With a catastrophic collision, the world shook. With a chilling crack of lightning, it was done.
Mount Hermon. The dusty plane which housed the mountain of the world was sprinkled in craters. Deep crevasses freckled the unforgiving rock which stretched for miles. As if some relenting force was using it as target practice.
They were. Their choice of weapon? Angels. Feathered, bitter souls who had turned sour whilst basking in paradise. Each regal creature had their own story which lead them to their temporary defeat against their creator. But Azazel? Hers shook the Heaven’s the most.
Like a bird who had been mauled by a cat, Azazel’s quivering, naked body laid crippled in the pan which she had hollowed out. The earth sizzled; embers flickering at the edge of the basin as she hit the earth like a meteorite. Wingspan tattered and broken, her skin was blistered, bruised and bloodied. She was far from home now. Far from the safety and security of the divine abyss where she originated from, the dirty blonde’s glowing electric eyes slowly peered out from her burnt eyelids. As if she was in a trance, she laid still for a moment. A mental block was apparent.
Pain slowly began to riddle her body. Like venom which poisoned her veins. This world was cold. Vicious. The heavens had clouded over, evening slowly falling. Condense and swelling, the rains soon came. Each drop was gentle on her skin’ disintegrating into her raised hair follicles as her vulnerable frame began to drench. Washing away the blood as well as encouraging it from her more concerning wounds, Azazel slowly sat herself up. She was emotionless. She held nothing in her eyes. No love. But no hate. Her mind was empty. Her wings heavily following behind her as she moved. Slowly and painfully, the angel stumbled to her feet from her foetal position. She let her azure eyes fall on this new world which she had been banished to. Her body felt heavy. The air was thin and the oxygen felt like shards of glass which were cutting her lungs inside as she inhaled deeply. The scent of burning flesh and singed hair was apparent; obvious on her dirty, pale skin. Her blonde had dulled. Her radiance had been torn from the youngest.
Scared. Alone. Azazel slowly took a step forward; wincing in pain as she did so. Her toes brushed in the hoarse dirt as she dragged her feet. She was so lightweight in heaven. Every movement was fluid and elegant. But now; she felt jagged. As if she her ankles had a ball and chain. Or as if someone was applying pressure to her shoulders to hold her firmly down. An invisible embrace of banishment. Everything seemed so straining on her small frame.
His beautiful face was the last she remembered gazing at.
His voice was the last she remembered. Panic began to bleed into her. Her bloodshot eyes began to widen, head jolting around as she began to stumble. Her body shook in pain and dismay.
“Camael? Gabriel? Raziel?! Raphael?!” Azazel’s voice began as nothing more than a mere whisper, but its volume continued to raise as she began to pace. Her movement had no fluidity. It was scarce and had no purpose. The air continued to scratch at her lungs, Azazel gritting her teeth together as she fought back the tears.
“No..” The young angel was scared and confused. Anxiety had sky rocketed as her nude physique darted around like a wildebeest who had just been captured and caged.
“Selaphiel! Azrael! Ur~”
Azazel stood dead. Tears had since left her swollen eyes as reality shrouded her. All of a sudden, that name was a bitter pill to swallow.
The temperature of the icy water sent shivered up her spine and caused her feathers to ruffle briefly. It was bitter and fierce. Much like her. It had been so long but even after the eons; Azazel visited every year. Every annum she forced herself to let go. Her actions could have been seen to be selfish. But if she perished for reproducing with a mortal, then the life which attempted to grow in her belly would have been obsolete any way. It was the first time she had been selfish, back them thousands of years ago. Even when it came to poisoning the mind of humans with sin and destruction, it wasn’t for herself as such. With such understanding, the human race could have been great. But such a soul-destroying act was the beginning of her self-destruction. The reason for her blood lust in the first place. She would never allow a human to damage her womb in such an act of love again. As much as she enjoyed the thrill of sinning, she knew creating life with a human was dangerous. She was shocked that Semyaza had got away with becoming the queen of the Grigori. Even with her own status as Chief of the Grigori, Azazel couldn’t help but stay cautious. After all, all she craved was home.
“Azazel.” The blonde angel heard the familiar voice. How could she forget it? One of the first souls she gazed up at when life was brought to her cerulean eyes in Heaven was his. Michael. Her oldest kin.
Hair floating in the sea breeze as she stood barefoot in the sand, she exhaled slowly, eyelids closing over in a poor attempt to hide the pain from the view of the never-ending horizon. Her past haunted her, and all she wanted to do was let go. His words almost seemed sultry; melting into her skin and causing her hair follicles to rise.
“Why now?” Azazel questioned, her voice stuttering and broken. Caught up in her emotions as she always was, the sea fell calm as the waves washed over her ankles. The foam hugged her cinnamon skin with compassion. The compassion which brought the broken angel to her knees as regret literally washed over her. The fabric of her dress soaked the brine aqua as she fell forward. Her chest was tight, and she grimaced in pain.
“You’re ready.” Michael harmonised to her as he watched her from the golden sand. Watched how she destroyed herself. The bottom of her feathers floated in the salty water as she allowed the welled tears to fall from her cheeks silently. It was the words she always wanted to hear but feared the most. She knew she was never ready. She had crossed paths with many a vicious soul. But her own demons were the worst things to conquer. They sat inside her soul and grew each day that she purged. Such a beautiful disaster; a ticking time bomb ready to implode at any minute. She was her own worst enemy – all stemmed from a night of passion with the wrong sort of blood.
“I can’t leave, Michael. I want to.” Azazel choked, her eyelids peeling back slowly as she gazed out at the setting sun. The water glistened. A beautiful glow which cried to Azazel to immerse herself to never rise from the depths again. To come forth and take the ultimate plunge. To sacrifice herself to save the world.
“I miss home so much. But I cannot leave her. She is my ocean. My blood. By kin. I cannot watch from above as she rages against the elements. I cannot watch as she brings peace to those who relax in such sombre settings. I cannot watch as she consumes the lives of the innocent at sea. As she destroys the earth inch by each in her angry wrath. As she brings happiness to those who are water dwellers. She is mine. She is my daughter. She is my ocean.”
They had destroyed everything. Compassion died in their souls many years ago. It took her a long time to crack but it happened.
The earth was charred; like their souls. The core temperature of earth and Heaven matched that of Hell. With the new world now merged with every alternate universe, they had done it. The great ideology of Azrael as God and everything else bowing to him. But, there was nothing left. Just two Demons who stood on the plains of oblivion as they looked upon the wonders of the new world. Nothing existed. Even the air to breathe was difficult for anything who may have survived due to the lack of oxygen. Dead bark roasted on the sporadic trees which coated the vast wasteland. The earth was cracked and dry. No sign of life was anywhere to be seen. Bone and feathers scattered themselves for miles. How they had managed to override God’s wrath and left him with nothing but ashes to remember his children was beyond them. Not even Lucifer had survived such premeditated genocide. That was the hardest. Driving her angel blade into the gut of the only brother who dared to have a voice over his sister. She had gazed into his deep ruby eyes with her own lemon quartz orbs as she twisted the blade deep into him; a smile to her perfect features as she watched the Devil himself fall to her mercy.
There was truly nothing left in the angel who once was.
Azazel was no longer recognisable. The most substantial features were the feathers which had been torn from her back. A sign of her commitment to her brother who had given his soul over to insanity. His words had become more manipulative than her own were, slowly chipping away at the underlying innocence until all hope for a saviour was gone. Bloodied scars covered her dull, marbled skin and even them gorgeous blonde locks had no glow left. Glassy sapphire eyes had become that of envious topaz as her entire life had been overrun by the most powerful sin of all. Wrath.
“We did it.” Azrael sighed in relief, his beady yellow eyes gleaming in excitement as he looked out at the turmoil he had caused. Proud and victorious. But Azazel couldn’t help but act numb to the whole thing. “I promised you that I would be your God. I promised you that this would be mine. My world. ”
Azazel stood still. As if her brother didn’t even exist.
“You can go home now.” He continued, turning to his sister who he had moulded into his own as he placed his hand on her shoulder. Sworn to serve him for his purpose; she had completed her task. Home? She had forgotten about what she had spent eons concentrating on. Home was barely even a memory now. So distained with hatred, anger and dismay, Azazel was a photocopy of her elder kin.
Azazel took a moment, her yellowed eyes continuing to stare blankly out at the broken land. The irony of the new world matching her absent mentality was a bitter reminder to anyone who may have watched her journey. Azazel was clueless to it now. Clueless to how she had gone from a radiant celestial to a blood thirsty demon who was ruthless with everything she did. Maturity was the biggest achievement. Forcing someone who had been acting out her whole life to grow up was Azrael’s biggest challenge. Discipline and a fight for dominance was the only way she eventually learned. A lot of tears came from her side. But she had made it and tears no longer fell from her sinister eyes.
Her hand rose, her soft but lethal fingertips placing themselves on top of his hand on her shoulder as a smirk slowly began to pull at her lips.
“Home..” Azazel’s hoarse voice hummed, pads of her fingers gently dancing over his rough skin of his knuckles before her smirk grew. Her fingers then slowly snaked through his and with a twist of fate, her hand clenched. A grin came to her lips whilst she forcefully grabbed hold of him, her body turning as her left hand rose; quick to take hold of the wrist of his free hand which tried to intercept her sudden change in personality.
“Azazel, what are you f***ing playing at?!” He barked at her. She knew exactly what was going through his head. How dare she raise her hand to defy him. Her God. But being so wrapped up in his ideology to make her his own – a literal photocopy of him – he had forgotten how selfish he was. And that selfishness rubbed off on his younger sister, as was everything else. Her own blood thirst was raging like the fire which swamped the horizon and made the sky a vicious amber in colour. Embers surrounded them as the tension rose, her grasp jolting him closer to her until they were nose to nose. Her breath was hot on his own, her grin remaining on her dry lips. Her grasp began to burn away at him, her core temperature rising to alarming rates as she metaphorically became the fire which consumed her mind. Azrael’s eyes shone with anger. But as their intense stare deepened, she watched how his anger flickered to curiosity. But then, to concern.
“Home.” She whispered, her tone sultry and wicked. A flick of her wrist caused Azrael to jolt in her grasp slightly as she twisted the bones in his vessel’s wrists. Hands clamping down, she could hear his fingers at the point of snapping. Azrael growled. He was never one for showing pain and emotion. But he had never fought a physical double of himself.
It was like looking in the mirror. Both self-destructive, with nothing left. She would be the death of him. And she was going to make sure of it.
Her eyes captivated him. But not enough to stop him. Azazel released Azrael’s wrist which had blistered from the burn her deadly grasp had caused. To no dismay, he took her by the throat. It was an ironic amusement for her as her grin continued to grow. Twisted and manic as his own was often, she watched how Azrael’s grasp tightened. She didn’t dare break his gaze. After all, it was the gaze which allowed her to go undetected as she swiftly drew the golden blade she cherished. And just like she had done so to Lucifer – the brother who made Azrael the way he was – she drove the blade into his stomach. There was no hesitation. No worry about consequences. And definitely no remorse.
Azrael gasped, jaw gaping. He tried to speak, but no words came. Whether it was pain from the pristine angel blade she had penetrated his abdomen with, or the sheer horror that she had turned – it would remain unknown. Out of no-where. He dared to trust her, and it backfired.
Slowly dragging the dagger back through his flesh; coated in dark, thick blood, Azazel’s glance slowly lowered to admire her masterpiece.
Azazel stepped back from the grasp of her brother; which had now eased to nothing as she watched light behind his eyes fall dim. He came crashing to his knees, clutching as his stomach as he growled at her. The strong taste of iron overwhelming his taste buds as blood began to rise through his body and escape at the corner of his quivering mouth. It was euphoric. The angel of Death, falling to his own.
Azazel lowered herself, crouching in front of her brother. Smirk dying to a smoulder, she pulled his face closer to her own with the side profile of her hand and placed a tender kiss upon his lips, careless that his blood was the only thing that brought colour to them.
“But dear brother.” She whispered with a deranged grin returning.
“Stop... please” Azazel groaned as she threw her head back against the tiled wall of her bathroom. She sat slumped over in the corner between her sink and the bath. Another attack.
“You can do it. All you need to do is pray. He will accept you. He will take you back. You just need to repent your sins.”
“Never. You can’t do that. You are their teacher. They need you. They worship you. They love you in every way a sinner could love another.”
“But you want to go home, right? You can’t keep doing this. There will be no good outcome from this.”
“Oh but you can, my dear. You will be glorious. You will be great. Forget your brothers. Forget your sisters. Where are they now, Azazel? You need them and they are nowhere. You’re arguing with yourself. Look at you. LOOK AT YOU!”
Azazel found herself standing, lurching over her sink with her arms holding her upright over it for support. Mascara stained her cheeks as she gazed into the mirror. No words had left her mouth. But her mind was running riot again. She quietly cried to herself as it took hold of her vessel.
“Pathetic. You’re pathetic. You’re here, crying. You kill people for fun. It’s child’s play to you. Get it together. You can do great things. You’ll be noticed. But not by dear daddy~”
“But I want to go home!” Azazel shrieked at her reflection, her bottom lip quivering as tears continued to stream down her blotchy, pink cheeks. Flustered and confused, her mind continued.
“You will go home. Just pray. Pray for love. Pray for the light!”
“Yes, you can do it!"
“No – never pray. You do not deserve to fall to your knees. You have no forgiveness to plead. You never did anything wrong!”
“But you did. You know you did. But it’s OK. He will listen! He always listens!”
“Then why hasn’t he, Azazel? Why hasn’t he listened?!”
“WHERE IS HE?!” Azazel questioned in a distressed scream, her hand lunging forward at her reflection and shattering the mirrored glass. Instantly she broke the skin on her knuckles. But she didn’t care. She wept as she fell to her knees, arms becoming like that of a ragdoll as she fell forward, slowly sliding down the base of the sink with no remorse for her well-being. Her cheeks slid down the porcelain until she found herself in a foetal position. Shaking and sobbing, she tucked her chin into her neck and extended her wings to wrap them around herself. Hiding underneath her feathers like a cat which was afraid to face its demons. She couldn’t physically face hers though. The kitten was trapped in her own delirious mind.
“See, Azazel? He doesn’t listen.”
“You’re a beautiful soul. You don’t need to do this.”
“I’m.. beautiful?” Azazel whispered to herself, clutching her knees as she held them to her chest; smearing the blood from her knuckles against her soft skin and her feathers as she confined herself to her own physical bubble. A personal hideout which came with her everywhere.
“I’m beautiful…” She repeated as she closed her eyes, allowing herself to drift off into deep psychosis.
Business Aviation was the only way Frankie could fly. She had a range of fake passports from where she had to change personas so many times in the past because of the trouble she naturally caused. Because of this, a normal terminal was off limits. As if she was a King Pin for an infamous drug cartel, Frankie needed to bypass security at all costs. She stuck out like a sore thumb. Golden locks and piercing blue orbs; she was a desirable woman for anyone who had working eyesight. It wasn’t a surprise that she was dabbling around with those most humans would avoid. She enjoyed the thrill which came from potentially lethal situations. The adrenaline she got from danger was like no other.
Boarding the Gulfstream which remained stationary whilst everyone climbed the luxury stairs, Frankie made her way inside the cabin in her ivory two-piece suit. Pencil skirt hugged her figure, climbing her tanned calves slightly as she sat herself down on the soft leather recliner, quietly placing the briefcase on the mahogany table in front of her before crossing one of her legs over the other.
Russians were naturally sceptical of everyone. Owning the largest territory on earth, it wasn’t surprising that they had a lack of trust in the blonde. Anyone who did trust her had previously died a slow and painful death. Not that they knew that. She was just there to do business. A beautiful woman who had an intelligent head on her shoulders. The dream for any Russian sociopath who wanted to play things away from the book. Off record agreements worked for Frankie best too.
She pushed the thin-framed reading glasses further up the bridge of her nose, heeled foot bouncing against the air as she suppressed her impatience. She didn’t like waiting for anything. She was impulsive by nature so would often take what she wanted by any means of force. But dealing with the Russian military was a different level of risk for her; playing out each of the three gentleman’s deaths in her head. It was the only thing getting her through the wait as the aircraft began to taxi and ultimately take off.
42,000 feet. They made her wait until the biz-jet was at 42,000 feet until they opened their mouth and spoke their cryptic language which she had purposely learned for this. Her easily mis-lead personality is what brought the angel to this formal meeting in the first place. Displeased facials as her nailed tapped against the armrest of the aircraft interior.
“Ona odna.” One of the young men muttered to his accomplice. All three men were suited and booted. They all matched the lavish lifestyle of corporate jets, swiss timekeepers and dodgy business deals. They all had eyes which could break hearts; crystal-like and full of curiosity over the Angel who watched them with suppressed caution. Two sat in front of her on the opposite leather whilst one of the men had wandered to the bar and kitchen area behind her. The tension was uneasy; everyone on standby to cut a bitch.
Rolling her eyes at the brazen man’s comment, Frankie leant forward and grasped the briefcase she placed down, unclipping the locks on the leather until she could open the case with ease. Pulling back one of the sides, she revealed the contents. How she had managed to get her dirty hands on $500,000, no one would know. She had a way with words. She got what she wanted.
“Good, you’re not just a pretty face..” The other man in a contrasting navy suit said in a thick Russian accent. He smirked – a smirk she’d often show before she caused drama. But before she had a chance to catch on to it, the man stood up, pulled a Glock 19 and forced the trigger down, shooting straight at the angel. She usually had good reflexes. But she wasn’t expecting this.
A piercing squeal came from Frankie’s pink lips as she lunged forwards, falling forward and off of the seat in which it’s ivory leather now had a bullet hole and a splatter of dark crimson blood on it. He was at close range, but the handgun was clearly modified – and rightly so. Doing such a thing needed research. Shooting an angel with an ordinary gun was laughable. It would have done nothing. But this did something. Something out of the ordinary. As Frankie clutched at her abdomen, soon saturating her ivory suit with blood, the air turned thin, breathing becoming distorted and harder for her.
“We got the bitch!” The Russian men laughed as they stood and jeered as Frankie fell limp. But not lifeless. In fact, her veins began to illuminate. Each artery became a bright blue in colour, shooting through her entire body and into her wings.
“We’ve made an angel fall!” The third man laughed as he watched her wings become visible to the human eye. Like tree roots, her entire body glowed thanks to the toxic concoction that the bullet had been laced with. It was clear this had been a set up. After all, what could be better than capturing a real angel?
But whilst the quick celebrations were taking place, all of the men slowly became drowsy, until they also lost consciousness. As fantastic as it was to have such a powerful gun, they were quick to forget they were on an airbourne jet. The bullet had penetrated much more than Frankie and the seat. It had burrowed its way through the floor of the cabin, and through the reinforced aluminium; tearing a hole in the aircraft. Cabin pressure quickly dropped, and it didn’t take long for the lack of oxygen to eat at the men’s brains until they were certainly the same way as Frankie was meant to be. Oxygen masks dropped to unresponsive bodies and loud and concerning beeping was audible from the cockpit as the plane began to decline height and speed. The pilots struggled to keep the aircraft climbing and even with two of them, both Captains eventually fell over the controls as they also passed out. Spiralling out of control, the aircraft fell through the air, dropping several hundred feet each few seconds.
Until eventually, the aircraft came into contact with the ocean, such a substantial fall automatically causing an explosion as the pressure within the fuel tank became too much. The jet took a considerable amount of damage on its way down, losing most of it’s interior as the bullet hole ended up growing to a gaping hole in the side of the cabin. The seating, the appliances and most things which could be moved had all been sucked out into the atmosphere. Including Frankie.
“I seychas…” A voice mused with a menacing laugh; deep and delirious. “Ty upal.”
Wings flapped; almost in slow motion as Frankie watched the wreckage from afar, mimicking a Russian accent as she mocked the men who had been so stupid in trying to overcome a celestial. Hovering above the ocean, the blonde ignored the bloodstain which came from a wound which had already healed; grinning psychotically at the site of destruction.
Frankie knew that he knew. He held a solemn worry in the glint of his eyes. Even after he watched her take a life in cold, careless blood; Ivar didn’t hold that concern. But this was something much deeper and darker. She wasn’t a stranger to weird and wonderful sins. This was not weird and wonderful though. This was dangerous territory they were both treading.
“I can see it in your eyes. You hold the same troubled look that my victims have..” Frankie’s voice trailed off as she sat herself down on the side of the bed with a solemn sigh. She had never mastered being able to confront another. She found it easier just to kill them and be done with it. But she had allowed feelings to get involved and found herself slipping from the persona she perfected over the centuries.
“You know. Don’t f***ing lie to me, you know!” And just like that, Frankie’s personality switched. Lunging forward to her feet, the angel grabbed him by the collar and held him against the wall, releasing a deep growl from within.
“Is this a game to you? Did you think that I wouldn’t find out? That you could play dumb to me? The very person who taught the pathetic human race how to lie and be deceitful in the first place?!” Frankie whispered aggressively through her gritted teeth. She was careful not to raise her voice. As distraught as she was, Frankie didn’t want to do this to him. She had wished that she never looked into it. Just took his personality as a pinch of salt and let it all come naturally like everyone else did. But she wasn’t everyone else. She was Azazel.
Breathing heavy and agitated, her nostrils flared as her face pressed against his. Her eyes held rage as she firmly kept Ivar pressed against the wall.
“And I suppose he sent you, eh? This is his response to all of this. To try and heal me? He can’t even face his own f***ing daughter, so he sends the very Brother who did this to me!” Frankie shrieked, her eyes beginning to well with tears, blue iris’ almost glowing as the whites slowly turned pink from distress. She wanted to claw his eyes out. She really did. But her stomach ached in pain at the harsh reality of it all. Mentioning him gave her an awful sinking feeling in her stomach as her grip loosened and she lowered Ivar back to his feet. It was as if her bowel lined itself with knots as she swallowed hard. She rose the palm of her hand to wipe her eyes as her gaze met with his once more as Ivar sighed in relief to still be breathing. But before he could get a word in edgeway, she started again. But her rage had fizzled out as quick as it went from an ember to a blaze, her voice becoming a caught-up mumble.
“I’m OK. I’m always OK. But you..” Frankie paused as her hands took hold of his, her watery hues falling to the floor in regret.
“You could perish for this. You’re my brother.” She didn’t have to state the obvious. Their distorted state of minds wasn’t the fact they were both angels. It wasn’t even the fornication which was a problem. It was their direct relation. Yes, no angel shared a womb and was created from God’s visions alone. But it was still one of the most highly punishable sins.
“I can’t let him hurt you. I won’t allow it.” Frankie pulled on his hands like a sulking child as she let go of his arms and pulled him into an embrace. Her wheel of personalities consistently spinning. It was never certain what personality would come next.
Frankie sighed, burning her face into his chest to cover her eyes.
The unknown drove the young angel to insanity. His lack of knowledge of his own past was infuriating for someone who was so meticulous about everything she did. She easily took hold of any bait she could; biting down and never letting go until her mind was eased. But she couldn’t do so with Ivar. No matter how much concentration Frankie put into examining his naked frame, memorising each embodied ink design on his skin to the very millimetre. Trying to piece together his past silently. The past few weeks had been difficult. Frankie doted on him. He was like a drug to her. A light at the end of the tunnel. He made her feel things she had no experience in. Try all she might; no negative energy could be felt towards him. And that frightened the angel to a state of vulnerability.
It was 2am on a Saturday. Frankie knew he would be home soon. Back from his depressing graveyard shift at the club. She wasn’t possessive, but most nights she would often head out just before he was due to leave, watching from the shadows of the rooftops to make sure he got back safely. It went against everything she knew. But it seemed like an instinct. As if he set off a part of her which she had purposely kept hidden away in the deepest depths of her mind. It was an uncontrollable emotion – having no previous exposure to it; she’d often come across bursting with emotion. It made her feel like a burden. But Ivar was yet to tell or show her confirmation of this. He fuelled the fire deep inside her; saturating every caring emotion a creature like her could show. She was a deadly creation. But with him, she crumbled.
However, tonight Frankie was preoccupied. Sat in her dark study with a dim table lamp which only just gave the blonde celestial enough light to read through the mounds of religious novels and blueprints which were laid sporadically across the desk. She was a woman on a mission to solve this niggling feeling at the back of his mind. There was something oddly familiar about his name. His real name. She remembered when he first told her. The name cut through her like a knife but the relevance of it was unknown. Frankie usually avoided reading any sort of religious books. It sung praises of her Brothers in Heaven. She’d even learned more about Raphael’s time in Heaven. Their correlation as brother and sister. Frankie often got bored when it came to reading mortal stories about Angels and Demons. So many misunderstood and twisted lies about her falling brothers. So many over-enthusiastic praises about those who still remained Holy. It was stomach wrenching to spend any longer than 10 minutes doing such a thing. The lies and deceit that she believed were written about her often brought on rage; a pile of torn Bibles, versions of the Book of Revelation, the Quran and Genesis which lay with crumpled pages on the floor. She had worked herself up several times that night, but she forced herself to sit there. Slumped over on the wooden chair as her eyes fell dreary. The yellow glow from the light didn’t help; icy blue hues struggling to continue. But she had to know. She had to understand their connection. Why his name burnt away at her core like a virus. He was a virus. He had got into her system and taken over. Infecting her with emotions which were overriding her hatred and anger for the world. It made her feel sick, but she was addicted. Beautifully infatuated.
Enoch. The book of Enoch was one she had always resisted reading. The book introduced the fallen angels, the Messiah, powers of Resurrection, the idea of the Final Judgement, and the ultimate Kingdom on Earth. All stories to the humans. But stories which she knew were only too true. Being an object of Heaven, she was proof that this book held relevance. It was one of the oldest but most important there was. Explaining the relevance of her fallen brothers, and the ones who remained loyal to her Father.
Parables after parables, Frankie scanned the pages. She drifted off a few times, but interested soon peaked as she stumbled across her name. She wasn’t often portrayed in the best light; with fair reason to this. She was hardly a saint. In her mind, she was just misunderstood. But the corrupt angel was considered worse than the Devil in the majority of the books she had used her celestial powers to destroy through her fits of rage when reading. Leaning forward in her chair, Frankie’s cranium slowly tilted, pushing her reading glasses further up the bridge of her nose as she began to concentrate on the early verses of the book. It took her back…
“F***ing let me go! What are you doing?!” Azazel squealed as her brother dragged her through the unforgiving desert. Her broken wings which she still struggled to control on earth twitched aggressively underneath her squirming frame.
“Raphael, I’m your f***ing sister!” She screamed, the heat of the blazing sun causing the tight metal chains around her ankles to burn into her skin, singeing the hair follicles and quickly causing blistering. Her squeals were unsettling. There was nothing more sinister than the cries of an angel in genuine pain. Hair quickly matting as each strand became tangled as it quickly brushed over the crack, sandy wasteland. But still, he didn’t listen. A man on a mission. A mission which was to stop her from her violent ways. Letting her loose on Earth was a grave mistake from God as she soon learned how easily influenced the Human Race could be. She was a genius. A young mastermind who had cracked a code in getting what she wanted.
“Enough is enough, Azazel. You were cast for a reason. You’ve had your chance. You’re destroying the world. You’re teaching Sin to Man. You’re giving knowledge to the fallen to take Man’s wives and daughters. You are handing out the finest weapons to those who do not know how to responsibly brandish.” Raphael sternly growled at his youngest sister as she continued to drag her weakened body through the dust until content with a spot which was far enough out in the wasteland for no man to wander. No creature to catch scent of.
And with that, Raphael bounded her. Azazel tried escaping, her wings trying all they could to gather enough power underneath them to pull her further than the few feet she had managed to hover. Aggressively flapping her feathers to try and escape; but it was no use. The sobbing mess that was Azazel only found herself tiring out underneath the scorching sun. She collapsed, wings crumpling underneath her as she silently cried. She refused to take blame. Her second betrayal from another angel.
“Rafe.. please..” Azazel whimpered for forgiveness. But by the time she glanced up from the dehydrated earth which swallowed her tears, he was gone. And she was alone. To live the rest of her days deep within the vacant landscape until Judgement Day, where she would perish under her father’s great wrath.
Her calves threw the chair back from the desk as her memories dragged her back to the past she had forgotten. Frankie grabbed the glasses and tore them from her face, lauching them at the wall before witnessing them shatter like fragile crystal. She gasped for air; as if she had just been heavily winded. Crouching down as she held onto the desk for support, Frankie howled. The grim realisation of who she had allowed herself to become so immersed within truly was. Was this God’s idea? To send the Angel of Healing to her time of need? Or was it just a twisted fate where her blind ignorance had caused her to fall to Raphael again, but in a completely different aspect. Tears uncontrollably streamed from her glazed eyes as the pain crippled her, falling forward onto her knees as she grieved. She mourned the pain she went through which she had forgotten about due to having a lucky encounter with some necromancers who freed her and wiped her memory. She bawled over her situation now; self-pity clouding her judgement so much that she hadn’t heard the door go due to her moment of distress.
“Frankie?! What the~” Ivar was quick to join her side, rightfully concerned as his deadly angel laid wounded. He seemed completely baffled in what this was all over. No correlation coming to mind as the copious amounts of books seemed to bypass the situation. As she was cradled, Frankie wept, burying her flustered, tear-sodden face into his arm. What would she say? Was she the one to tell him of his past? To remind him of their grave ending in a past life? To risk losing what they had now because of a bitter order he was demanded to carry out on her? So much animosity shrouded her. She couldn’t muster any words. So, for now, she cried. In the dying light of the lamp as she utilised the embrace she was in. After all, it could be her last.
How could she let herself be so careless? A stupid mistake. That’s how it always was between humans, right? Mistakes. They did mistake all the time - thanks to the power of her knowledge, humans leaned how to lie, cheat and deceit. But, that was how she got into this mess.
No one could know. Azazel had already destroyed the Greek soul she had consummated with. But she had allowed herself to become immersed in the moment before hand. Falling for the beautiful sweet nothings he whispered into her ear. The lustrous words were her teachings – he had just brought then to life. An idiotic move which she needed to resolve before symptoms of this disease began to show. He was such a pure soul before her dark aura was consumed by him in a lover’s kiss.
Azazel never knew she could do such a thing. Laying with anyone was a sin. Let alone reproduction. The laws of celestials were strict ones with consequences worse than her initial banishment. She would surely perish if her body began to grow maternal – which signs had already begun. Swollen breasts and an unearthly glow more prominent than usual.
It was 208 AC. The world was still to be populated muchly, with settlements being focused within the Middle-East and Eastern Europe. It flourished in primary and secondary colours. The sea was calm and turquoise; holding nothing but tranquillity. Hiding the secrets of the world. And it was about to release her own secret into the unforgiving waves. She nervously fumbled with the pristine blade she held between her fingers. It was created by a Roman blacksmith who clearly had a passion for his work. It gleamed in the sunlight which beat down on the balcony which overlooked the world. Like a Rapunzel of sin, Azazel had made sure she was confined. She couldn’t risk her father seeing her. Her radiance was beautiful. She stood out like a sore thumb – if the glorious wingspan wasn’t obvious enough. The Romans worshipped their angels. As had that young soldier worshipped her that night 3 full moons ago.
Azazel prodded herself with the razor. Only lightly. No skin was torn but she was curious. She had never been pained by a human weapon. Or any at this stage. Her body was untouched by everything apart from man’s hands. Naivety laced her mind as her fall was still relatively recent compared to some of her other siblings. Young and impressionable, Azazel was soon to learn the hard way. It was either this, or perish.
Bottom lip quivering as her eyes closed over, she took a deep breath before taking the plunge. Fingers wrapped around the emerald-stoned handle of the blade, Azazel jolted her arms into herself, sinking the knife deep into her lower abdomen. A bone-shaking shriek left the young maiden as she felt to her knees, quivering in pain. The agonising cry from her so disturbing that even the walls of the building dusted slightly. She had never experienced anything like it. God had even made sure that the winged beauty’s fall was as delicate as possible. Wrapped in cotton wool but now in the hands of her own self-destruction. Piercing through her skin and into her womb, her tensed hands released; falling forward as she heaved in pain. On all fours as she cried from the ache, it was done. Blood seeping from her wound into the material of her magnolia chiton and onto the mosaic tiles of the balcony floor. No one was to know. The tower was far from the nearest town. Her secret remained with her, and the sea.
Tear stained cheeks glowed in the sunlight as Azazel threw her head back, nervously looking up at the skies above, only hoping it was enough to avoid being smitten. It was a significant victory when she was greeted with a silence breeze of clarity. But little did the young angel know that the significant moment would haunt her for the rest of eternity.
Each chord was pressed upon with delicate movement. A talent which subdued the fire which raged within the angel. It wasn’t something she bragged about; being in touch with music. Her fingers danced slowly over the ivory keys as her fingers moved in sync with her mind. There were no music sheets which she was reading upon. In fact, her eyes weren’t focused on anything. They had no need to be. Each movement of her dainty fingers perfectly executed a sweet symphony which echoed throughout the quiet building. High walls and sporadic instruments lined the property, all with their own detailed rundown of their individual origin. It was something Azazel should have had for herself. A permanent warning sign to be presented everywhere she went. Perhaps many souls could have been saved if she had one.
The sound of helicopter propellers could be heard in the darkness of the night. If she had managed to break into the Museum cautiously, Azazel would have been able to continue pirouetting her fingers over the piano bones which gave her gentle notes in return to her soft handiwork. A sombre moment for the angel who lived her life in continuous carnage. The melody she played only just drowned out the noise coming from the alarm which rung from the front entrance, ultimately giving her location away to anyone who was seeking for it.
They say that one of the first signs of insanity is accepting your behaviour without emotion. A reason why no concern swamped her angelic frame when she heard the building being breached. It may have been dark, but she sat by the window; the moonlight highlighting her divine silhouette. Just an angel playing piano on her own, in the dark. What was wrong with that?
Azazel continued playing, even with the sound of parading footsteps coming up the stairs. Several riot vans had pulled up outside and out of them poured armoured mortal men, guns out of their holsters and ready to be fired. The barking from chained dogs which accompanied the humans was chilling for a criminal. But she continued playing. As if she was deaf to what was happening.
Eyes glistened in the natural light which poured onto the petite female. The established clavier even shimmered against the light of the moon, and then soon against the flashlights which were perched on top of the assault rifles as they illuminated the room.
“Freeze!” The commanding officer demanded aggressively as she found herself surrounded. But she continued playing.
“Freeze and put your hands up where I can see them!!” The middle-aged male shrieked again.
A quiet hum left Azazel’s lips, her eyes closing over as she came to the end of the consonance she played. It was unknown whether it represented anything for her. Whether it was made up on the spot or was a melody she had learned in a past life. But as her finger stroked the last key slowly, her eyelids flickered open once more, nodding slowly towards the SWAT team who must have been mentally cheering for finally having her in their grasps.
Azazel slowly rose to her feet, pushing the stool back against the weathered wooden flow with her calves as her hands slowly rose. In the white light which shone on them, dried crimson painted them, and the keys of the piano she had been playing.
The men took no hesitation in bombarding her, several of them daring to put their hands on her as they thrusted her fragile arms behind her back and she found herself restrained. A sinister giggle came from her pale lips, Golden locks tattered, and face stained with tears and droplets of blood; some which were smeared from her jawline to her neck. Her dress seemed fitting for an angel, white material which flowed over her body with no restrictions. No one knew what she had been up to that evening. What was going through her mind when she had committed yet another murderous act and then deciding to break into a museum just to caress musical instruments. It was unknown but she had clearly hit a revelation in her life.
But she had been caught. And she gave no care in the world for it as she was dragged out of the building and into a reinforced van. All she did was consistently laugh to herself; the sound being enough to make even the darkest soul feel uncomfortable.
- - - - -
Four walls. Four white-washed, boring walls. Most people would use this time to reflect on their actions, or perhaps behave even more erratically – lashing out at their captors for their own silly mistakes. But not Azazel. She was almost at peace as she sat on the bench which was expected to be her sleeping and living quarters until sentencing. Wings pressed against the wall as she rested her crown against the stone, she gazed up, a glimpse of the midnight sky visible through the small, shatterproof panel which was her only barrier from the pokey room to her freedom. Sapphire orbs analysed the situation. She knew it would be easy for her to escape. She had inhumane strength on her side. But she was patient. She wanted to make a scene. She loved the attention.
“Franklyn Jennifer Montague. Time to go. If you play nice, so will we.” She rolled her eyes. There were two types of people in the world. People who called her Azazel. Those who knew her true, mental state. Knew what the petite woman was really capable and how detached she was from all emotions. And then there was Frankie. Sweet, alluring Frankie who just wanted to get her leg over... right? After all, there were no survivors from those who fell for her charm. No one who could confirm or deny if she was a lustful animal, or just a murderous monster. It was unknown.
“Oh, is that so?” Azazel responded, illusive voice bouncing off the walls as a dark smirk crossed her lips. A sly side-eye was flashed at the two officers who unlocked the reinforced door and cautiously wandered in – their own sexual desires driving their curiosity. She didn’t blame them. She was proud of how easy people fell for her beauty. It was her most prized weapon. No heavenly blacksmith could give her anything more powerful. She slid herself off from her state of comfort and rose to her feet, her devilish smoulder still plastered across her pale lip. Azazel approached them both, a delicate finger raising and placing itself on the first officer’s chest. Like a child in a sweet shop, he grinned smugly that she had chosen him first. Finger danced up his chest slowly until it reached his jawline. Her captivating gaze that of the male who already had his hands fondling with his belt. But by doing this, he lacked the concentration he needed to pick up on her other hand raising swiftly and gripping the other side of his face as she now clung onto him. The ordeal took about less than a second, as she jolted his head to the left with such a force which caused his spinal cord to shatter and disengage with the rest of its length. It was a quick death – she was never a fan of waiting.
An evil cackle left the lips of the gorgeous blonde as the second officer leapt over his colleague who now laid in a crumpled mess as he lunged for her. The only thing guiding the foolish man to her was the moonlight which broke through the window and highlighted her elegance. Before he had chance to lay his perverted hands on her, Zel had already grasped the mortal by the follicles which came from his head and used him as her human battering ram. Forcefully grunting through gritted teeth, she launched him at the window. She often forgot her own strength as like a bowling ball hitting 10 pins, the mortar which sealed her in crumbled as the wall shattered completely. Luckily for the building, she was only one of hundreds of inmates so the newly created portal from the glorified cage to the world didn’t cause any further damage than to the man’s body who then fell from the 4th floor she was on and to his death – provided his shattered bones didn’t already lethally puncture an artery or organ.
Azazel awkwardly grinned to herself. She wasn’t expecting that to happen that easily, but she brushed the situation off quickly. She had to get out of there and quickly. The cheering from inmates down the hallway could be heard as they had assumed something in their favour had happened. But she didn’t have time to give out autographs. Following the cold breeze of the night, Azazel was quick to take flight, jumping out and up towards the roof, hearing them draining sirens as soon as she did this. The rest of the police force must have just found the bodies and the gaping hole in the wall so she was lucky to have just missed being caught. Perching herself on the roof as she landed quietly, her eye gaze narrowed, glancing up from her crouching position as she noticed her sister who seemed to have ironically arrived.
“You missed the party, Azzy. Thanks for all~ your help.” Azazel sarcastically muttered as she straightened her posture with a grin. She knew she had been getting under Azrael’s skin recently with her uncontrollable tendencies. The only positive out of this was the fact they had given her clothing; oversized grey tracksuit jumper and jogging bottoms hugging her figure where ever the thin material could. If she wasn't so pretty, she would fit right in with the crowd of being a deluded criminal.
“I forgot this would attract your sort of attention.” She mused, referring to her deadly tactics. It was just force of habit but more than reasonable in her mind.