“I Swear They’re Coming Around,” Said The Man In Purple Robes And A Gold Crown, As He Wandered

You’re a zoologist. When the alien bombardment begins, you decide to stay behind and spend your last moments with the animals. Your zoo, however, is miraculously unharmed. It’s not a coincidence.

It’s the year 2166, and people haven’t changed much. They still eat, they still sleep, there’s not been a robot apocalypse yet, and they dream. But above all this, they still desire the best for their children. That’s why, for the past century, humans have been genetically engineered. Heavily. Rather than trust the hand of fate to decide what your child looks like, what their features and their faults are, they’d rather entrust it to a Genotypist, an expert at gene therapy and study.

It’s common practice for those with them to have their ovaries removed entirely, frozen in stasis until a suitable time. Undesirable pregnancies have reached such a low that it dips below the margin of error for most studies.

But my parents, and their parents, and my grandparents (basically since the invention and legalization of the Genotypist’s trade) have forgone all that. In a world where most are conceived in a test tube, they decided to go the ‘natural’ way, and me and my little sister were born. I love my parents, but sometimes (especially when I put on my glasses, reliant as I am on them) I wish they had maybe at least consulted a Genotypist.

I remember elementary school. The other kids weren’t so bad; they were a little in awe of me, to be honest, as children tend to be of anything different. Their parents, however, were a different story. They were scared of me, I think – which is odd to say, having been five years old or so at the time. Maybe they were afraid of what I represented – the scary old days in which children died at young ages from illness, that children were born with diseases. The chance of me eventually being killed by one genetic factor or another made me a liability. They told their children to avoid me, to not interact – and I grew up with no one. Well, next to no one.

My sister was born when I was four, and I made it my sworn duty to be her friend, because I knew that it would seem the world was against her. And, maybe it was. I hoped that maybe, just maybe, I could spare her my heartache.

But still, I had a life of my own. The only other ‘organic’ my age was another boy, whose parents couldn’t afford the procedure – a rare thing in this day and age of ‘prosperity’, where people would go on the bare minimum for months just to pay for the procedure. He was the only one unafraid of me – a fact I continue to appreciate.

Middle school was where things got worse – the kids were old enough to understand why their parents hated me, and that I was different – and different was bad. I suppose that I took that to heart – I couldn’t deal with quite that level of hate, so I rejected them all in turn. My only connection to life was twofold – my sister and my only friend. Even my parents weren’t spared my rage.

I was kind of an edgy little shit. I got into fights. I vandalized a few things. I got a record. I have to give credit to my parents for putting up with me through that stage of my life.

Anyway, though, I got expelled. Something about picking five fights in a single semester made the principal unwilling to keep me around. Bizarre, really. But I wound up getting shipped out to another school, a few miles away from everyone I knew, and that’s kind of shit.

I was on the bus, sitting in the back with headphones on, when he sat next to me. I was surprised anyone would – not least of all because I tend to dress like leather and black cloth had an orgy. He was about my age – which was fitting, I suppose. Not like there was much variance of age here, save the fifty-something bus driver. Pulling down the headphones, he waved awkwardly. “Hi, I’m Nicholas.”

Thinking it through in my head, I internally figure I have nothing to lose and everything to gain. I offer my hand. “James.”

He shook my hand. “Charmed,” he smiled. He was kind of adorable, in a slightly dorky way. Brown hair, kind of scrawny. Dressed in a button-down shirt and dress pants. And what kind of kid wears leather dress-shoes to school?

“So, James, what brings you to our school? I’ve never seen you around here before.”

“Life,” I sighed dramatically. Gods I hate myself in hindsight.

Nicholas laughed. “I think we’ll get along just fine, James.”

“So, tell me about yourself,” I began. I was ready for a story, and the bus drive was taking what seemed like eternity. It’s not like I could just go back to my headphones and ignore him after he’d been kind enough to introduce himself.

“Well, I’m sixteen, I’ve got two older sisters and a younger brother, and I’m an Aquarius – that what you want to hear?”

“Just maybe. So, tell me – why is it you sat next to me, rather than by the other students you seem to know so well?”

“Well, I’m not exactly popular,” he said, looking around at the others on the bus. “I haven’t got any friends, really. My only friend was a kid named Will, but he transferred out last year. And,” he began to whisper conspiratorially, “They say you… that you’re…”

“That I’m what,” I ask, leaning back a little, hoping to avoid whatever little bombshell he felt inclined to drop.

“That you’re… organic?”

I sigh. How in the hell can I never escape that? I hadn’t even met anyone from the school and they already knew my birth status. “Yeah, yeah I am.”

“That’s… wow. So… like… you were…?”

I could see the question forming in his mind. “Yes, I was conceived the ‘old-fashioned’ way. Same as everyone was two centuries ago.”

“That’s weird.”

I scoffed a little under my breath. “So, you afraid of me now?”

“Not really.”

I looked at him, a little surprised. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, putting his hands up defensively, “I’m a little weirded out by your birth status, but I’m not, like, going to hold it against you. It’s not your fault.”

I rolled my eyes. Another one of these. People who thought I was some kind of sub-human creature, worthy of pity for my status. Like an ape in a zoo. People would be kind enough, I supposed, if I let them sit there and talk at me and feed me bananas, but once I open my mouth, the illusion is scattered. I’m different. I’m a threat.

“What’s not my fault? That my parents fucked and nine months later I popped out? Where do you think, your entire family came from, a few generations back? Maybe most don’t do it that way anymore, but I’m not going to put up with your goddamned, patronizing bullshit. I’m just as human as you.”

He went silent then, a little numb, and then he began. “I’m… sorry…”

He looked like someone had deflated him a little bit. I suppose I had been harsh on him. But I’d dealt with this all my life – it’s not like he asked to be born the way he was, either. “I’m sorry too.”

“So… let’s start over a little. What’s your life like?”

“Got a sister. Anya. Brilliant girl. And, I’m a Cancer. That what you looking for?”

He smiled. “Yeah.”

In about fifteen minutes, we arrived at the school and disembarked. The school was a fancy, shiny new building. My parents had paid through the nose to get me here, I guess. I looked at my schedule. “Do you have Mr. Shall too?”

I looked at my homeroom class. Sure enough, Shall. “Yeah”

“I can show you to his room. He’s the biology teacher. They say his grandfather helped found the science of Genotyping.”

“And he teaches at a high school?”

“Well, his entire family can’t be rich and famous.”

I went to the class, following behind Nicholas, finally sitting at a paired table next to him. Mr. Shall was a burly man in his early forties, dressed in a dress-shirt and tie. He began class with a simple set of words. “I understand that there’s someone new here,” he said, standing up. “I’d like to give him a chance to introduce himself. James, if you would?”

I walked up to the front of the class. “Hi, the name’s James. Nice to meet you.”

I shuffled back to my seat, and we began. He handed out sheets of paper, on which was written a simple timeline going back a couple hundred years. “As you know, Genotyping began in the mid-twenty first century. Zhou Wang Wei wrote the first book on the subject in 2041, a treatise that was translated for western audiences two years later. His western counterpart was John Van Compf, who developed some of the medical equipment used in the field. The basics were simple – but the execution took years of hard work.”

He continued like this for what seemed like hours, but was probably no longer than a few minutes. “And now, there’s next to no children born organically anymore. Why is that, do you think? Who would turn down the medical procedure that can give them ‘ideal’ children? That can make perfect humans, medically speaking. Why risk it?”

A girl near the front raised her hand. “Maybe they’re afraid of it? Of society progressing?”

Shall shook his head a little. “No, Amy. Progress isn’t some measurable thing – what’s a way forward for some is often the way backwards for others. James,” he said, gesturing to me, “Why do you think people don’t hire a Genotypist?”

I looked up at him, and he winked at me. God damn it, the man knew. I stood up. “Maybe they think it’s not right to alter people with machines. After all, didn’t Darwin himself write that diversity is in the best interest for people? Isn’t Genotyping just a way to reduce that diversity? Sure, we might still have variance in eye color, hair color, skin color, but we’re still getting rid of genetic diversity in other ways. Maybe it’s going to come back and bite us.”

Shall nodded. “As good a reason as any.”

A boy across the room shot up. “But, if that happens, won’t the Genotypists figure out a way to save us? If a gene we removed is the secret to saving us, then why don’t we just add it in on the next generation? It’s better off we make the procedure mandatory; that way organics don’t wind up infecting us all with some kind of disease.”

Shall shook his head again. “Sit down, Michael. That’s hardly the – “

Nicholas looked at me, and began to whisper, “James, you’re crying.”

I felt my face with one hand. Indeed, I was. I was also gripping my pencil with such an extraordinary grip that I was surprised it didn’t break. Then, of course, it did. The snap drew attention from the surrounding students, and I used that to my advantage. Rising to my feet again, I spoke. “That’s bullshit. Do you really think that’s progress? Forcing people you don’t like to be like you isn’t ‘progress’, it isn’t ‘safety’. You’re just afraid.” I began to whisper then, “God damn it, I just want to live. Is that so hard?”

I sat down, and was silent the rest of the class.

In the future where Babies mass produced in genetic labs are normal , you are the only “ organic ” in your high school class. It’s the first day of school and the teacher asks you to introduce yourself.

Sorry I haven’t been all that active these last few days

I’ve been kind of busy, but I should get to posting again soon.

He sat upon a hilltop, watching out over the plane of existence he lived in. He was a demon, minor lord of a plane of Hell. Unfortunately, he was melancholic about his life and the position he was in.

His father was Lucifer, the king of fallen angels, and lord of all of Hell. His mother was Lilith, the first human. In this sense, he was closer to humanity than any of his siblings; the only child of the cursed, immortal woman who had never truly fallen – at least not in the sense that man had.

He had dark, curly hair, short horns growing from his forehead, and black, leathery wings. He wore only a simple tunic, with a belt tied at the waist. He needed no shoes, and he was discontent with his lot in life.

For he was a simple creature, in his own way – all he desired in life was to drink and be merry, to spend his existence harming none in his debauchery. But that was not his job – he was the child of Lucifer, the child of blue flame – he was to be a fearsome creature, a servant of darkness – but try as he might, he could never bring himself to harm a soul – even the blackest among the damned were spared his whip, for he was a gentle soul – despite his appearance and heritage.

He sighed deeply, as his brother came up from the other side of the hill. “Iscarbiel,” hailed the demon, “What are you doing?”

The demon, dressed similarly but with a blue skin and red eyes, pointed teeth and large, curling ram’s horns, a longsword strapped to his side, walked up and sat beside him. “Nothing, Jimarciel,” said Iscarbiel.

“Nothing,” said Jimarciel, gnashing his teeth, “Nothing seems to be all you do nowadays!”

Iscarbiel leaned back, onto the scorched black grass of Asphodel. “Leave me be, Jimarciel. You do enough evil for the both of us, is that not true?”

Jimarciel laughed, a haughty, unearthly rattle. “Indeed I do,” he ceded, “But it is not me that father cares about. You are his favorite, and he demands your presence. Good luck, little brother.”

Iscarbiel got up, stretched, and began walking down the hill, towards the blackened hellscape through the fields of the damned, towards the black castle atop a mountain. His ears numb to the screams of the tortured, he flapped his wings once, twice, and was lifted, flying upwards towards the castle in which he lived, and hated with almost every fiber of his being.

Landing on a parapet encasing a balcony, avoiding the wickedly-pointed spears every couple of feet, and climbing down, he walked into his room, down the stairs and into the throne-room of his father.

His father looked much the same as him, with pale skin and a goatee, but with straight hair kept short, and nearly three times the height of a normal man. Sitting on a throne of dragon-bone and cushioned with blackened fabric, he walked forward, between tables where demons and fallen angels sat feasting on roasted animal carcasses, drinking wine of finest vintage.

Lucifer was angry. Iscarbiel walked slowly forward, to stand in front of his father.

His father glared at him, and began to speak in a voice, deep as the fathoms of the ocean and booming like thunder. “My son… you are weak.”

The assembled court laughed at this, as they continued their feast. Slamming the butt of his pitchfork, the symbol of his rule, into the ground, Lucifer bellowed, “Silence!”

“You have not tasted blood. You are not a torturer, like Jimarciel, or a general of great renown like Falzlynnel. You are not a magus, like Arunic, or a soldier, like Varysin. You are… weak.”

Loathing dripped from every word he spoke.

“But there is hope for you yet, my whelp, for our guards have caught something that you can… play with.”

Iscarbiel would sweat, if his body could, and fear crept into him like a poisoned dagger. What would his father have him do?

“An angel, sent by my father, to spy on me. Caught by Jimarciel, and brought alive to our dungeons. You will torture it until it swears allegiance to me, and then slaughter it. This is my command; carry it out and your rewards will be great. But be warned,” he almost whispered, in a sibilant hiss, ‘If you fail me, your screams will be far louder and greater than any that now resound across my plane.”

Iscarbiel kneeled, silently, trying to think of a way out of this. None was forthcoming, unfortunately.

“Lonchoriel! Show him to his prey.”

A fallen angel, dressed in fine, purple robes, stood, bowed before Lucifer, and spoke, “Thank you, my lord.”

Lonchoriel lead Iscarbiel down a spiral staircase to the left of the throne room, not speaking as he walked down, down into the depths, beyond the castle and into the bowels of the mountain. Finally, they entered the dungeons, darkened cells where his father’s prisoners were kept. Down the hallway to the very end, where a large door was chained shut. Whispering the password to the door, a word in a language only pronounceable by demons and the damned,  he turned and walked back down the hallway, speaking a simple warning. “Do not fail your father.”

With Lonchoriel gone, Iscarbiel gulped, and walked into the room, not knowing what to expect. He had never left his father’s realm – he had never waged war on the heavens, and he had never seen an angel. From the words of Jimarciel he expected an alien, monstrous entity – something of fire and death, whose hatred of the hells knew no bounds. Something awful, no doubt.

But walking into the torture chamber, he saw something he had never expected to see.

She seemed so… normal. Inhumanly beautiful, with amber hair – but still, alike to his mother and to him. Human in appearance, but with the feathered wings of a pure-white dove, folded behind her. Chained to the ceiling, kneeling on the ground but with her hands suspended above her head, she appeared barely conscious, with superficial bruises and cuts probably incurred in her capture. Upon his entrance, she looked up, and he saw her eyes – humanlike, but with orange irises that matched the shade of her hair. She spat on the ground – blood, red like a human’s, mixed in with the saliva. “Do your worst, demon,” she hissed.

Iscarbiel was dumbstruck. Moving to stand before her, he began to try and sound intimidating, “Fear me, angel, for I am the son of Lucifer – the Morningstar, the Blue Flame, the Lord of Hell – fear me because I am here to –,” he stopped, slapping his forehead. “Oh, enough talk.”

He pulled a tray of torture implements towards him. He was pretty sure how most of them worked – or, at least some of them. Picking up a scalpel, he moved towards her, and she glared at him, looking him in the eyes, unflinching as he moved the scalpel towards the flesh below her right eye. Just as it was about to touch skin, he stopped, stood up, put it down, hyperventilating. “Nine hells damn it all,” he exclaimed.

“You aren’t very good at this,” she observed, watching him closely.

“No, no I am not,” he concurred, staring down at the tray and shaking his head. “I’m Iscarbiel.”

“Anabiel.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

They stood there in silence for a couple moments, neither speaking, wondering what they should do. He couldn’t bring himself to torture her, and she knew it. His father was right. He was… weak.

“So, Iscarbiel, what do we do now?”

“I don’t know, Anabiel, what do we do?”

“You could let me go,” she said, cheekily.

“You have absolutely no idea how impossible that would be,” he sighed. “My father doesn’t trust me to do this, and I’m damned sure he’ll check in before the night is done.”

“Have you ever tortured someone before?” she inquired.

“Nope. Never before in my life have I done something like this. I mostly hung around his courts, listening to my older brothers’ tales of glory, how they torture the damned and kill angels – no offense.”

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t offended just a little bit.”

“Well, in either case – I never had the stomach for this sort of thing. I’m a fan of decadence, I take to the wine a little more than most, but I’m not a torturer. Any recommendations?”

“Well, torture doesn’t normally come with this much banter.”

“I figured as much,” he said, sitting down in front of her, pushing the wheeled cart aside.

“What will I do,” he pondered, half to himself. “I can’t torture anything, never have, probably never will. But if I don’t my father will torture me.”

“He’d torture his own flesh and blood?”

Iscarbiel laughed, and pulled down the front of his tunic a little to reveal a score of scars, aged and healed whip-scars. “it wouldn’t be the first time.”

Anabiel went quiet. “I’m sorry about your father,” she paused, as if shocked that she had said something like that. “I didn’t think I’d ever say that to a demon,” she explained.

“Well, I’ve never met an angel in my existence, so I think we’re both in rather uncharted territory.”

“Shouldn’t we loathe each other with every fiber of our existences?”

“Probably,” he said, “But I’ve never been particularly demonic or malicious, even for a demon. Especially for a demon,” he paused, then the questions came pouring out, “Why did you come to Hell? If I left, I’d never come back. Ever. Why risk it?”

She bristled, and then began to speak, “I can’t tell you that. Is this your endgame? Pretend to be incompetent and then hope that gets me to spill all the answers? I have to admit, that’s clever.”

“No, nothing like that! Honest!”

She spat on the ground again. “A likely story. Get out of here!”

He got up, a little in shock, and walked out of the room. Outside, he found someone waiting for him. Jimarciel was standing there, a disgusted look on his face. “I knew you couldn’t do it. Father’s right, you’re weak.”

He pushed Iscarbiel aside, and with a wave of his hand, disguised himself perfectly as Iscarbiel. “Leave,” he said. “I’m going to make her talk, and you’ll get the credit for it. I hate your weakness,” he growled, “But you are my blood, for better or for worse.”

As Jimarciel turned to the door, Iscarbiel grabbed his shoulder. “Don’t do it, Jii.”

Jimarciel turned back, and pushed Iscarbiel across the hall, to the base of the stairs. “And what will you do to stop me, whelp? You are a weakling. You can’t even torture a human soul – how could father have trusted you to torture an angel?”

Iscarbiel got up, shakily. And walked forward. “Back away, Jimarciel. I’m warning you.”

Jimarciel laughed and drew his longsword, blackened, infernal steel hissing with the evil with which it had been tempered. “Warning me, now, are you? Run away, you little fool, before I destroy you.”

Iscarbiel took a stumbling step forward, unarmed. Jimarciel laughed and took a stance, with his blade in position so it would be ready to strike. The air smelled of ozone as the blade crackled. “Don’t hurt her,” said Iscarbiel, shakily but resolute.

“Don’t hurt her,” mocked Jimarciel. “She’s an angel. She’s our enemy. Given the power, she would destroy us all. Don’t you care for your flesh and blood? Turn and flee, cur. It’s what you’re good at.”

A million memories flooded Iscarbiel’s mind. Of being bullied by his brothers, of Jimarciel and Falzlynnel laughing at him, beating him into a pulp and him being afraid to speak back. “Not anymore.”

Iscarbiel charged. He did not know what he had planned, but Jimarciel was ready. Driving the blade towards Iscarbiel, he expected an easy kill. But Iscarbiel was not so obliging. Diving into a roll, he went beside the blade, punching Jimarciel in the throat with all of his meager might.

Jimarciel gagged, a hiss, as his blade cleaved into the floor. Running into the cell, Iscarbiel grabbed a blade from the rolling cart of torture equipment. He looked at it, a simple enough dagger, and he readied himself to fight. Jimarciel growled, ripping his blade from the ground and turning to Iscarbiel.

“What will you do now, little one,” he hissed, “What will you do now that you’ve cornered yourself? I will take no mercy on you now.”

“I expected as much,” muttered Iscarbiel, readying himself to die.

Jimarciel laughed and charged forward, bloodlust making him foolish. This time he made sure to be ready for a quick dodge, but this time Iscarbiel was not going to dodge. Throwing himself onto the blade, he drove his dagger into Jimarciel’s heart. “What...?”

Jimarciel let go of his sword, looking down at the blade that had pierced his chest. The blade was of hell-forged steel, like his own. Pulling it out, he watched blackened ichor pour from the wound. Kneeling, then falling over, he moved no more.

Walking over to his brother’s corpse, with the longsword stuck through the right side of his stomach, ichor leaking from his pierced side. Groaning, he groped around on his brother’s corpse, finally finding it. His master key. Walking over to the angel, he unlocked her shackles. “Go,” he said, falling over and leaning on the ground, pain overwhelming, “Run. You can escape.”

Anabiel knelt next to him, lifting his head. “Go!” he hissed, barely able to breathe.

She put her hand to the base of the wound, then, reaching up, pulled it free from his stomach. He screamed, but she covered his mouth. Putting an ichor-soaked finger to her mouth, indicating silence, she put a hand on the wound, whispered a word in Enochian, and it stitched itself shut. “Come with me,” she whispered.

Catching his breath, he nodded.

They made their way up the stairs as quietly as possible, and he whispered to her, “At the top of this staircase is my father’s throne room. If I distract them, you can escape out the balcony at the back of the room. You can still fly, can’t you?”

She nodded. “What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll guard your escape and follow if I can.”

She looked worried.

“Don’t concern yourself with me,” he whispered. “I’m demonspawn, remember? I’m not capable of redemption.”

They reached the top of the stairs, and Iscarbiel ran into the center of the room, quite a sight, covered in black ichor as he was, both his own and his brother’s.

“Father!” he screamed. Lucifer rose from his throne, holding his pitchfork resolutely. “I’m tired, father. I’m tired of my brothers. I’m tired of this court. I’m tired of you.”

“Watch your tongue, boy! I have fought gods! Destroyed nations! What have you done, apart from embarrass my bloodline?”

Iscarbiel saw Anabiel sneak out the back, and he laughed back at his father. “Embarrass your bloodline? Don’t make me laugh! You were defeated, what have your fights wrought you but this wretched place?”

Lucifer howled, his appearance shifting as he took a more suitable size, similar to his son’s. His skin was black as coal and his face a triple, with one on each side save the back. The eyes of each face glowed crimson, and his wings burnt black and skeletal. “Know your place, boy!”

Iscarbiel drew his blade into a ready stance, ready to fight. Lucifer charged, his attack pattern more sophisticated than Jimarciel’s. Within seconds, he had gripped Iscarbiel by the throat, lifting him into the air. “What has the angel brought out of you, boy? What hidden nature is this?”

Iscarbiel saw Anabiel, wings spread, flying off of the balcony and away, further and further, into the distance.

“Love, father.” Iscarbiel choked out.

“Love,” sneered Lucifer.

Dropping the boy, he struck forward with the pitchfork, driving it through Iscarbiel’s chest.

“Love will not save you, boy.”

Iscarbiel lay back onto the floor as ichor drained from his body, and he blacked out, and saw no more.

 ---Epilogue---

Iscarbiel awoke in a white, formless landscape. Standing across from him was a muscled angel, who seemed normal enough, save for the third eye in the center of his forehead. Getting quickly to his feet, he stood in a defensive stance.

“Fear not, worm. I am not here to harm you. I’m here to save you, per my sister’s request.”

“Who?” Iscarbiel began.

“Don’t be rude, Metatron,” spoke a familiar voice behind him. Turning, he saw Anabiel.

“Anabiel! How-,” Iscarbiel stopped himself before he said it. How was he not dead?

“I petitioned my father for your return. He sent Metatron to draw you out of the void. I accompanied.”

“Why?”

“I saw something in you, Iscarbiel. Something no demon has shown before.”

Metatron began to speak. “I see all, boy. I was there when your father betrayed his, and his brethren like me. I see in you what was in him before he turned from the light. Bravery. Honor,” here he paused, “Love.”

“Your bravery in offering your life to save an angel was enough to make you an anomaly; expecting nothing in return made you a hero. And heroes deserve heaven’s blessings, regardless of their father’s sins.”

Anabiel gripped Iscarbiel’s hand. “Follow me,” she said, and lead him into paradise.

You’re a demon. A pretty awful one, might I add. You should have been an angel instead. The other demons constantly harass you for not fitting in or being like them. You end up falling in love with an angel and you have to convince her that you’re not like the others.

As I drove along the highway that night, a snowy November evening, I suspected little of the contents of the evening; it had been a fulfilling one, after all. After leaving work, I had gone with some friends to get drinks at a nearby bar, a favorite of one of my coworkers, and I’d promised for a while to join them.

Before I left, I had gone to the bathroom, and on the way out, walked into someone. A woman, probably no older than thirty, who I did not know. I apologized, but she made eye contact with me, almost blankly. Then, in a somber tone, as if she was delivering a verdict, “It ends tonight.”

I thought nothing of it, and continued drinking with my friends.

Maybe that was a mistake.

Maybe I drank too much that night.

Maybe it didn’t matter.

All that mattered was the drive.

The night was dark and the road was dimly lit by poorly-spaced lamps, and though I had made the trip many times, I had never done it in the dark. But I was not afraid; I had no fear of the dark, I didn’t fear the car that was behind me, even when they swerved in their lane. I did not fear them when they were alongside me, and I heard the people inside, four or five college students, drunker than I by far, screaming and hooting as they tried to pass me.

Tried. Their rear bumper hit the front of my car, sending me veering off of the road and into the ditch.

Before that, I looked to my right, and saw Her. The girl from the bar. She was smiling, something inhuman and ancient in her brown eyes and hair. Even in her ordinary features there was something eldritch and ancient that brought out a primal fear. A fear of death.

I was thrown from the car, and blacked out.

I woke up in the black and cold, with a splitting pain above my right eye, but otherwise intact and whole. I looked around and saw my car, aflame, broken and ripped apart by the collision. The college students, it seemed, had left without attempting a rescue.

Lit by the flames of my now-nonfunctional vehicle, I looked around. I expected to see nothing, but there was not. On the ground, not fifteen feet away, was the girl. She was lying on the ground, breathless, motionless and unstirring. Crouched above her was a strange girl, blonde-haired, not older than nineteen, dressed in simple clothing – jeans and a t-shirt – and carrying a weapon of some kind. It looked like a short sword, but the blade was thin and linear, not unlike a sharpened rapier blade but shorter still. Its hilt had a hand guard fashioned in the imagery of an Ouraboros, except with outstretched wings, set in gold but the blade of some black material I could not identify.

I stumbled forward, still disconcerted from the blast. “Who…?”

The girl looked up at me, and her eyes reminded me strangely of the girl who had been in the car with me; not in actual appearance, for this one’s eyes were an unearthly pale blue, but rather they evoked the same primal fears – the same fear of death.

This girl was dangerous.

She sheathed her strange sword in a leather hilt at her belt, and raised her right hand, and shouted, “Khairete!”

I shook my head, not understanding, wondering if maybe I had a concussion.

“Willechomen aband?”

I shook my head again, wondering if maybe I was having a stroke and this would be the end of it.

“Avete!” At this she waved her hand as if miming a greeting.

I stared blankly this time.

“Dia dhuit!”

I continued to stare.

She slapped her forehead and said, “Ego eimai Angelos.”

At my lack of a response she continued, “Ich bin Angelos?”

Rapid-fire she continued to spout in what I could only guess was a multitude of languages until she stumbled upon one I recognized, English. “Hel…lo?”

I nodded at this, encouraging her to continue, “I am Angelos.”

She spoke with a thick accent, something between Greek and German. “You should not be alive. You-“ at this she pointed at me, and paused. “You were supposed to die.”

I felt a little faint, and saw shadows dancing at the corners of my eyes as if my vision was being devoured by something. As I began to swoon, she ran up, but it was inhumanly fast, as if she had less ran to me and more flitted to my side. She waved a hand over my face and I felt a warmth, as if my body face were bathed in sunlight. The cold around me seemed to bite less, in that moment, and I felt awake again.

“Try… to stand,” she said hesitantly, helping me again to my feet. I tried to get to my feet and, nearly fell again, slipping into the snow. She put my right arm over her shoulder and helped me to my feet. As we walked along the snow, I began to ask questions. “What do you mean I was supposed to die? Who was that girl? Who are you? Why was she in my car? Why are you here? Are you… going to kill me?”

She gritted her teeth at my questions, but answered them all the same, “I mean you were fated to die tonight. In that crash. My handmaiden,” she gestured behind us at the crash, “was supposed to take your soul to my kingdom, and you would have been given judgement and sent to your proper afterlife. She has accompanied you, intangible and invisible, for most of this evening. I’m here because it seems she became the victim of fate tonight – her cord cut in place of your own. But you cannot stay here. For you are no longer fated to die.”

“So I’m not in any danger?”

She laughed, a harsh bark befitting an animal moreso than a human. “Not from me, paidi. But the elements, it seems, may have different plans.”

“So where are you taking me?”

She chuckled a little at this, and seemed a little more human in turn. “To my realm, Katachthon. Deep in the bowels of the underworld. It seems we have a vacancy that you could fill in the place of Tilphousia back there.”

I stumbled a little. This was all so much to believe, but what else could I do? Magic seemed the only explanation at this point; the girl appearing in my car, predicting my death. This girl, healing my wounds. I noticed, after a bit, that we were walking into the woods, away from the highway. We made our way to a clearing, and she stopped.

“Tóso kaló óso opoiodípote. This place seems as good as any. Hold to me tightly; this will be a little… disconcerting.”

In a second, it seemed, we were travelling at the speed of light, shadows dancing, laughter – raucous and unearthly, inhuman – and we arrived, on the balcony of a castle overlooking a darkened lake, within a massive cavern. I let go of her, and collapsed, and saw no more.

oadelԙ���

You’re driving a long, dark stretch of highway, when Death appears in the passenger seat, informing you that you are about to die. The car then spins out of control, flipping, and you black out. You wake up, hours later, in a deserted field. Death is laying lifeless on the side of the highway.

Prompt: Hemoglobin

@basement-boy

He drew the blade across his wrist with a small gasp of pain. He was young, and he was new to this. Perhaps he’d hide his youth behind stubble, the beginnings of a beard, but I have spent too long in this universe to be fooled by such a simple trick.

The room was in disarray, with tomes of daemonic names, magic spells and rituals lying open or even with pages ripped out. On the north side of the room, there was a desk covered in notes, with a single candle dripping wax to provide some meager light in the beginnings of twilight outside the window. The center of the room, carved into the wood floor and then traced with chalk was a hexagram, encircled by runes and the names of angels in Enochian. Anabiel. Gabriel. Sammiel. Names to guard against the thing he was summoning. Me.

He began the ritual as his blood dripped into a bowl on the southern side of the pentagram, and his whisperings caused the room to go cold and the wind to pick up through the window on the eastern side of the room, scattering papers and blowing out the candle. The room filled with shadow, despite the sun merely beginning to set.

“I summon thee, Okiabec, in the name of angels and by the six-pointed star. I summon thee, Okiabec, in the names of the Lord and the name of the Devil. El, Jah, Lucifer, Shaitan, I summon thee in these names. Appear and be bound, Okiabec, I command thee in the names of Metatron, Mikhael, Uriel, the watchers of the gate. I command thee in the name of the fallen; the many names of the Grigori, and the names of the Seraphs. Appear, Okiabec.”

When the words were completed, I appeared, as he said. Not that I had ability to avoid the summons. For his youth, the boy was skilled. I took the form of a draconian humanoid, naked, with black scales and a crown of horns growing in a ring around his forehead. In my right hand I held a curved khopesh blade, and in my left I held a net. Not that this form was corporeal.

Pointing the blade at the boy, I growled out a response to his summons in guttural, unearthly tones. “I am Okiabec, the spirit of disease. I fought besides the Morningstar when he stormed heaven, I was at his side when he forged Hell from the nether. I was there when man stepped from the light and left the garden, I was there when Moshe plagued Egypt; I have wrought destruction in my wake for untold Aeons. What makes you think you can summon me and control me?”

The boy was shivering in his monk robes, and I could tell he was not truly prepared for this. But, he would not relent his control. Which was good for him, I suppose, but his weakness was allowing me to gain ground in the battle of wills that was my tether to this mortal plane.

“I command thee to destroy the house of Osha, the worm who has dishonored me,” he barked, or rather, squeaked.

I laughed, a haughty, raucous sound that sounded less human and more like the squawking of a murder of crows. “And in return for this, what will you give me, boy? For such a task, an exchange of great value must be made.”

“I will give you the riches of the house of Ibrahim!”

I laughed anew, this time with more sincerity. “Mortal riches have no sway over me, boy of house Ibrahim. And this you should know.”

“I will give you the lives of our herds! Ten by ten cows, fifteen by fifteen chickens, four by four hounds!”

I growled. I grew bored of this game. “No riches will please me. No number of wretched beasts will sate my desires. You know but one thing you possess and can give me will make me obey you.”

The winds die, and the candle lights anew. “Give me your soul, boy of Ibrahim. Give me your immortal soul and I will serve you for twelve times twelve years, and raise the house of Ibrahim to the heights of greatness. Bring your foes to heel. End your enemies, not by honorable combat, but through the darkness. Disease will eat their pale humours and reduce them to beasts who grovel in your wake; give me your soul, and their riches will be yours. Nothing more and nothing less will satisfy me.”

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What is an Unreliable Narrator? And How to Write One.

An unreliable narrator is a storytelling technique where the narrator's credibility or truthfulness is questionable. The narrator either intentionally or unintentionally provides a distorted or biased account of the events, characters, or situations in the story. This narrative approach can add complexity, suspense, and intrigue to your writing. Here's how you can create an unreliable narrator:

1. Establish a motive: Determine why the narrator is unreliable. It could be due to personal bias, mental instability, deception, or a hidden agenda. Develop their backstory, motivations, and beliefs to understand why they might present a skewed version of events.

2. Use subjective language: Incorporate language and descriptions that reflect the narrator's personal viewpoint and biases. Their opinions, emotions, and interpretations should color their narration, influencing how readers perceive the story.

3. Include contradictions and inconsistencies: Allow the narrator to make contradictory statements or present conflicting information. This creates doubt and keeps the readers engaged as they try to unravel the truth.

4. Reveal information selectively: The unreliable narrator might withhold or reveal information strategically, manipulating the readers' understanding of the story. This can create suspense and surprise as readers discover hidden truths.

5. Showcase unreliable perceptions: Explore how the narrator's perceptions and interpretations of events differ from reality. They may misinterpret actions, misremember details, or even hallucinate. These discrepancies add depth to the character and raise doubts about their reliability.

6. Use other characters as contrasting sources: Introduce other characters who present alternative perspectives or contradict the narrator's version of events. This contrast allows readers to question the reliability of the narrator and form their own interpretations.

7. Employ narrative techniques: Experiment with techniques like foreshadowing, symbolism, or unreliable memory to emphasize the narrator's unreliability. These devices can help blur the line between truth and fiction, leaving readers intrigued and uncertain.

8. Provide hints and clues: Drop subtle hints or clues throughout the story that suggest the narrator's unreliability. This allows readers to piece together the truth gradually and encourages them to engage actively with the narrative.

Prompt: Heather, Teeth, Argyle and Wand

@big-bad-grimbark

The heathers bloomed that year in record numbers, and while the townsfolk of Aniseborough were pleased enough, they could not help but notice the odd occurrences around the town as the season wore on. As spring began to fade into summer, the happenings around became queerer and queerer.

First the dogs and cats ran away, and few were found. Always they seemed on edge, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. Secondly, there was a number of odd occurrences regarding the newly-in-place electricity; strange and fickle enough, this was mostly ignored, save for the blowing-outs of random lightbulbs. This (rather expensive) fault was blamed on wiring. Thirdly, a stranger moved into the house on Ashe street, and his solitary nature as well as his bookish behavior were cause of much consternation among his neighbors. The nerve, taking to paper more than people.

But the only one who seemed to link the strange happenings together was Jimmy. Little Jimmy, called Jimmy Tartan-socks by the locals (for that was what he always seemed to be wearing, leggings of tartan). Jimmy was a boy of eleven when this summer came around, and he was a regular terror; throwing stones through windows, shaving a neighbor’s cat (though how the cat came to sit still that long, no one knows), even seducing the neighbors’ children to his wicked ways.

A mischievous street-gang was all they were, him and the neighbors’ children and his three brothers. The neighbors’ children were two girls and a boy; the girls were twins of blonde hair and pale features, named Ashley and April (10), for the parents loved the alliterative names (though the girls would switch them up on occasion for a laugh). The boy, named Johnathon (11), whose dirty blonde hair was often made darker by dirt itself, was called Nat by the gang, and was often bullied by his older sisters, but that didn’t stop him from being Jimmy’s closest friend and confidant.

Of Jimmy’s siblings, there are three, but only two who take to the calling of his gang. His two little siblings, Jeffrey (9) and Josiah (7), who look much the same as miniature versions of Jimmy – red hair and freckles to spare. Of the final sibling of Jimmy there was Eve, whose red hair betrayed her relation to her siblings, born twelve months before Jimmy nearly to the day. They treat each other with such mutual enmity that were it not for the blood relation, she and he may have been close friends.

Jimmy and his gang were a terror to behold for the community at large; and some of the neighbors even began to think he responsible for the strange happenings around town. And as the sole suspect, Jimmy knew he was innocent. Mostly.

One day, he gathered his gang around the stump in his back yard to discuss what was going on. “Alright, chaps,” he’d say, in strict imitation of his father, “we’ve got strange goings on, and we need to get to bottom of it, or we’ll be blamed!”

In response, Ashley stated in a rather bored tone, “Me dad says it’s the foreigner who moved in on Ashe. He says he’s up late into the night doing mischief of all sorts across town.”

At this, Jeffrey scoffed. “Your dad’s a goop. He’ll say that about anyone who moves into town.”

At this, Ashley, April and Nat all start shouting at the others, and an argument quickly erupted. For a few minutes, Jimmy, the level-headed one of the group, waits for it to simmer down, and when it doesn’t, he cups his hands around his mouth, and shouts at the top of his lungs, “Quiet!”

And at his word, like loyal troops, his gang fell silent. Truly he was the unspoken master here.

“I didn’t say we knew what’s going on, I said we need to find out what is. So, we need to plan ahead. When are, these things happening?”

“The lights break at night, when they’re on,” said Josiah.

“The dogs and cats run away at night too,” said Nat.

“Then,” said Jimmy, triumphantly slamming his fist onto his palm, “We have to start watching at night. Within a week we can figure this all out.”

The entire gang began to erupt in protest, an unfortunate side effect of such absolute statements.

“We’ve got a curfew of eight o’clock,” said April.

“We’ve got a curfew of eight thirty,” said Josiah.

“Quiet!” shouted Jimmy, one more time, to get the point across. “We can break out our windows at night when our parents go to bed. Come now, when do your parents go to bed?”

“Nine,” said the neighbor’s children.

“Eight forty-five,” said Jeffrey and Josiah.

“Then all we have to do is clamber out our windows and be back by dawn. Easy as can be.”

At that, Jimmy noticed that the gang wasn’t really watching him anymore, but seemed more fixed on the space behind him a few feet. Turning around quickly, and flushing bright red, he saw that his sister was not five feet away from the group, arms crossed matter-of-factly.

“And just what are you brigands up to?” she said, in a sing-song voice.

“Nothing,” muttered Jimmy in response, his red face growing in color to an effervescent shade of crimson.

“Really?” said Eve, mimicking disinterest. “Because it sounded to me like you were planning some great heist of some sort. It would be a shame if word got around to… maybe mum and dad…”

Jimmy was flustered, and spattered out, “You… wouldn’t… dare?!”

“No,” said Eve, “But I want in.”

Jimmy was flabbergasted by this turn of events. “You said you wouldn’t join a year ago!”

“A lot can change in a year,” snapped Eve. “A lot has happened in a year, in fact.”

“So,” she said, stepping forward into the position around the stump that Johnny had vacated, practically pushing him out of the way as she did so, “What’s the plan for escape?”

_

The next night, they had all well prepared for their journey. Packing up a change of clothes apiece, going to bed in their day clothes, and ready for whatever grand war they had stumbled into, they snuck out of their parents’ houses. They met up a good deal away from their homes, to avoid suspicion, and began to search. Eve led Ashley and Nat, to scout the south side of town for any unusual activity, while Jimmy led April, Jeffrey and Josiah, to the north. Jimmy was fuming at the loss of his second in command, while April tried her best to cheer him up. “I’m sure we’ll find the rat first,” she said, her youthful naivete astounding even to those youths with marginally less. “Don’t you worry, Jim.”

“I told you never to call me that,” said Jimmy, sourly. He would never forgive Eve; of that he was sure.

“Oh, don’t be such a sourpuss,” said April.

Jeffrey and Josiah hung back a few feet, to avoid the general range of Jimmy’s bad mood, lest he cuff them again, as he had on a few occasions prior. But they knew he wouldn’t hit April; he’d never hit a girl, at least according to himself. As to Jeffrey and Josiah, they would oft exchange knowing glances whenever Jeffrey went off on one of his tirades against his sister. The two were a lot alike, even if neither of them would admit it in any number of lifetimes.

Meanwhile, Eve was turning up dirt, which is to say, finding absolutely nothing of value while being absolutely sure her brother was doing better at this; something that did not improve her already foul enough mood. She yawned, and at the yawn Ashley drew a bottle full of dark liquid from her satchel. “Coffee?”

Eve started, and stared at Ashley. “You’re ten.”

Ashley shrugged, uncorking the bottle and downing a bit, grimacing. “Me dad drinks this stuff all the time. Says it keeps him awake for his job.” (her father worked on an assembly line in a nearby town, building cars)

Nat was busy trying to figure out a way to impress Eve, when Eve called him over and handed him a pair of cheap opera lenses, which she had had the foresight to steal -no, borrow- from her mother. “Quit being a goldbrick and watch the rooftops. Maybe it’s some kind of strange animal.”

Ashley bobbed along behind Eve, and said in as stern a tone as she could, “What would you like me to do, cap’n?”

Eve smiled at the younger girl, and said, “I suppose you and I can make conversation while we search. I should rather enjoy the company.”

Ashley blushed at the compliment.

_

A few hours later, they had found next to nothing, and it was nearing midnight, and Jimmy was about to give up hope when he saw Him walking along the streets. Gesturing in silence for his compatriots to hide with him in the alley between two abandoned buildings, he watched the stranger. The stranger moved in almost complete silence, using a walking stick to help himself along. He would have been unremarkable, were it not for the strange time in a quiet town, or for the fact that, as he passed a street lamp, he lifted his cane up, and they watched as a tiny bolt of lightning went from the bulb to the cane, the bulb went out. It was if he was sucking electricity out through his cane.

Jimmy gestured for his allies to follow him, keeping fifty or so feet behind the stranger, as they made their way through town. At every third or fourth bulb, the stranger would perform the strange ritual again, lifting the cane and draining the electricity. It was almost unnerving to be so near the stranger in the dark. He barely noticed April gripping his arm. “We should go back,” she whispered with urgency, “He could be dangerous.”

“Nonsense,” said Jimmy, “He’s probably just some mad old rambler who’s wandering around with some odd magnetic contraption, messing with the lights. No danger to him, he’s making mischief, just like we used to do.”

They followed for near an hour, until they found themselves in the south side of town again, and soon they saw their fellow conspirators anew, who had noticed the same stranger. Eve crouched alongside Jimmy, “Do you think he’s spotted us?”

“I don’t think he has; otherwise he would’ve stopped by now, right?”

They watched as the man put out one last bulb, and made his way down Ashe street, to the old house on the end of the dead end. “Isn’t that that house that belongs to the foreigner?” said Ashley

Eve scoffed, “The man’s no foreigner, he’s just from Europe.”

“That’s foreign to us, though!” said April.

“Nah, foreign is like someone from the east or something. At least, that’s how dad tells it,” said Nat.

“It’s just as well,” said Jimmy, “Since no one has seen him since he moved here anyway. He could be anyone from anywhere for all we know.”

They followed the man to the house, and watched him go into a cellar door.

“Should we follow?” spoke Nat, in worried tone.

“Yeah!” enthused Jimmy, “After all, it’s what we did this for anyway. We need to get that cane as proof, or no one will believe us.”

“No!” said Eve, paling at the idea, “Jimmy, this isn’t a good idea. What if you get caught? What if you get hurt?”

“Ah, that’s not gonna happen,” Jimmy scoffed. He got up and began to run towards the house at a half-crouch. Nat shrugged and followed, never one to be left behind. April and Ashley began to follow, but Eve stopped them. “You two go home, and make sure that Jeffrey and Josiah get home safe as well.”

“But Eve,” whined Ashley.

“No buts,” said Eve, in a tone that made it starkly clear whose sibling she was. “This could be dangerous. I may not have been able to stop Jimmy or Nat, but you four,” at this she gestured at the group before her, “are all my responsibility. Go back to your house and make sure the way is clear for the rest of us to come home, would you?”

Ashley bit her tongue, and grabbed April by the arm. Silently, the four made their way back. Eve began to go after Jimmy and Nat.

_

Jimmy and Nat made it to the cellar door, to find it unlocked, but partially stuck. It took them a moment to jimmy it so that it would open for them, and within that moment, Eve arrived. “Just what are you two thinking,” she hissed.

Jimmy looked up at her, a fire in his eyes. “No one said that you had to come.”

At this latest angst Eve rolled her eyes. “Of course I had to come you arrogant, little – “

Nat slapped his palm against his forehead and spoke. “What she means to say, Jimmy, is that she cares about you, no matter how much you two fools argue, you’re blood. And that means something.”

Nat began into the cellar, and then turned back. “Are you two numbskulls coming or not?”

Looking at each other, and in silence agreeing, Jimmy and Eve made their ways down the stairs.

_

The cellar was a strange thing; built into a natural sandstone quarry and partially filled with dirt. Strange and exotic plants were growing on tables here, and there seemed to be some kind of natural steam filing up from the dirt beneath them. The place smelled strongly of manure.

Covering their noses, the three made their way through the room and across to the stairway up from the cellar. In the next room, they found a strange assortment of goods. Metal casings, as if for ventilation, a welding torch, screws and screwdrivers, contraptions made of wood and metal, and then they saw it, across the way – on the table was the cane, made of some strange, silvery material.

Moving for it, the three barely paused until they heard the voice.

“Stop right there.”

It sounded tinny, like someone speaking through a fan or like someone a far way off. The three turned, and saw the figure standing across the room on the other side, with its arms crossed in front of it.

“I had figured I would be found out,” said the voice, which seemed to emanate from the chest of the stranger, “but I did not think I would be found out by a gang of children. My congratulations on that, I would suppose.”

The three looked at each other, worried by this.

“Do not be afraid. I mean you – and everyone in this town – no harm.”

He made his way to block the cellar exit, keeping his hands upturned.

“This would be easier to show than to explain,” he began, as he lowered his hood and began unwrapping the cheesecloth veil that covered its head.

As he lowered it, there was a shine of coppery metal and of glass. There were some knobs, some dials, and some other strange parts as he stripped, revealing his full, androgynous, metallic form.

“I was created nearly two decades ago, when a group of scientists tried to create an artificial intelligence, a brain from machine. No one could know of their experiments, and none could know just how successful they would be in creating me.”

At this, he gestured to himself. “But fear got the better of the men, and they sought to destroy me, to destroy progress. So, I took matters into my own hands.”

His head lowered, and his voice crackled as he spoke again. “But I will not harm children. I will ask you honestly, with the hopes you listen, not to reveal what you have seen tonight. You may return whenever you may wish, but if any others know about this, save you, I am in grave danger.”

He looked up, his face a bronze façade with green, glowing eyes. “Please, spare me so I may continue. To exist.”

Eve was the first to speak. “Why the lights?”

“I need electricity to survive. It is my lifeblood, and I cannot produce enough here alone by burning methane cells I create in the basement. So, I improvise. That cane is of aluminum, and can be used, in conjunction with my own abilities, to drain electricity. Unfortunately, your lightbulbs can only take so much. One day I may improve on the design, but I must live until then.”

“The animals?” intoned Jimmy.

“They fear me, for some reason. Perhaps I am anathema to their nature. I know it little better than you do.”

“So what do we do now?” whispered Nat into Jimmy and Eve’s ears.

“You leave. For now, and until it is safe to return,” spoke the stranger. “I ask that you keep this secret for me, and through that I will continue to survive.”

At this, the three took their leave of the place and returned to their houses, where they explained the evening to their siblings, and spoke of it no more.

_

To this day, rumors of metal men wandering the streets of Aniseborough are fairly common; and who knows, perhaps he wandered off. Perhaps if you see a stranger walking your streets at night, dressed in a hood and coat, keeping close to electrical poles and towers, perhaps you will be able to see the tiny bolts of lightning as he drains power from the world to save himself.

Perhaps the metal man of Aniseborough still walks to this day.

The sky cried its own tears that night when the police went to work. The dark was deep as pooled ink, and the voices terse and strict. None took pleasure that night, the nature of their business sapping them of all joy. I suppose that’s why I was called.

I arrived at the scene from the shadows, appearing (as I tend) from the shadows. For what I am is not quite human – but not quite beyond human, either. Magic is my knowledge and my trade; and my magic is very particular.

Dressed as I was in a black trenchcoat and dark gray hood, I supposed I made an enigmatic and rather ludicrous figure crossing the wet grass. I reached the edge of the cordoned-off area, when I was waylaid by one of the officers. “Sir, this is a crime scene,” he said, him being a rather burly white man with fairly obvious anger issues.

“Step aside,” I began, impatient as I was to begin. I do not appreciate being treated as such, especially when I am summoned.

“Raphael, it’s him. He’s my consultant,” came a voice from behind him.

“This guy is your consultant? He looks like an extra from one of those bad superhero movies. What? Couldn’t get in on the Blade series and decided to fight crime instead?”

Bored of his banter, I pushed the man aside as gently as I cared (which was not very much) and continued to the detective. She was young, I suppose, for the role of detective, but I am not a good judge of such things. Brown hair, green eyes. Hispanic. She was probably quite attractive, to people like Raphael, but I am not concerned with such earthly matters.

I looked down at the scene. Three dead. Two adults, a man and a woman. The man, white and in his early thirties. The cause of death was, in all likelihood, the fact that his chest had been eviscerated by perhaps an animal. The woman, also white, was likewise aged and damaged. They were dressed in day-to-day clothing – jeans and t-shirts. Lying between them, as though they had died trying to save her, was a young girl. Going by her features, she was these two’s child. Her eyes were wide open, her mouth opened in a scream that probably ended when she did.

I was looking down at them when the detective spoke. “What do you see, Miyeteth?”

I looked at her, before speaking. My voice sounded like a rasp even to my ears, unaccustomed as I am to the utterances of English. “I see a girl and her parents. The three were killed by something… malicious. Perhaps even evil. Perhaps even… inhuman.”

“Quit playing around. There are no tracks leading to or away from here. Whatever did this could only have been human.”

I stared at her for a couple seconds. “I know why you called me here, Camila. I do not raise the dead on a whim. Violating the laws of nature is not a careless act.”

“Miyeteth, you owe my family a great debt. The number of times we’ve turned a blind eye to your very existence is proof of that enough.  Do it.”

I crouched next to the father’s body. “Send your men away. This is not for the eyes of mortals. You may stay, but I ask that you do not interrupt me.”

She went over to the police officers, and said something to them. They all went, organized, down the hill to investigate other areas further. I put my hand onto the father’s head, and began the words. I began the acclamation.

“In the names of Akraziel, Azrael, and Uriel, I command thee to return to this form. I command thee to return alone. I command thee to follow my voice and return.”

The body spasmed as the soul returned. His eyes opened. “Where am I ? What happened? Eliza? Rachel?”

I put one of my fingers to his mouth. “Silence, son of Adam. Who attacked you?”

“I don’t… where’s my wife? My daughter? Eliza? Rachel?”

He tried to move, but I uttered a single phrase in Enochian. “Noasmi Teloc.”

He lay still, and moved no more.

I went over to the mother. I repeated the acclamation. Her eyes fluttered as she tried to draw in breath. It didn’t work – nothing can restore such life to the dead. “Speak to me, Eliza. Who did this to you.”

“I knew him – he was our friend – but he wasn’t – he was something – he killed me. I died. Where’s Rachel? What happened to Rachel?”

I repeated the phrase. “Noasmi Teloc. Be at peace, Eliza.”

I moved to the third. As I placed my hand over the young girl’s face, I found myself taking a deep breath. I was steeling myself to do this, for this was a line even I do not like to cross. “In the names of –“

“Wait!” said Camila. She looked scared. Maybe even… saddened? She took her time to draw breath, and calmed herself. “Do it.”

I finished the acclamation. The girl awakened with a gasp. “Where’s mommy? Where’s daddy?”

I held her close as I spoke to her. “Do not worry, Rachel. Tell me who did this to you, so that I can see it done right.”

“It was Uncle James. But it wasn’t him – he changed. He was like a big dog – but angry. So angry. He took daddy first, then mommy… then me. Am I…?”

I looked into her eyes. Blue, like sapphire. “Noasmi Teloc.”

She went limp in my arms. “I don’t think this is your case anymore, Camila. This is not a human killer. Honor the agreement I made with your grandfather. Give it to me.”

She shook her head. “I don’t have the power to sweep this under the rug. We have to investigate.”

“Very well. Delay your people as much as you can. I’ll find the killer, but I warn you he will not be alive when you come to claim him.”

I headed off into the night, fading into shadow. Within moments I had returned to my erstwhile, earthly abode. Which is to say, a crowded apartment filled with books. The bedroom had been converted into a study – after all, I don’t sleep – and I began to search my books. I knew that I had to find the killer – and that there were two basic ways I could do this.

One is to summon the spirit of the deceased into a pendant so that they could lead me to their killer. Think of it like a homing beacon – the act of murder inherently links the deceased to their victim, to the extent that it can be magically quantified, and traced.

The second was a bit less direct. The description the girl had given described a Werewolf, which, strictly speaking, do not exist. They are a Hollywood invention, like about everything else. But, their myth came from somewhere. Demons bound to flesh can have all sorts of effects, and shapechanging – both partially and fully – can be a result. And specific demons have specific modes of operation.

Desperate as I was to avoid calling upon the dead more than I absolutely had to, I began to plunge into my books for information on demons who used a wolf-motif. Within a couple hours I found four. Two were obviously not the case, as they had been expelled rather recently. They couldn’t have returned. But of the two, one worried me. Because it wasn’t really a ‘demon’, it was a fallen angel. Ulnniel, child of Lucifer and one of his concubines, was a being of death and depravity – whose hatred for family was only outstripped by his hatred of children.

I had found our killer. But now I needed to track him. I read deeper onto the subject of Ulnniel. His true name was polysyllabic and difficult to pronounce, as they tend to be, I suppose, and committing it to this paper is foolhardy as it would just set fire to itself anyway.

But I managed to devise a method of tracking. I would not summon those poor spirits again – for they had earned whatever blessings may come to them or whatever punishment awaits them. I had learned the hard way not to delay, and had for centuries been focusing on keeping the knowledge I found hoarded away from mortals.

The tracking method involved the true name written onto a map and then with acetone poured onto it, with an incantation spoken. It would destroy basically all the map except the point where he would be.

I did it, chanted the incantation, and there it was. Easy as a peach. I left to head to the location.

But when I got there, something was… amiss. I was atop a building, looking down at a patch of land that had been turned into a garden of sorts. In the center stood a man dressed in a hoodie, leather jacket and jeans. “I can hear you, brother,” he shouted. “Come out, Miyeteth. Face your death with some dignity.”

I could see his face even from here. His face had once been a human’s – probably similar to the male victim. But his face was twisted, wolf-like. A permanent snarl. The beginnings of horns had begun to emerge through the skin on his forehead. “Miyeteth – It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. I thought you were dead. I’d like to make that the truth.”

I jumped down, using my abilities to slow my descent so that I landed thirty or so feet behind him. Ulnniel laughed at my appearance. “Why so human, brother? What, didn’t feel like changing the appearance? So unlike you-“

“Malpirg Ipamis Ne.”

Fire burst from my open palm to try and claim Ulnniel. He jumped out of the way, and I merely left a scorched patch of grass.

Ulnniel growled. “You aren’t Miyeteth – you are something else. Who are you? You are not a mortal – nor an angel.”

He raised one hand and spoke an incantation. A sword appeared in his hand, a twisted thing of black steel and blood, an evil thing, capable of doing much harm.

He charged at me. I spoke an incantation. My weapon appeared likewise – a golden spear tipped with platinum. I dodged out of the way and readied myself for combat.

“Who are you? What are you? An abomination, perhaps? No… my brother is part of you – both within and without. Hmmm…”

Ulnniel clapped his hands. “A conjurer you are! You fused my brother’s body with yours in some damned ritual. Clever. But it ends now.”

He charged and I tried to roll to the side, but he knew my trick and adjusted his blow. Driving his sword triumphantly through my side, he laughed. “Die, fool. Let your blood drip away for eternity.”

But he was close now. Too close for him to dodge as I spoke the words again, this time with my hand on his chest. “Malpirg Ipamis Ne.”

He screamed as he was blasted backwards by grey fire. I pulled his sword out, its metal hissing as it touched angelic flesh. He was immobilized. I walked to his form, and drove my spear into his chest. He screamed louder, as his very being was eradicated by the angelic weapon. The child of hell breathed no more.

I waved a hand over the body, and spoke a simple incantation. Its formed returned to human proportions, and I searched its pockets. I found a piece of paper, on which a few words had been written around a pentagram. This was how Ulnniel had been summoned. The humans sought to do what none other had – truly bind an angel.

I looked down at my form. I suppose I am not truly Miyeteth – I was born, in some form, on the twentieth of July, 1592. A rich child of a noble family, I had sought unholy knowledge. I found love – my wife died shortly after our marriage, and I sought to use my research to bring her back. I failed. I bound a son of Azrael to myself – Miyeteth. His knowledge and entity subsumed my mortal entity, and I became this. Perhaps an abomination. Perhaps something else.

I picked up the body and dropped it on the stairs of the precinct of a certain detective I knew. I had some people to track down – and some knowledge to claim.

You’re a necromancer who secretly helps the police by bringing back murder victims and interviewing them.

by Anastasia Fedorova