A/N (3/1/23): I skipped this chapter when publishing the following few chapters (so I went from 2 to 4). If confused why there was formerly a weird skip in time/action, that's why. My bad! Thanks for reading ❤️

***

I remain impassive. Cool. And that makes the angel squint.

"I said hands up."

"You did? Whoops. Distracted by the speargun." I deadpan, slowly lifting my hands, struggling to look away from him. Rage is bubbling. Rising. It's like bile in my throat, sour and hot. I picture fists through glass, warped reflections, blood in water, plates shattered, screaming couples, children cowering, animal snarls, all—

Licking my tongue like fire and smoke. I can't feel my fingertips. My skin's shuddering, scales rising. First, answers. I can do this the easy way and kill him now. Or leave him close to death.

All I need to do is stay calm.

"The fuck you want, angel? You're not supposed to be here."

"I can say the same about this...operation. No demons on Earth, except—"

"Conducting official demonic business that has been authorized by the Heavenly Inter-Religious Council. Yeah. I'm aware. No need to repeat the spiel." I say, cutting him off.

"Hell is nearly empty."

"Please...you're over-exaggerating. It's—"

"Nearly empty. Senior demons are gone. Lucifer's spreading his influence further on Earth. Here, across the Keys, in this hotel, God knows where else; and that's a problem. Chaos. So comply, or I will shoot and kill you right here, maid—" his voice rises. His grip on the gun tightens.

"Cleaning lady." I correct. Someone is yelling upstairs, voices muffled through the walls. Another voice. An angry couple.

"Excuse me?" the angel asks.

"You heard me—cleaning lady. I'm not a fucking maid." I say through gritted teeth, unable to stop the overflowing rage. The noise is pissing me off. Still yelling, still muffled.

"Sorry, cleaning lady." he mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes, before re-lifting the weapon. "Tell me what kind of demon you are. Show me your horns."

Every type of demon has their own style of horns. Ira demons, wrath demons—ours are angry, large, sharp, and angular. But I have only one.

"Ira." I say, focusing on my breathing. My voice is increasingly scratchy, smoky, rough. My bones are starting to stretch.

If I kill this angel, or at least incapacitate him, that'll be time off my sentence here.

"Calm down." he snaps, and I laugh, shaking my head. My mouth is too small for my teeth, which are stretching into fangs.

"You know that telling someone to calm down doesn't help anyone, right? But especially not a demon of wrath?"

He says nothing for a moment, blinking a few times. Did I make him falter? Already? Seriously?

"Yeah. Thought so. Now drop the gun or I'll eat you." I hiss.

"You won't—"

"What? Thought that demons didn't have bloodlust? You think it's some myth levied against my people? This one's real." I laugh. "Different lusts for different demons. Ira demons crave flesh, blood—"

He stares, halo glowing brighter, hands letting off light. He's readying himself for an attack. I feel myself continue to grow, scales coalescing over my skin.

"I'll enjoy it, actually—I've never tried angel wings, but I hear they taste like chicken." I'm stretching, limbs lengthening, single horn slipping from my scalp. It's jagged like a lightning bolt—sharp, black, like an obsidian stalagmite. My eyes burn, fire filling my heart, chest, lungs, blood—I grin, mouth slipping into a snout, body becoming beastly.

He stares, taking a few steps back, as I fill the crowded hotel room.

My heart's not where it was. Not behind the right breast, right between and below the shoulder and neck. It's protected by the scales on my underbelly, the fur between.

"You should've shot me when you had the chance." I say, voice monstrous and slick and inhuman. I'm falling deeper into a daze The blood's ringing in my ears, frustration whistling, hot. I remind myself of who I can become. Who I am. What I can do.

Protect this fucking hotel, and get out of here faster.

"Hold on, demon—" he says, trying to plead or fool me, but I'm not listening. My ears are pounding, pressure built from my claws to my horn, and I drop. I'm a spring, winding myself tighter, tighter—

And I release. I roar and snarl, front talons out, claws extended, maw open, fangs ready to dig deep into his flesh. I'm a bullet, rushing through the air, whizzing, and—

He presses the trigger, aiming it right at where my long neck meets my ribs, and the spear pierces through my scales, flesh, muscle—

I don't stop. I'm so close, roaring in pain, only angrier, sparks flying from my mouth.

Closer, closer—

The angel yells something, and the spear starts to sizzle, light magic released from it. It's like white lightning, coursing over my body, freezing me in-place. I can't yell, can't spit fire; I twitch, and the angel ducks and runs, and I can't snatch him, grab him, crush him. I hit the hotel wall and crumple into myself, long and serpentine body flung flat, curling into itself, falling to the floor in a heap.

Something's snapped. An arm or a leg, I can't tell. The rage is blinding. I see red, and I'm shaking, fire locked in my heart.

All I can think are angry words. Vulgarities. Things that hurt, sting. I can hear the blood running through the angel. It'd taste sweet, heavenly—literally. I want it. I want it, want it so bad, so fucking bad, and I can't move, and my mind is running and my body is stuck and fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, fuck him—

"That's better. Quiet. Except the people above us, apparently." he says, slipping the weapon away, eyes and fingertips sparking. His magic is linked to the weapon. Angels have their fancy, secret magic machines that do shit like this—freeze us, drain our energy, do anything but kill us.

They're pacifists, after all.

I snarl. I can't say anything, but I growl and feel the fire lick against the roof of my mouth and tongue. Fuck him, fuck his perfect smirk, his even smile, his fragrant blood.

"You know angels can't kill. But we can take you to Heaven for questioning."

That means torture. I try to writhe, but the weapon is still inside of me. Blood is rushing across the floor. He's red, red, except for the magic. Everything is red. Rage. I want to crush him, snap every individual bone he has—

"I can do that. I should do that. But I can see that you're not entirely a demon, which means that there's a bit of good in you. And looking at Authorization No. 530111, Sub-author—" he looks at me, and stops, exhaling. "It's unjust to take a human to Heaven before their death. No record about cambions, or demon-human hybrids, but I suppose you're a modern breed, considering the recent allowance—or forced entrance—of demons on Earth. Your leader decided to open the floodgates..."

He sighs, muttering something else about some Holy Angel Codes—the rules they follow to the damn T. Angry is an understatement, but hearing about his people's shitty rules is boring. And nothing stops, and calms, rage like boredom.

Fuck him for boring me, and fuck him for calming me down somewhat. The redness is fading from my vision. The rich smell of his blood, increasingly distant. The pain, growing, from my heart and the burning iron, to the broken leg I'm struggling to cradle.

He steps closer, and pulls something from his pocket. A small device, a box. He presses it against my temple. I flinch.

"It's gathering your information for our records...Iris Irai. Creative last name. I see—related to the first Ira demons. Interesting. What are you doing, as a housekeeper at this hotel? Probably something to do with that human mother of yours..." he watches me, and though his expression is neutral, he's starting to piss me off again. There's the light lilt in his eye.

Did I say fuck him already?

"Interesting monster form, by the way. A chimera, but appears mostly draconic. Leone traits—makes sense; Ira demons, lions. Of course there are those horizontal pupils, too..."

He walks down the length of my body and kneels, setting something against my left ankle. It expands, pinches—hurts. I wince. His hand is hot, skin smooth; he holds me for a moment, another moment, watching me. When I look at what he's done to my leg, I see an anklet—a thin gold chain, inlaid with a single pearl. It looks like a fancy version of the twine anklets that vendors sell on the keys. It fits in.

"I won't kill you. Instead, I have a plan that will benefit both of us." he smiles, rolling on the heels of his feet. "Let me explain."

I don't have a choice.