yours if you desperately want it.”
Cassiel narrows his eyes. “How can I trust that you’re not the demon I’m searching for?”
Thoroughly annoyed now, Seir shrugs. “You can’t.”
Cassiel nods, expecting this answer. “Then if you betray me, I shall carve out your heart.”
“Spectacular,” snorts Seir before he returns to the kitchen and produces a first aid kit from beneath the sink. He removes from it rubbing alcohol and suture material and sets to work awkwardly on his own wound.
Cassiel watches him pityingly for a few moments before snatching the suture from him and removing the crooked stitches he has already started. This close, he can see that the demon has likely patched himself up before because he bears multiple ill-healed scars.
“You look like a patchwork quilt.”
Seir grimaces as Cassiel threads the needle through his skin. “Angels see demons as pin cushions and I wouldn’t trust another demon near me with anything that possesses a sharp point.”
“You don’t trust your own friends?”
“Who said I have friends?”
Cassiel glances up at Seir in surprise and Seir shifts his gaze to the left, so Cassiel focuses on aligning the skin edges of the demon’s arm. He startles once he is finished and Seir begins tending to the wound on his hip. He pushes the demon away instinctively, but Seir grunts at him to hold still and Cassiel forces himself to do so.
Once their wounds are sealed, the air between them is rife with tension and discomfort, so Cassiel goes outside to unpack the empty boxes from his car.
After staring about the bedroom in mute horror, Cassiel marches across the landing and bangs his fist against Seir’s door. Seir opens it gingerly.
“There are dolls,” Cassiel states. “Everywhere.”
Seir nods. “Yes.”
“There are dozens of them.”
“Yes.”
“Why are there so many?”
The demon rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Like I said: Mr. Wellers likes to collect things.”
“Creepy dolls.”
“Yes. There were five potential tenants before you and four of them ran out screaming. One of them stayed for one night and suddenly moved out the next day.”
Cassiel stares at Seir incredulously and Seir rolls his shoulders. “Well, it isn’t as though you need to sleep.”
“I need a place to work,” protests Cassiel. “Where you can’t see.”
“We’re working towards the same goal,” scoffs Seir. “What does it matter if I see what you’re doing?”
“I don’t work with demons,” huffs Cassiel and out of sheer stubbornness, he marches back to the room filled with creepy dolls. He swears that a couple of them have changed position and there are at least a dozen sets of beady eyes focused on him, all of them wearing small, malicious smiles.
He decides that he can work in the dining room – after all, he and Seir share the same goal, so it shouldn’t matter if the demon sees his work.
