[IMPORTANT: I DID IT AGAIN LOL. I SKIPPED A CHAPTER 💀 CH. 8 WILL BE POSTED 3/24/23, RIP)

"IRIS? Iris Irai, I can feel your pulse. It's rising. Good—good. If you can hear me, try to open your eyes."

I've been attempting to do that anyway. It's cold. Dark. Painful. My head's throbbing, and my body is tight and cold, sparking from within. It feels like my marrow's gone sour, trying to rush out from my bones.

Light magic—it's inside me. It's everywhere.

When I open my eyes, finally, Riel's hovering over me, his pink lips pinched tightly. A soft cupid's bow. He moisturizes.

Focus, dammit. Fucking angelic charm.

Riel is covering my hazy vision; I can't make out where I am. I take a few breaths, bursting into a crackling, weak laugh.

"Fuck...did I die? Am I—"

"Thank God." he sighs, raking back his cornsilk hair. He leans away, and I see that I'm in a dark room—black walls, marble, silver trim, red lights. Spacious, clean, smelling faintly of cinnamon and metal. Immediately I recognize it as Paradise. A suite. Good. We're not in Heaven.

"Thank Satan." I mutter in return, attempting to move. My veins are glowing. The urge to hiss, recoil, swirls within me, but I swallow it. Push it down. I'm wearing a robe—black with red trim, of course—and my undergarments.

He took off my old clothes before. I know it shouldn't bother me, but it tickles the back of my throat.

"I apologize for the discomfort, but you were scratched up, and bleeding badly. So I had to heal you, or else..." he trails off. I look over myself. My dark skin is covered in fine, golden scars, like Midas has drawn lines across my flesh. I squint at him. He looks apologetic, but firm. "It's been a day since the tornado; it is roughly noon now. We need to get started immediately. I have ordered room service, and hopefully—"

"Wait." I mutter, taking a few breaths, pushing myself upright. I feel electric—sore, tingly. But I'm alive. And that's what matters. "Give me a second to process the whole 'tornado-nearly-fucking-killed-me' moment. Okay?"

Riel nods and faces away, turning his attention to the glass device. I'm alive. Good. Giant tornado. Not good. He was just mentioning cataclysmic events happening at dinner; could it be—?

No. It was just a freak storm. It happens. And there's nothing exceptional about it.

I was so close to being dead, though...

"Okay. I'm good. Yeah. Fuck." I say after a few moments, shaking out my hands. "How much magic did you pump into me? I feel like I'll explode if I touch metal."

Riel debates, tilting his head to the side, staring up. Mental math. "Roughly nineteen units of light magic, which constitutes about a third of my energy stores, and can power—"

"Rhetorical question." I cut him off, exhaling slowly, looking over my arms. I trace the scars. There's enough of his light magic in me to make my skin tingle at contact with itself.

"Oh."

"No sarcasm in Heaven, huh?"

"Angels speak directly. Honestly." Riel sets the device down, slipping it into his pants pocket.

"What a boring existence." I adjust my body, legs dangling off the side of the bed, and push. Stand. My knees wobble; I slip backwards to keep myself from falling. Riel's hand is firm on my shoulder, steadying me.

"I'd rather live an honest life than a dishonest, but exciting, one." Riel states, still holding me. His dappled gaze hooks me like a fucking fish—I stare again, his thick brows low, a bit furrowed, in worry. "Do you find your life exciting? Since you care so much about it, after all."

I scowl and try to snap away from him, but he's pushing his magic into his eyes. I can't tell if he's trying to force an honest answer out of me, or if it's just an angel thing.

"Now it is, unfortunately." I say, pushing his hand off. Riel stands and rolls his shoulders back, lifting his chin.

"And is it honest?"

I laugh. Bitterly. "C'mon. You read my case file—you know the answer."

Riel clears his throat and spins away, grabbing a tray from the next room over. He's goddamn intense. Are all angels like that? "Speaking of unfortunate circumstances, we must get started. I already overrode your business's system to give you off today. Tomorrow you will go back to work, as to not raise suspicion. Anyway. Today we'll investigate the gym and speak with the Ace of Wrath, Flex. Are you familiar with him?"

I nod, and Riel sets the tray beside me. It's a plate of breakfast classics—two sunny-side up eggs, strips of bacon, and pancakes, with an orange on the side. The rich smell of meat makes my stomach growl.

"Good. How familiar?"

"I clean up his messes often; his suite, the parties he throws, his impromptu dinner parties. He likes me. Tips well. Whenever I see him, he tells me to go to the gym or fight in a war. Also says I got a fighting spirit or some shit, so I guess I'm not a full failure in his eyes." I try to sound sarcastic, but my words come off flat. I clear my throat, taking a bite of the bacon to distract myself. The fatty smokiness partially quenches my cravings, but nothing will substitute fresh meat of any kind.

"I know about his horns. I think." I add, swallowing. "He wears them. Lately, when he's at the gym, he puts them down as a trophy of sorts there and tests his strength without them. I guess trying to show how strong he is without his full, true power."

Riel breaks into a wide, bright grin. "Fantastic. You both have an established relationship, and some trust..." he mutters some things under his breath.

"Look at how useful it ended up being, nearly killing me." I roll my eyes and tear the orange into my mouth. Blood orange—a Paradise favorite. It feels like ripping into flesh, bursting the juice sacs. Satisfying, messy—

I stop myself and eat slowly. Calmly. I peel the segment and slip it between my lips instead, and wipe the trail of juice that's slid down my neck.

Riel watches, lips pinched, brows furrowed. I drop the fruit peel, clearing my throat. Heat rises along my skin like a slow wave.

"I expected you to say something to my sarcastic comment."

"I found your...orange consumption to be more fascinating, I suppose. You treat it like meat."

Jesus—the slight burst of heat has become a tidal wave of warmth.

"It's a Floridian, vegan substitute. The fucking anthocyanins, I guess—there's a farm in the back of the hotel." Lots of vegan and vegetarian demons love it; there's a solely plant-based restaurant here, too.

"Don't make it weirder than it is." I add after a pause.

Riel's lips part, like he's going to say something, but he nods and clears his throat. "Okay. I will prepare myself to better...blend in—and then we will leave once you are ready. There is a shower, a—"

"I clean this place for a living. I know where everything is." I deadpan, cutting him off.

Riel chuckles. "Of course. Perhaps you could be courteous and not cut me off?" His tone is so kind and honest that I can't detect any sarcasm, but his eyes tell a different story. There's a break in the shore. A rush of dark blue.

"I'm sorry, I thought we were pressed for time."

He only smiles. Waits.

Again: fuck him and his too-kind responses.

"Good point. I think you will be interested in seeing this."

What? I raise a brow, but Riel doesn't stop, doesn't explain. He slips a device, a flat, small disc, along the base of his clavicle. He hesitates, then pushes on it like a button—

And shimmers, shudders, like a puddle that has been stepped on. His body warps, pale light slipping over him. Within a moment, he is different—or appears as such. Older, more rugged; stubble along a sharpened chin and cheeks, brows angrier, shadows deeper across his face. His wings have blackened, becoming silvery-blue, like a raven's. His hair has changed, becoming black, sharply contrasted against his pale skin. His light eyes are now like staring into the night sea—so dark blue they are nearly black, but are still dotted with stars, moonlight. His body is less lanky; now fuller, muscled. The chiseled chin, sharper features.

I immediately miss the truth of his past face, the slight softness of it all. This is a lie. It's wrong. I'm not sure why I oppose it so much, but—

A thought washes over me, sudden and hot. I wonder what it's like to touch his body, run my hands along the rippling flesh, sinew; to breathe him in, to see if he still smells so distant, so far above, so achingly cold—

Focus. I tell myself, blinking quickly, shaking myself from the daze.

"You want to tell me how the hell you did that?"

Riel cracks his neck, his knuckles. Each pop darkens the lights in the room. "I cannot, because I don't know, either. Ugh." He coughs, slapping a hand against his chest. "Disgusting. To even pretend to be Fallen is a disgrace..."

The Fallen are angels who have disobeyed God, been cast out—and are on their way to becoming demons. They're in a transitionary state, stuck halfway between. Their black feathers fall out of their wings, leaving leathery skin behind; their cracked halo digs into their skull, forming horns. They will be one of the Seven. Their signature sin will deepen and dig through their heart, flesh; spread, cancerously, to pull them into the darkness, toward Hell.

And for some reason, I just...know that Riel's of Luxuria. Lust. Demons have a sense for that thing; I don't know if angels, or Riel, does.

My heart's pounding. Fuck. I don't even like his face like this. Or his eyes. His shoreline eyes have become the sea at night: endless, impossible. Scary.

I swallow.

"I need to ensure that this is complete." Riel says, voice shattering the silence. He grabs one of my hands and sets it on his chest. I tense, but his thumb grazes along the back of my wrist, gentle yet firm. Sparks flit between us—only this time, they're inverse light, all shadows, rather than faint bursts of light.

One edge of Riel's lip quirks dangerously. "Good."

I've never seen that look from him. The darkness in his stare.

I hate it.

And yet I can't deny that there's something so...magnetic about it.