[ 5 ] - A Surprise Guest


"OPEN the fucking door!" a voice barks—deep, masculine. Another fist. Shit, shit—

Have I been spotted? Was this a trap?

I turn to Riel, furious, but he's already moving, rushing towards the balcony, outside—he clicks on something and turns invisible with a flash of white light. So this is not in his plans—

And getting caught isn't on mine, either.

I brace myself, standing, staggering, hands against my chest and leg. I'm okay, I'm fine; no need to be dramatic. I unpeel my hands from myself and the wall and walk toward the door, tense, fire rising, burning—

When I open the door, it's a very wet, very angry fallen angel in a speedo. Matthew—a frequent flyer. His cracked halo is smoking, subtly steaming the water off his head; his black-feathered wings are dripping, out, fully extended—and are blocking off the hallway. A few people are trying to pass, muttering angrily but he doesn't notice them.

"You didn't bring me my extra towels!"

Thank Lucifer. I release a sigh of relief, rolling my shoulders back.

"Sorry, Matthew—I'll get—"

"Retract the fuckin' wings, ya crow! They shouldn't even be inviting angels here..." a demon mutters, throwing his hands into the air, behind Matthew. There's three of them, all large men, empty drink glasses and coins from the casino in their hands.

"Hey, let's all just—"

"I Fell so I could be free and sin, just like you goat-headed, lazy-ass shits who got this opportunity after death, and soon I'll shed these feathers and be a real-ass demon too, so quit with the comments and—"

The leader demon, beer-bellied and thick-horned, punches Matthew in the nose before he can finish.

And they all start to yell, fight—magic sparking, curses throwing, feathers flying, and I take a single step back and quietly, slowly, close the door, triple-locking it.

The customers have been, and were always, awful, but they've been getting worse. Meaner, angrier, more willing to fight. Their magic's more unstable, easier to come to their fingertips.

I still have a bruise on my back, from where a damn Gula demon decided to jab me. Literal backstabbing, because she thought I was eating her room service. Assholes, all of them...

Riel—where is he? I look to the balcony, and the door opens right on cue. Riel becomes visible once more, eyes fixed on the door—and the commotion behind it. I exhale. "You turned invisible."

"It is light magic—refracting light around my body. So yes, invisibility." he explains, gaze slipping past me, settling on the door. "And you...did not stop their fight."

"This is usual. Especially with Matthew. Freshly-fallen angels aren't any less prideful than when they were Risen..."

Riel rolls his eyes, huffy. "They are a disgrace; do not associate the Fallen with us Risen. Anyway. Did you complete the transaction?"

"No." I pull out the phone, fill in the rest of the information, and it dings. The screen hums, the machine warms, and a stateroom card materializes, dark magic rising off the plastic like smoke. I give it a moment to cool down before handing it to Riel. "There. President's suite; second to the top floor—twelve. It's all yours."

The wall bangs. Someone's been flung against it. I don't bat an eye, but Riel flinches. The edge of my lip quirks. "Spooked?" I ask.

"Your people are...monsters. So violent. In Heaven, we would never act out..."

"Right." I put the device away, sending a prayer below that I won't get in trouble for this. "Again, no fun."

"No harm." Riel attempts to correct, turning over the card. "Thank you for this. Next task—I need your schedule for the next week, to ensure I do not disrupt your hours. Send it via email—here—" he shows me an 'encrypted email.' I give him a look, but he says it can be trusted. I don't trust him, but I'm too tired to fight for something like this.

I open the picture of it on my personal phone and hand it to him. He looks it over, raising a brow. "You work quite long hours for a mortal..."

"You think demons have good labor practices? Please. We need a union. Just—what else do you need?"

"Next? A recommendation on where to go for dinner that is not on the premises. I need to clear this demonic air from my lungs..."

"You have any allergies? No shellfish, pork, unleavened bread—"

"No. But I appreciate the ask." he smiles. It catches me for a moment. I regret asking him anything.

"The Bouey's a classic and is popular with the human locals—so it's not crawling with demons. Good view of the sunset, too." I glance at my leg, the anklet, and try to fiddle with it. Riel shakes his head.

"You cannot remove that—not without my permission. It tracks your location, ensures you are safe. After all, you are now my greatest asset to this mission."

"I feel honored." I deadpan, checking the rest of the room. I'm behind schedule; I need to mark this as complete, and then I can leave. Scowling, I adjust the sheets, fluff the pillows, as Riel keeps talking.

"You should, as you are now an agent of God—"

I shudder. "Gross."

"Anyway. Let me know when you are done; I can take us to the Bouey."

"Us?" I echo, raising a brow.

"Consider it to be an offering, an olive branch. I need your assistance to complete my job—and in doing so, you are ensuring the safety of your own people—humans and demons. Thankfully, you have already been immensely helpful to me."

"Don't pretend I have a choice in this." I growl.

He only laughs and sets the device away, wings stretching out from his back. They're massive, white, feathered—and soft, I imagine. So soft. So unlike demons' wings: batlike, leathery, sharp.

"Are you okay with flying there?"

I suck in a breath, setting a hand against my sore chest. My wings aren't useless, but they're slightly misshapen, which makes flying a challenge. I do it rarely.

No. Angels are honest; so is Riel. "I'll...manage. No teleportation on that glass device of yours?"

Riel laughs. It's light, melodic, like someone's ringing a bell. "I wish, but no. My abilities are mostly limited to light—healing, manipulating light and energy, divine magic, so on. These devices help us, but they mostly are involved in information, espionage, and weaponry—disguises, hacking..."

He's not being too specific, but angels' abilities make sense. They sound like the inverse of demons' abilities—darkness manipulation, demonic magic, and abilities specific to the type of demon they are. Each demon can stir the feeling of their own sin in other people. Ira demons can become monsters when full of rage; other demons can't.

I close out the day on my work phone and gesture to the window. "Let me just return my stuff and change into clothes. Stay here."

Riel nods before walking to the window, staring outside, silent.

It's quiet in the hallway. Either security came, or the men sorted out their issues; either way, I'm good to go. I grab my housekeeping cart and start moving.

***

It's quiet—most of the other housekeepers have gone home. Good. No questions. I change from my uniform—a provocative red dress with a black apron—into real clothes; some leggings and a top. I return to the room, and Riel's still standing where he was before, watching. He looks like a statue, unmoving. I creep closer. He must've heard me, right?

"Riel?"

He snaps out of his daze, spinning around, halo flashing. "Yes—sorry. I was just—anyway. Are you ready to go?"

"Yeah."

Energy shimmers over himself, and he turns invisible, though I can make out the image refracting when he moves. He's become a mirror, in a way—when still, he's truly invisible, but if I focus on him while he's in motion, I can tell he's there.

I walk to the balcony and focus—focus on the rage within me, focus on Hell, its rivers of lava and its trees of gems and its red, stone sky and the heat, the fire, that burns, burns, and—

It hurts. I'm too sore and weak for this, but I push through, because I'm not embarrassing myself. My wings push through my back, slipping from my shoulders. They're black and red, spiked and thin—but my human skin is stretched over the membrane in parts, like scarred skin: rippled, uneven, soft.

And of course, there's the single horn shooting from my skull. Left side, right along my hairline. With the horn always comes a brief, passing migraine. I shut my eyes and cup my hands over them. The feeling passes quickly.

"Alright." I say after a pause, shaking out my hands, my shoulders, my wings. They're another set of limbs, an extension of myself.

Sudden warmth. Riel's hand is running along the forearm, and I flinch, jumping back. He follows suit, hands raised.

"What the—"

"I've never seen this." he says. "Your wing—the human flesh, it's—"

"Just can it. Let's go." I cut in, knuckles cracking, flapping my wings. I remember what to do—tilt them, stretch, retract; find a thermal in the air to use and rise, continue. Okay.

I check my phone for the directions. The hotel's off the map; its island is technically somewhere near Marathon, in the lower-middle Keys, but it's magically guarded. There are exits to go in any direction, from Key Largo and the northern islands, down to the far south and Key West.

I've left this place many times, but never by flight.

"Alright." I stop hesitating and climb to the balcony's railing, looking over the ocean. It's blue, calm—umbrellas and chairs posted around. People are playing in the water, swimming, walking along the shore, searching for treasure. It's beautiful.

It's anything but paradise, once get a closer look.

I see that the demons playing in the water are eating a giant fish alive. There's red in the blue, blood in the sea. It's thrashing. Still alive.

The couple walking along the shore with the metal detectors have left gaping, burnt holes in the sand.

And of course, there's a bunch of people having an orgy on the beach, naked.

I stare up, crack my neck, and jump.

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