FLYING is a nightmare. No roads, no signals. And if you free-fall? Good luck, and say your prayers.

Yet it's liberating for all the same reasons.

I fall and tilt my body forward, gathering speed, before feeling a thermal's warm gust of air up. I tilt my wings back and glide, gaining height, rising from the ground like a plane during takeoff. Speed builds, builds—my hair whips past. I squint, but continue, turning away from the beach and toward the hotel's exits, the branched roads and walkways beneath.

Riel's beside me; I can see him, a mirage in the air, the clouds refracting around his wings.

"Continue forward!" I state, finding the correct road. It looks like it stops abruptly at the sea, the concrete ending and ocean starting—but it's a magical bridge.

Once I go from concrete to ocean, the air warps and shudders and goes hot, then cold, and I'm flying above the Overseas Highway, right at Mile Marker 85.3. Cars drive beneath us, and the narrow highway has stores, restaurants, and homes between the palm trees on either side of us.

"It's ahead and to the right!" I yell, wind whipping past. The sky is clear, a bit cloudy—we're a bit over an hour until sunset.

We don't fly for much longer. I keep tilting my wings down, trying to do so gently, and land right at the gravel path to the restaurant. Harshly. I fall too fast, too suddenly, and slam against the rocks.

Not an ideal landing pad. It scratches my arms and hands, but it could be worse. My body throbs with pain, aches—I need a massage and a hot bath. With focus, my wings and horn retract—and leaves me breathless. I recover, gain my footing.

Riel becomes visible, looking around. His halo and wings fade. He starts walking to the building, and I follow suit. The place is nice—past the parking lot, and towards the sea, is a tiki bar, stage, indoor restaurant, and several wooden swing tables that overlook the ocean. Kids are always running into the water, playing, while the parents drink and eat the night away.

We're seated outside, not too far from the stage. The performer's playing glossy yacht rock, singing some Steely Dan on his electric guitar. Already some human retirees are drunk and giggling at the bar. Happy hour. I scoot in, and Riel sits across. We order drinks—waters—and I glance at the menu.

"What do you recommend?" Riel asks. "I've heard great things about burgers. Many humans crave it."

I raise a brow. "You've never had a burger?"

"No. I don't require sustenance. We are God's tools to protect humanity from evil—and requiring us to eat would only reduce our performance."

"That's sad." I mutter, frowning. A tool. He sounded like one, sure, and he was one, but...to think of himself as one, too? Unfortunate. "You were eating at the café, though..."

"I was. I asked the barista what she recommended to try and...acclimate. It was tasty."

There's a lull in our conversation, and I clear my throat, looking back at the menu. This place is catered to old retirees; expensive, simple. Most of Islamorada's quiet, laid-back, comfortable.

"Burgers are a good option. Cheeseburgers, the best—but if you want my recommendation, seafood's always great here. Conch, shrimp, mahi mahi, hogfish. All generally local. Hogfish is in season."

He nods. The waitress comes; I order a hogfish sandwich with some sides, and he orders a cheeseburger, well-done, and a slice of key lime pie. She stares at Riel for much too long and giggles at his order, even though he's said nothing particularly funny. I stir her from her daze; she rushes off.

"I've also heard that the Keys are famous for this pie."

"Correct. Depends how you like it, but if you prefer tart, this place is good." I take a sip of the water, glancing at the ocean. I still need to process everything, but this is a chance to get some answers.

But Riel asks first.

"Where do you live?"

I glare at him. "Didn't you find that out when you scanned my head?"

Riel shrugs. "Correct, but I figured asking would seem more appropriate and less creepy."

"At least you're aware." I set my drink down. "I live down the road in a shitty apartment near an old, closed-down discount sandal store. The sign's still up, even though it's cracked."

"Sounds charming." I can't detect sarcasm in his tone. Can angels be sarcastic?

I change the subject. What's it like, up there?" I ask, gesturing to the sky with my eyes.

"Regimented." Riel says, unblinking, watching me. I can get lost in his eyes—they're constantly changing, light dappling across the blue. "There are strict rules for us angels to follow. We must set a good example for the souls in Heaven. We work, and when we do not work, we rest. We were crafted for a singular purpose, after all."

I scowl, but he continues.

"Our heaven is only for those who have practiced our faith; there are other afterlives, depending on what people believe, whom they want to be with—and some people jump between, travel, explore. It's a higher plane, just as Hell is the lower plane, below Earth."

"How often have you gone to Earth?"

"Hardly." he stirs his drink, glancing down. Light hair falls onto his forehead. "As Second Rank of the Archangels, I primarily remain in Heaven. But your kind is already quite familiar with the other Archangels, even if disguised—so they sent someone who's unknown: me."

Makes sense.

"Cheers." I lift my drink and clink it against his. "To roping me into your fucking mess."

We nearly killed each other, and now here we are, having dinner with each other. I chuckle at the thought.

"You really don't understand what's at stake, do you?" Riel asks. I roll my eyes.

"We already went through this. Chaos. Mass harm." It sounds like the Climate Crisis and corporate greed anyway...

Riel exhales, scooting forward. "Okay. There is a balance—good above. Heaven. There is evil below. Hell. The Earth—the middle plane—is between. The scales must be balanced, with minimal presence of angels and demons here. Evil creeps in; good stops it. There are massive, terrible parts of humans' history—things that I wish we could stop—but God has kept us from intervening. We only intervene when demons have come first. So Paradise Hotel, this takeover—"

"That feels like such a copout. You know how many wars are going on? How many atrocities could've been stopped? Can be stopped right now?"

"You're cheering on the angels now?" Riel asks, smirking.

I glare at him. "Just because I'm half demon doesn't mean I cheer on death and destruction."

He only smiles and rakes back his flaxen hair, looking satisfied with himself.

"Demons are angels who defied God's orders and refused to follow him. They chose their free will."

"They chose themselves. They chose selfishness, cruelty—they went against their creator. They spat in his face and formed the opposition! Corrupting people, creating the horrors we see. And every day, I work to keep evil like you demons below the stratum, where you belong!" he's yelling. His eyes and the veins in his hands glow. He realizes, and retracts, clearing his throat.

"Humans are selfish. It's in our nature."

"God is unselfish—and made them in His image. Only when they spurn God do they choose themselves." Riel says, poison on his tongue. His hands are glowing. He sticks them beneath the table, glaring at me, face full of harsh shadows from the light in his eyes. "Perhaps I should've brought you to Heaven..."

"Then I'll try to kill you all over again. Screw this anklet. My will is stronger."

His lip curls, and he leans forward, taking one of my hands. Energy passes between us, a spark. I can feel the magic in his palms—sharp, like needles.

He sets my copper palm against his cheek, his smooth skin. I lean close, too, accepting the challenge—just inches between us.

"Show me how strong your will is, then." Riel says. My heart's pounding. So is his. "Prove it to me."