THIS close, I can smell him beyond the seafoam. He's like linen sheets. Morning dew. And something unfamiliar, sterile—like a hospital, but...even colder. More distant.

I pull whatever magic and energy I have left into my hand, channeling it through my bloodstream, and—

"I have a cheeseburger here, well-done, and a hogfish sandwich! Who's got what?" A voice asks. Different waiter. I let go, slamming against the back of the booth, and force an awkward, lancet-thin smile.

"Sorry. I ordered the hogfish—" I offer. The waiter's entranced by Riel, too, but he snaps out of it and walks off. Riel has that smug, proud look on his face. "Fitting for a Superbia demon, that expression." I mention.

It fades immediately. I laugh to dispel the tension and bite into a fry. He echoes my movements, doing the same. I take a bite of my sandwich—fantastic; the fish is tender, and the seasoning is right. The remoulade is creamy, a bit sweet; a nice contrast to the blackened, smoky, salty fish. He nods in approval at the burger, smiling, closing his eyes.

"Is this expression fitting for a demon?"

"Luxuria, maybe." I say, unable to stifle a laugh.

The burger becomes so full of light that it's become a sesame-seeded disco ball. And then it explodes.

I yelp, ducking under the table, as meat and bun and sauce flies everywhere. A pickle's flung onto my forehead—it stings. And burns, superheated. I fling the pickle off, pressing a hand against my cheek.

"You don't say that, Iris!"

I dig my fingers against the new burn and sit upright. "You can't take a damn joke? Why am I even asking—clearly you can't! There's burnt pickle and burger everywhere..." When I look around, nobody's noticed. Thankfully. The yacht rock's too loud. My skin stings; Riel's face is redder than the slat of tomato that's on my lap.

Why did Luxuria get such a rise out of him? The sheer comparison to lust...maybe, like priests, angels cannot romantically love or lust under stupid rules. But wouldn't they be made to be aroace, then? Or do they feel—

Focus. Regroup. Right. I focus on the moment, wiping ketchup from my arm.

"It was a joke."

"I'm aware. And I apologize for the outburst—it's just—inappropriate. Very. Let me see your cheek; it is burnt."

I drop my hand, and he stands, moving to sit on my side of the bench. He leans in much too close again, setting his hands on my face, and shuts his eyes. His hold is gentle. But every time we touch, there's energy between us.

Demons and angels aren't supposed to interact, after all. Let alone work together.

(Even if by force.)

He runs his thumbs over the wound, and the slow, calm movements—as well as his warm breath on my face—calm me down. I shut my eyes, feeling the burn heal. Without looking, I know it's healed without scars, any lingering wounds.

"How do you still have energy? After everything?" I ask, opening my eyes. He retracts, moving to sit on the other side once more.

"I hide my exhaustion well." Riel's expression clouds. "Sorry for the overreaction."

"It's fine." I decide not to ask about the whole 'lust' comment. His pride would be too damaged.

"I enjoyed my meal—no need to reorder. I should not get used to mortal food, anyway."

Sad. But I nod along.

"So...explain the consequences of the demon-remaining-on-Earth stuff. Please."

Riel nods. "Increased violence. War. Corruption. Chaos. Nature will spin out of control; people will dig deeper into their own evils. More terror, more inequality, more tension. And yes—I do understand that the economic system in which you live in, among many, many other factors, only contributes to this rising terror...which in turn makes people angrier, and more willing to fall into rabbit holes, and—the cycle continues. An unending ouroboros. And though mortals fight or shield themselves from this slow apocalypse in their mortal lives...your people's inclusion here will speed this process exponentially. And considering that the hotel has been here for, what—"

"Three years."

"Three years, and each year, more demons abandon Hell to come here...well—I expect the consequences to finally be seen."

"Can't you angels come in and, like, fix the system that brings all this inequality and shit in the first place?"

He gives me a flat look. I sigh.

"No. But what I can do is stop you demons from being here. And that will stop this exponential growth of chaos. That is why I'm here. And why you must help me, Iris. You don't want mass death and destruction? Fantastic—apply that feeling to this. Because it is what's coming. A storm on the horizon—"

He points, and right on cue, distant thunder rumbles.

I pause and raise a brow.

"Did you do that?"

"No. It was simply a phrase. I cannot control the weather."

"Where did that come from?" I ask, squinting, watching the sea. The sun's starting to sink over the horizon, but the clouds are darker, thicker—from pale and transparent to heavy and gray. Lightning arcs within, moving fast. It's spinning.

A squall? The ocean's hot, sure, but there'd be some warning, usually...

"What?" Riel asks.

"Look. The storm."

The wind's picking up. I hold onto my drink; one person at the bar yelps as their mudslide falls onto the sand below.

"Strange."

"Yeah." I note, clearing my throat. "You sure you don't control the weather?"

"I'm highly aware of my own capabilities. I'm a powerful angel—but no god. Regardless, would you like to hear my plan on how to restore order to Earth?"

I nod, dragging a fry across ketchup, watching him.

"The goal is to excise demons from Earth, cast you all below. Preferably by your own will, rather than by force. If I fail, then the other angels will arrive and try a more...direct approach."

A laugh bubbles from my throat. This guy's deluded; he's probably here alone because nobody else was convinced of his plan. "Right, right...and how will you convince them to leave?"

"The Seven Aces are currently staying at Paradise Resort, correct?"

"Yes. They each have their own master suite...and have been shirking their duties in Hell." If Satan is the King, then the Aces are Lords—each the leader of their respective sect of demon.

"Good. So if we take something important from them, their source of power, then we can convince them all to return to Hell in return for their—"

I exhale. "Horns?"

Horns are the source of devils' power, just as haloes hold the angels' strength. I've heard that the Aces store their horns in specific places and disguise them to keep them safe...or they are always interested in using them, for leverage and shows of power. Demons are finnicky. The stories are messy, contradictory—but I guess that's the point; to keep people guessing. Or demons are just a mess. That's the more likely option.

"Horns—exactly." Riel grins wide. His teeth are so white that they shine. They're perfectly aligned, shaped; I've never really noticed someone's teeth before, but everything about Riel is dangerous in its perfection.

"But...thievery's a sin. 'Thou shalt not covet;' some shit like that, right?"

He grimaces at my butchering. "Correct. Hence why you will do the stealing. And, after all...this is for an ultimate good. So—"

"You're okay with stealing."

Riel's eyes flash. "No...I am allowing you to steal in order to—"

"So you're okay with stealing. In this instance."

The angel sighs, and I grin. "I'll keep that in mind, Riel...in case you try to ding me for a sin. You gotta sin to kick out the sinners, huh?"

"Anyway, as far as the Aces' domain, know of a few immediately: Ira's domain is the gym; Luxuria's is the Basement Bar, I believe..."

I nod along. The Basement Bar is the drug and alcohol-filled bar under the hotel.

"Avaratita and Invidia, the casino. As far as Gula, Superbia, and Acedia go...I'm unsure, but we will find out soon."

"And where are we headed first?"

"Since you are an Ira demon...I figure we can visit the gym first."

"I don't frequent the gym." I say, flatly. "No time."

Plus, if he wants to deal with the Aces...I'm not interested in having a family reunion with my cousin.

"Ira are bringers of war! Strife! Violence! And now, athletic feats! You will fit right in there; I have faith. Y—"

Thunder booms. Above, the sky's darkening; the gilded light of golden hour's fading fast, becoming gray. Wind whips along the shore.

"Dammit; where's the waitress...? And the pie?" I look around, moving to stand. "Where's your card?"

Riel chuckles. "I was going to offer to pay, regardless..." He hands me a card. This one is a standard, plastic, human bank card—still under that fake name, Reym.

The waitress runs over, one hand shielding her hair, other holding the plate of sky-high-pie. It's a thick slice of key lime custard, but above is a towering mountain of torched meringue—

Which is promptly carried by a gust of wind.

"Sorry!" The waitress says, breathing heavily. She has to yell to be heard. "I'll get you another slice—"

"It's fine! Just—boxes and the check, please!" I yell back, squinting. Sand's starting to fly in my face. The storm's so much closer; it's turning dark, like nighttime.

The drinks spill. Riel stands, trying to recover what's left; his hands flash for a moment. The waitress watches him, stuck again.

"Hey!" I yell, and she jumps, nodding, running back.

The musician is stuck on Steely Dan; he's now playing "Chain Lightning." The Floridian half of the drunken crowd cheers, unmoving. The New Yorkers and New Englanders start to leave; they always go at the first sign of rain.

"Isn't Florida the Sunshine State...?"

"We have lots of rain, too." I tell Riel, unsure if he's even heard me. My voice is being carried far, far back; the wind's pulling it away from my own mouth. Hair's shooting into my eyes. The air's inverted, gone cold.

"C'mon..." I hiss through gritted teeth. I should've just handed her cash. The waitress runs back, her long blonde hair parallel to the sandy ground, and jams the paper into Riel's hand. "Here—uh, the boxes—" she sticks them in my hands. "An extra slice; I—"

"Thanks." I cut her off.

Riel signs, hands it back—

I stare at the sea again. The clouds are heavy, low; rain's starting to sprinkle. It's cold, a drizzle—but won't be for long. The wind stops.

Something's coming out of the sky. A long gray finger, stretching down—a column of wind and water. A waterspout.

It's dropping right toward us.