Inheriting Armageddon - Chapter I

Be sure to reference the glossary if need be!

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I

THERE’S A STORM COMING

Ever since the crucifixion of Christ, the Eight Archangels have been sent to Earth in order to chart humanity and persuade humans into being virtuous and good. In every lifetime that the Archangels are sent to Earth, their children are also reborn. These lifetimes are known as Iterations.

— A History of Hierarchy

NOVEMBER 3RD, 2106 A.D.

ATLANTIC OCEAN

CARINA BLACKROCK

The sky is red.

The dress in your hands is red, too.

As the sun bleeds across the morning sky, you throw the ruined garment in the sea. The dress is heavy with salt water and blood. Saturated, like your body. Exhaustion weighs heavy on your chest as you watch the dress drift up and down on choppy waves and finally disappear behind a white cap. Down, below deck, Leroy is filling you a bath. To wash the blood from under your nails. To comb the blood out of your hair. To soak the war from your bones.

You do not think the mark of killing can ever truly be washed away, though. Not really.

You descend below deck, and Leroy offers you a towel and a bar of perfumed soap. He gives you a sad smile of wrinkly, red skin and a wiry gray beard. The eye patch over his left eye is pinched in that familiar smile. “Take ya’r time now, ya hear?”

You nod.

You step into the washroom and close the door. The ship lulls. The bath splashes gently. Your clothes—a borrowed shirt and a pair of shorts—fall to the ground in a soft thud. You listen to your heels thump across the wood beneath, grateful for the quiet sound of home. It is your heartbeat, the song in your soul.

Your feet slip into the metal tub, and your eyes close.

Screams begin ringing in your ears. Shrieking. The clash of swords. Teeth gnashing. All of it, hauntings of the war you have just won, singlehandedly. Leroy predicted it—predicted that God would come with the storm. In a way, he was right. You acted, as God’s hand of vengeance, to wipe out every demon that lived on the island you had been held captive on. It was called Hell’s Alley, it was hidden in the Bermuda Triangle, and it was a portal to Hell.

Your arrival had been an unfortunate mistake—you had been lost at sea months before. Once you arrived, neither of you were permitted to leave. The residents there—the demons—had worshiped you as a prophesied princess, and Leroy had called their bullshit. You were hostages, but treated like royalty, until Leroy uncovered a plot to sacrifice you to the Devil.

That was the night before.

And by God’s grace and mercy, you survived.

NOVEMBER 3RD, 2106 A.D.

NORTH EAST FLORIDA

VENATRIX CANES

The party bumped downstairs. Uninterested in whatever trouble her brothers were conspiring with all the other students from her classes, Venatrix held her Glass phone in her hand. On the screen, hovering above her own palm, was a picture of two bikers in a social media post.

One rider wore a casual get-up: faded jeans with a slit across each pale knee, a gray band tee, red Converse, and a wine-red scarf around his neck. The visor of his firetruck-red helmet blocked his eyes from sight.

The other rider wore all black—something too bold and controversial to do in their time. Wearing all black was a sign, in their day and age, a promise of violence. Only assassins wore black, and the biker in the picture was sworn to become one. His visor was up, leaving only a strip of his eyes visible to Venatrix; they peered at her darkly, menacingly, and in a way that Venatrix had known all her life.

Still, her blood boiled.

Venatrix locked her phone. The images faded from view, leaving her see-through cell dormant in her hand. She placed it on the desk beside her and turned back to her computer. She spread her hands over the pulsing, blue keyboard, electricity thrumming in her fingertips. On the screen of her gaming PC, a browser displayed a checkout screen and a bright white sportbike in the cart.

She reached for her parents’ credit card, anger simmering just under her skin.

He promised we’d buy bikes together. He promised.

A loud knock sounded on Venatrix’s door frame.

“Go away!” Venatrix yelled. Her eyes scanned the shipping address listed on the screen.

Another knock.

Venatrix groaned. I wish I could move out, she thought bitterly. She fantasized about running away for a moment, considered where she could go and hide out. But running away meant she’d have to drop out, and she wanted her education; it was important to her. Not to mention, she couldn’t get this education anywhere else.

Another knock.

“Leave me the fuck alone!”

If she heard one more knock, she thought she might bust a blood vessel in her forehead.

Bangbangbang.

Venatrix shot up from her gaming chair and launched herself at the door. She swung it open, fixing the most vitriolic death glare she could manage on her older brother.

Caeleb stood there with a lazy grin on his pale face. Long, dark strands of hair coiled over his shoulders like drips of an oil spill. “Why don’t you come downstairs?”

“You know why,” Venatrix gnawed at the words. A feeling of emptiness and despair gnawed at her heart, too.

Caeleb gave a lazy, careless smile. “Still mad Corvun’s not talking to you?”

Venatrix slammed the door in her brother’s face. She turned and pressed her back to the door, exhaling through thinly parted lips. Wrong move. Of course she was still upset over her falling out with her best friend, but making a scene over it would only worsen things. Her brothers picked at any weakness she showed.

Venatrix listened to the sound of Caeleb’s footsteps disappearing down the hallway. She was in the clear. She sank to the floor, hugging her knees. She thought of the picture on her phone—of Corvun and his new motorcycle and his new friend. Jealousy burned inside her.

Footsteps returned, slowly, one by one. Two by two.

More knocking.

Venatrix hauled herself up, resolution settling inside her. She’d tell her brothers to not so kindly fuck off. Her friendships—or lack thereof—were her business. She was tired of hanging around in her brothers’ friend circles; Corvun had gotten tired of that a while ago. Venatrix wished she would’ve come to her senses at the same time.

She opened the door.

Caeleb stood in the doorway with Erin this time. Her brothers looked strikingly similar. The only difference between them was their years, the style of their hair, and their eyebrows. Erin had a shorter haircut which left his black locks cut choppy and sharp around his angular jaw. His eyebrows were a little thicker than Caeleb’s, but they both shared the same, ice-cold, knife-like eyes that cut way too deep into her insecurities.

“Come downstairs and party with us,” Caeleb said again.

Venatrix’s stomach bottomed out. She pleaded with Erin silently—staring at him with as much horror and self-pity as she could manage. He used to be on her side, too.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” Erin’s pale lips moved slowly, his voice detached from his body.

Venatrix’s world spun. Her free will slipped from her grip on it, and just like that, she felt the need to do whatever it was that Caeleb and Erin asked.

Somewhere deep inside her mind, she watched herself. She could brush the edge of her consciousness with mental fingertips, but she no longer had control of what she did. Venatrix observed herself from faraway as her body followed her brothers down the hall and down the stairs into the neon-lit, liquor-drenched party below.

Her bedroom door gaped open behind her.

She would have shut it.

She should have never opened it.

The party was a blur of half-clad bodies and glossy bottles of aged wine and bourbon and whiskey. Her parents’ liquor cabinet sat open in the corner, like her bedroom door. The inside was dark and hazy. She couldn’t tell what was left.

Venatrix tried to think of something else as her body moved of its own accord. A red cup at her lips, the burn of whiskey in her nose. She closed her eyes and saw Corvun. She was sitting in the corner with him, in her mind. They were at the outskirts of the party, talking about everyone there. Who’s who and what’s what. Corvun always knew more about the hierarchy of angels and had tabs on what kind of angels or descendants attended their private academy. In her mind, Corvun was telling her about their classmates. Flashes of their faces between blinks. Venatrix knew everyone’s name. She knew everyone’s secrets. Her brothers and Corvun had made sure of that. Venatrix had navigated the popularity scene with ease with the three of them.

Liquor ran down her throat.

Stomach acid and bile backtracked up.

She was dancing with someone who had his hands under her shirt and on her waist.

Venatrix drank again.

She opened her eyes and placed Corvun’s face over his.

They used to dance together at these parties, too.

Warm breath on her neck. Cool air on her back.

Corvun used to make a spectacle. He used to get them both on the table and dance traditional ballroom dances. They used to be the life of the party.

Venatrix found herself back in that moment. She was on a table again.

Only this time, she was on the table in her memories, in an out-of-body vision. Her body moved with the music. Her skin buzzed with the alcohol that pounded through her veins.

Rage was there, too.

It settled in, like a poison.

Every twist, every turn.

She would make them pay.

NOVEMBER 4TH, 2106 A.D.

NORTHEAST FLORIDA

CORVUN KHLYDE

“God, I hate the South,” Jayren mumbled through his helmet at the stoplight.

Corvun hummed in response to his friend’s gripe. The Florida sun reflected off Jayren’s deep red sportbike. Corvun was more than aware that his friend had no interest in being here. Corvun didn’t know too much about Jayren’s past, only that he’d reluctantly moved from Indiana some time ago.

The light turned green, and the two of them took off down the road. This was their morning ritual: ride their motorcycles to North Academy together. It was the best way to get close parking and avoid walking with the other students and being subject to unwanted bullying. They pulled their motorcycles up to a small spot in the shade of the academy building and kicked their stands out. They left their helmets hanging on the backs of the bikes, and Corvun pocketed his small key. Jayren did the same, but kept his hands stuffed in his pants.

As they walked towards the school building, Corvun checked his phone. A sickening feeling roiled in his stomach. There were new messages on his phone; he knew what that meant. Instead of reading the texts, he said, “The Canes’ siblings threw another party last night.”

“You go?” Jayren asked.

“Hell no.” Corvun had stopped going when Caeleb and Erin Canes had started busting out their parents’ liquor at the parties. Jayren had said that seemed like the right time to start going, but Jayren had never been invited to any of the parties. Jayren always said it was probably because he was still wearing glasses and braces at seventeen, but Corvun didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was because he wasn’t in Caeleb’s inner circle.

“Was Vena there?”

“Yeah,” Corvun said. “Always.” He wasn’t happy about it. Then again, he hadn’t felt happy about anything in a long time.

Jayren changed the topic. “Did you hear cleopatra’s new song?”

“No,” Corvun said.

“It’s pretty dope. She’s got an all-acoustic setup in the song,” Jayren said.

Corvun didn’t respond.

“It’s pretty damn cool if you ask me. Humanity hasn’t seen a real musician since before World War III. There’s too much dumb artificial bullshit out there if you ask me. I think people are finally getting sick of it. cleopatra, though, I think she’s gonna make it big among the ‘bots.” Jayren picked at his braces.

He made a point, and Corvun agreed. About eighty years ago, there had been a wave of new art, the “New Era Art” that had run most creatives out of jobs—artists, writers, musicians. There were plenty of old-school connoisseurs that listened to pre- and early 2000’s music that was written by real humans, but it was mostly a lost art. Corvun and Jayren shared that in common; they both made a point to support any human artists they found.

Corvun had a bunch of music he pirated from OneStream back at home, too. He’d put it all on CDs with an old converter he found at a vintage shop. He had one called THE SICKEST MIXES that Jayren swore by.

Jayren asked if they could plan a game night and give their homemade record a spin.

Corvun agreed absently.

Ever since the start of the month, it’d been hard to focus on anything but the impending sense of doom that hung over him.

Corvun’s nineteenth birthday was in seven days. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it were just any other birthday. Corvun wasn’t one to draw attention to himself much either, at least not recently; his birthday was just another day. But this birthday would be the day he was sworn into RUST.

Corvun had known about it since he was twelve. His father, the Archangel Michael, had been a member of RUST—an underground assassin organization. Michael never told Corvun the exact circumstances in which he got caught up with the criminals, but he told Corvun the way he got out. What Corvun did know: the RUST pact is meant to be for life. Only a sacrifice of pure, selfless intent can break the RUST pact. His father had no way out, but the leader of the RUST assassins, named Cephan, offered him a deal: If Michael signed a blood contract, promising that his firstborn would return in his place at the age of nineteen, Michael could escape RUST.

Corvun was Michael’s firstborn.

It was just a shitty hand he’d been dealt, paying for his father’s mistakes. It is what it is, Corvun thought. He’d been training for this day for years, learning how to street fight among all other forms of fighting, learning how to use weapons and guns. Learning how to defend himself. Learning—or at the very least, being told—how to keep his faith. As if killers could have faith.

But this is who he would be. It was who he was already becoming. It’s who he was, somewhere deep down, because in the end, he had a rank just as high as his father’s.

All of this swam in his head as he stood there numbly. Jayren was talking, but Corvun barely heard him.

His phone gleamed with a text from Caeleb, a picture of Venatrix dancing shirtless on her family’s dinner table. Her long, raven-black hair was a silky swirl around her nimble shoulders. Her shorts could barely be considered shorts. ‘You missed a good one,’ was the text Caeleb sent with the picture. Corvun couldn’t imagine how many more people got the same photo, the same text. His stomach tightened uneasily. Things felt like they were all spiraling, all at once. He wasn’t sure what the catalyst was, but he could feel the shift.

Things had been set in motion.

Something changed.

NOVEMBER 4TH, 2106 A.D.

NORTH EAST FLORIDA

VENATRIX CANES

Raven-black hair fell to the ground in eight-inch-long clumps. Dull kitchen scissors sawed and sawed and sawed. Cool air brushed her neck. Finally, the braided elastic in Venatrix’s hair slipped loose and fell to the ground, too.

Venatrix’s hair hung short and choppy around her sharp jawline. She used the bathroom mirror to trim fistfuls of hair and even out the severe cut. It didn’t do much, but that was okay. Venatrix was going for severe. She checked the back of her hair with a handheld mirror, and she looked at the tattoo on the back of her neck.

The tattoo was composed of thin black lines, and it depicted a coat of arms—a shield with four feathered wings fanning from it, upward in victory. It was a Mark of her heritage as an Archangel Heir. Her father and mother were two of the Seven Archangels—Samuel and Rachael—but they took human forms to walk among people. The Archangels were sent to Earth like this to chart humanity, to sway humans into being virtuous and good. The Archangels were powerful too—with the ability to change common knowledge, to influence people with a power of persuasion, and they were dangerous.

Venatrix was powerful and dangerous, too.

That’s what she intended to show. Her Mark. Her rank. Her power.

All because of what happened the night before.

Venatrix was almost always the center of attention in North Academy. North Academy—under the guise of a prestigious, private school—was dedicated to all who were angels, saints, or descendants of anyone with angelic blood. Venatrix maintained a level of stardom there for her rank as an Archangel Heir. Her brothers, Caeleb and Erin, were popular too, but Venatrix was convinced they controlled the school with their power of persuasion. The three were known for the parties they put on when their parents were out on Archangel business, and Venatrix thrived on the attention. Originally, she liked the new attention she got for her developing body—her slight curves and dainty, tall stature. She was growing into the body of a runway model. Now she felt different. At fifteen, she wanted to show off her body. At fifteen and a half, she stopped.

Cutting her hair was an act of defiance, a way to warn anyone against testing her the way her brothers had done.

She wouldn’t let it happen again.

Venatrix turned and glared into the mirror. Her pale blue eyes were electric with anger, with ambition, with power.

She refused her brothers’ carpool, making an excuse that she was on her period, and then she walked to school on her own. She was late. Fashionably late.

Venatrix stood in the double-door entrance to the grand hall of North Academy. She looked nothing like the other students because she had done everything not to. Venatrix wore her blouse untucked and unbuttoned, a pair of jeans instead of her uniform skirt, and hadn’t bothered with the obnoxious tie required for everyone. Forget the suit jacket.

The Archangel tattoo on the back of her neck flashed at her audience as she stalked down the hall. She liked their horrified attention. She wore her tattoo like jewelry today. Showing her Mark was strictly prohibited; it was an act of rebellion against the Archangels. She knew the repercussions—from her brothers, her parents, the school. She didn’t care. All she knew was that her nerves were alive and buzzing, that adrenaline was shooting through her veins like Novocain, numbing everything but her sky-high ego.

She swept her eyes down the school hallway, locked sights with seniors from the night before, and she plotted her revenge. One after the other. Onto the next. But she wasn’t ready to meet his hard, defiant gaze. He stood to the left side of the hall and watched her. Corvun Khlyde. He’d watched her like a vulture ever since he stopped going to her brothers’ parties. In the regal school—its high, cathedral-esque ceilings, gold inlay lockers, and white pillared doorways—Corvun was a shadow, a bad omen. Hollows caved his pale cheeks, and cynical, pessimistic lines wore at the sides of his lips. He looked as if he already knew everything he needed to know about life, even just at eighteen. But Venatrix was always drawn back to his eyes. If eyes were the gateway to the soul, then his gate stood open and gaping in a sinister challenge, a dare for her to step inside.

Beside him, his blond sidekick, Jayren Omans, slouched against the gold-and-silver lockers. His green eyes flashed behind thick, black-rimmed glasses; he hissed a comment between his braces. Venatrix gave his red tie a second glance when she realized it wasn’t a tie at all—it was a knotted scarf, the scarf he wore in their social media post. It seemed she wasn’t the only one breaking the rules this morning.

“So this is the real reason you missed our carpool,” Caeleb said behind her. Venatrix turned to glare at her brother, and he raised his eyebrows in return. He eyed her hair. Caeleb was tall and cruel and underhanded. Nothing about Caeleb was likable, not even his long black hair that he wore in a glossy ponytail behind his back. Venatrix was glad to be rid of hers. “You could’ve at least worn some makeup to knock the edge off that death glare. You look terrible,” Caeleb said.

“You can shove that makeup right up your ass, Caeleb.” She pushed her brother in the chest and tried to side-step him.

Caeleb grabbed her arm. “I hope you realize how much trouble you’re about to be in. I’d rather you behave than be neck-deep in detention slips.”

Behave, Venatrix scoffed. She looked away from her brother’s cold blue eyes. She gritted her teeth, weighed her options, and glanced pathetically in Corvun’s direction. She doubted he would help her. They grew up as best friends, but their latest feud was too new, wounds were still open and bleeding. He had no reason to help her.

Corvun raised his hand to his mouth and brushed his knuckles against his lips. He watched her with an eyebrow cocked in amusement. Jayren prodded at Corvun’s arm; Jayren’s stream of chatter was inaudible but quick and on edge.

“You’re going to ruin my reputation, Vena,” Caeleb warned under his breath.

“You mean no one’s going to come to your parties because your sister won’t strip and dance on tables anymore.” She struggled against Caeleb’s vise-like grip.

Cold, sweaty hands plucked the grip from her arm.

Venatrix gaped as Jayren stepped between them. She looked to Corvun in surprise, but Corvun just shrugged.

“Dude, back off. You shouldn’t be treating her like that,” Jayren said in a voice that was soft and timid and nasally.

Venatrix opened her mouth to interrupt.

Caeleb slammed Jayren against the lockers in a clatter.

Jayren’s hands shot up in surrender. His glasses slid crooked on his nose. Caeleb’s massive height shadowed Jayren’s small, disheveled stature. “Alright, alright. Fine! I’m sorry! Forget I said anything, man,” Jayren uttered frantically. “Sorry.”

“Didn’t your father teach you not to pick fights you can’t win?”

Jayren twitched.

“Oh, of course not. I forgot—he’s dead.”

Venatrix held her breath.

Corvun yanked Caeleb away from Jayren. He nailed Caeleb in the nose in a silence-shattering crack of cartilage. Caeleb collapsed.

“Khlyde!”

Venatrix spun on her heels. Her heart raced.

The headmaster of North Academy stalked in their direction, hair windblown and wild.

She glanced back to see Caeleb hunched over on the blue mosaic floor, holding his nose. Blood leaked through his fingers. When she turned back, Professor Valentine North towered over the four of them.

Professor North’s strong shoulders made Venatrix wonder if he wore armor beneath his three-piece suit. His tan skin and golden-brown mane of hair created a glowing aura around him. The righteous resentment in his eyes silenced the murmuring in the hallway. Time halted in his presence, and not even Caeleb dared to speak. “I want the three of you in my office. Caeleb, find your way to the nurse,” Professor North said. He looked at each of them one at a time, then turned and marched back in the direction he came from.

Corvun followed first, shouldering Venatrix as he passed.

Venatrix tensed.

The lockers behind her rattled. Jayren sulked up beside her. He tugged at the knot of his makeshift tie until the scarf unraveled. He pulled it out from where it coiled beneath his collar, offering it to her. “Here. I’m sure you don’t want any more attention at this point, or at least I would hope not. You can use it to hide your tattoo.” He pushed the red scarf into her reluctant hands. He walked away.

Venatrix stared down at the worn fabric. Her mind spun. The frayed threads were comforting in her hands. It held no sentimental value to her, but all at once, it meant the whole world. She wrapped it around her neck, and it eased the lump in her throat. It was the first time a boy offered her clothing, not taken it away. “Wait!” She called after Jayren. He paused, and she caught up to him. “Thank you.”

“Yeah.” He fixed his glasses, kept his head down, and didn’t acknowledge her for the rest of the walk to the office.

· · · ·

It was the first time Venatrix had been in Professor North’s office. The room was wide, the walls paneled with dark wood and decorated by framed portraits of people Venatrix vaguely recognized from her history lessons. She was pretty sure the one with curly, cherry-blond hair was Christopher Columbus. His crew stood with him, bordered in gold. Upon closer inspection, Venatrix swore she spotted Valentine in the picture with a somber expression. She wished she could ask the story, but she knew now wasn’t the time.

Despite the warm colors and homey decorations, Professor North’s office was cold. It smelled like firewood, and the massive windows behind the professor’s desk blazed with smog-filtered, midday light. Their professor stood in the center of the windows, looking out at an oncoming storm front, and the daylight created a hazy, glowing halo around his figure. “Venatrix Canes,” he started, his voice cutting through their silence.

She winced.

Corvun scoffed, and Venatrix shot him a glare. He slouched in his chair, arms crossed.

Without looking, North said, “Sit up, Khlyde.”

Corvun straightened in obedience, glared back at Venatrix, and she crinkled her nose in disgust.

“Miss Canes, you know better than to act this way,” Professor North scolded. The words should have burned, but the professor’s voice buffered the sting. It was as smooth as a lake at dawn. It was a trait of the Archangels, to have calming effects on those around them. Professor North was the leader of the Archangels, and his powers far surpassed hers. Venatrix didn’t know the extent of his abilities, but she knew they didn’t stop at simply a calming voice. North turned, and his gold eyes settled on Venatrix. “I should throw you out for cutting your hair. Revealing your tattoo is strictly prohibited. It is a prideful act, Miss Canes. Do you wish to end up like Lucifer, too? Had Mr. Omans not been so kind as to loan you his scarf, I’d have you sent home. I would’ve let your parents worry about it if it weren’t for what you are.”

“Who,” Venatrix corrected.

Professor North sat in his chair and steepled his hands on the desk. His gaze held her captive, and even if she’d wanted to, she knew she wouldn’t be able to stand, much less walk out of the office. The professor looked to Corvun, and the weight left her shoulders. “Mr. Khlyde, your father taught you better than to be a bad influence.”

Corvun gripped the armrests of the chair he sat in. “I did nothin’ wrong,” his voice dripped like venom—steady, callous, and cold. A small, lisp-like falter caught the end of his words.

“You cannot attack other students. Whether or not you were defending Venatrix, this isn’t good behavior. There are better ways to stand up for your friends.”

“I wasn’t defendin’ her. She’s not my friend,” Corvun bit back sourly.

“Dude, seriously? You were just talking about her right before she walked in! You were literally saying you wanted to go to her brothers’ parties to—”

Venatrix’s ears rang, drowning out Jayren’s rambling. Her skin burned.

Professor North studied something behind them.

Corvun interrupted Jayren and said, “She’s not our friend.”

The silence that followed shattered Venatrix. Her ears and neck flushed red. She wanted to knock Corvun’s front teeth out for brushing her off so naturally. She’d make him sorry.

The headmaster scratched a note on a small piece of paper with a black and gold fountain pen, then handed the Corvun the slip. “Alright. Corvun, I’ll be giving your father a call, nonetheless. You will report to detention Monday after school. Don’t let it happen again. Dismissed.”

Venatrix jumped at the offer, hands on her armrests and ready to stand, but Professor North glared at her. She froze.

He clicked his tongue and leaned back, saying, “Not you. Not yet. I want to have a word with you alone.”

Venatrix looked away. She listened to Corvun and Jayren exchange a few words regarding Jayren’s lucking out of detention as they exited the office. She heard Jayren yap, “Hell on Earth!” when the office door swung open. She glanced over her shoulder to see another student standing in the doorway.

“Well, you’re not totally wrong,” the student noted.

Venatrix agreed in a way. He was clean-kept and tall and handsome as hell in her opinion. She had never seen red hair as rich and dark as his. A stray strand slipped loose by his freckled cheek; he stared back at her with gray-green eyes. She knew him through mutual friends. His name was Orion Jude, and the whole school spread rumors about him as if he were some sort of infamous killer walking among them. Still, she hadn’t talked to him much and knew little about him besides those rumors.

Orion’s expressionless face looked forced. Venatrix stared into his eyes, and she recognized something of herself in his reflection. She was pretty sure it was chaos in his eyes which he controlled so well. But something about him was much more attractive than her, she thought. Maybe it was the warm tone of his skin, or his reserved demeanor, or maybe it was because he looked like he’d just walked off the set of a fashion magazine photo shoot. He could make the front cover of any style or beauty magazine he wanted to, she swore to herself.

“It seems our time has been cut short,” Professor North said to Venatrix. He sighed, soft but exhausted at the same time. “Go on. You will report to detention on Monday with Corvun. I’d like to speak with Mr. Jude for a moment.”

Venatrix stood and turned to leave, but a life-sized mural hanging on the wall opposite the headmaster’s desk stopped her briefly in her tracks. The painting composed a fury of colors—reds and deep blues and golds, darkness and light—into a clashing, brilliant cacophony that she could hear through the stillness of the frame holding it. She recognized the illustration as the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. On her brisk walk out, she realized that the riders lacked eyes. In their place, immaculate white.

ORION JUDE

Orion’s spine ached from his posture and composure. He tried to hold Professor North’s unwavering gaze, but he faltered and glanced away. The office door clicked shut, and Orion’s façade crumbled to the floor. His neck beaded with sweat. His hands curled into fists behind his back, fingernails digging into his palms. He hadn’t wanted to interrupt the professor, but he was on the edge of losing control. Again.

The headmaster’s silence crushed Orion.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Orion said, looking down. He studied the hardwood floor, the worn hem of the royal blue and purple oriental rug, the flecks of bronze on the ends of the tassels. He listened to Professor North tap his black and gold fountain pen on the desk.

“How is your mother, Orion? And your sister?”

“Fine, sir,” he lied. His throat was scraped and sore as if it was lodged with broken glass.

“Has your father burned the Bibles again?”

Orion hesitated. Finding words was as hard as trying to pry that shattered glass from an inch-deep wound. “He’s not my father, sir.”

“Father or not, you have his blood. Do you know what that makes you?”

Halfbreed, a faraway voice whispered. Orion became accustomed to the voices over the years; the demons always spoke to him when they tried to take control.

“I’d rather not answer that,” Orion said.

The professor set his pen down.

Orion closed his eyes. “Evil. Isn’t that what I am to you? The dirt you walk on, a disgrace to your legacy and all the other—”

“Powerful, Orion,” Professor North interrupted. “It makes you powerful.”

Orion looked up at the headmaster’s silhouette. In the light of the bright, gray-tinted window, Orion watched black smears paint his vision into monotone. Blood trickled down his top lip. A headache crashed into his skull like a sledgehammer.

“Why don’t you come have a seat?” the headmaster offered. He opened a drawer and took out a pill bottle. He slid the medication and a water bottle towards Orion.

Another clash of stone splintered against his skull, and the sound of shrill, shrieking metal flooded his brain. He knew that before long he would lose consciousness, so he took slow, unsteady steps across the office. The ground quivered like crumbling concrete under his feet, as if the world shook with a tremulous warning of an oncoming rupture, a crack that would split beneath him and swallow him whole. He figured falling to the pit of the Earth and burning alive would be better than the entire hierarchy of angels telling him he was no good. As he gripped the armrests and lowered himself into the office chair, he wondered if Hell would abandon him the same. He wondered, in fleeting, if he could live among humans in secret, fading into a world that was oblivious to the spiritual wars happening all around them. He wanted somewhere to belong.

Professor North watched him and took a deep breath.

Orion hesitated again before reaching for the pills. He noticed the shaking in his own hand as he reached further; his muscles melted as he fought to keep a hold of the bottle. It was his only means of survival. The demons didn’t like it because it would temporarily ward them off. Orion knew. The demons knew. Professor North knew, too.

“Why did you come to see me today?” Professor North asked.

“I want to know about the deal my mother made with the demons,” Orion said quietly.

Orion managed to open the bottle but dropped the lid by accident. He shook two pills out into his palm. The sweat on his neck plastered his hair against his own mandatory Archangel tattoo. He caught a glimpse of Venatrix’s tattoo during her dramatic entrance. It was the first time Orion realized his design was different. Hers was beautiful. His was simple, lesser.

He raised his palm to his lips. The pills stung his mouth like stale poison, sour and bitter and chalky. The water didn’t do much, and he felt as if he was swallowing forest burs that had been rolled in bile. He tried to suppress the gag reflex that washed over him.

“I’m sorry we haven’t educated you better.”

Orion’s sight had almost gone black, and he kept his head down to try to hide the fact.

“Your father is the most powerful demon that walks the Earth. He leads the other seven Deceivers. He threatened…” Professor North paused, “he threatened to kill one of the Archangels in this lifetime—something he is very much capable of doing—and we rushed into a solution. The death of an Archangel would be detrimental to the plans our God has for us. I don’t know that there was a right answer. Orion…your mother agreed to be a peace offering, a sort of truce between both the Archangels and the Deceivers. In exchange for her hand in marriage, the Deceivers agreed to an armistice for sixteen years. Your father…”

Orion had always known in his gut that his father was a demon, but he didn’t know enough about the hierarchy of angels and demons to even begin to guess which kind of demon he might be. He wasn’t surprised to learn his father was a Deceiver. It made sense to him. “He burned the Bibles again,” Orion’s voice cracked, and his words dragged dry out of his throat like smoke from a dwindling fire. The tears that formed at the sides of his eyes didn’t ease the burn. “All of them, even the one Ophiah keeps hidden inside her baby blanket at the top of our closet. He took our phones and snapped them in half.”

Professor North was silent for a moment. “Like it or not, you are his son, and that makes you just as dangerous. You must—”

“I thought you said powerful!” Orion accused. He looked up to the professor, squinting against the black in his eyes.

“You must first choose your side, Orion.”

“How does this help the situation? Even if I side with the angels, none of you will ever really accept me.”

“I need you to understand what you are. Orion, you are the Authority of Death. You are one of the Four Horsemen.”

There it is, Orion thought. That’s the piece I’ve been missing.

“The Archangel your father threatened to kill was your mother, Ariel. You would have never been born,” a rare emotion threatened Professor North’s voice. “Though, it seems, your father has dealt a hand against you—against us. Does this make you stronger or weaker?”

“It makes me abused,” Orion said with half a sigh, aghast.

“You cannot change the past, Orion. And you must understand the stakes here. This trauma—you could pass this on, inflict on others what has been inflicted on you. You must forgive him; it is the only way to move forward.”

A shadow cast across Orion’s heart inwardly. “I don’t think I could ever forgive him for what he’s done. No matter how hard I try.”

Valentine’s lips pressed thin. “Regardless, you have to accept who you are and what you’ve been through before you get better.”

“Better?” Orion bit at the word. “Really? That’s an option?”

“We’ve talked to Ophiah about this, and she agreed to get help. She’s already started on a medication and—”

Orion stood and threw the pill bottle back onto the headmaster’s desk. The pills cast small, dancing shadows across the glossy surface before falling to the floor.

“—they’re working wonders on her. Orion, sit down.”

“That’s because she chooses to believe these crap lies you angels feed her. Kind of like the placebo effect, yeah?”

“You will lose yourself fighting this battle alone. We are not the enemy.” Professor North was clear in Orion’s vision now. The professor’s tense muscles and stiff grip on his fountain pen made his frustration evident. “We need you to get better.”

“Why? So you can spit on me and tell me I’m still not good enough?” Orion glared down at his headmaster, gritting his teeth. He could see normally again, and he saw the prescription Professor North had written on a small, blue paper.

The stray pills dotted the teacher’s desk, but amid the chaos, Professor North kept his composure. He offered Orion the prescription. “If nothing else, do this for your sister, Orion. She hates to see you like this.”

VALENTINE NORTH

Orion took the prescription before he turned and stalked from the room.

Valentine sat silently, watching him go. As Orion slipped out the door, Valentine’s eyes drifted to the mural opposite his desk. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were painted in great detail there—so much so that the similarities between the four students that had just been in his office and the four warriors painted were uncanny. It was always their growth that astounded Valentine; to see them go from awkward, lanky children to dangerous, avenging angels was a miracle, the hand of God at work.

So much was different in this latest lifetime—things that Valentine hadn’t anticipated. The sixteen-year armistice had put an end to the Unseen Wars waged between angels and demons so that Valentine and the other Archangels could focus on raising their children. But that time was over now. They had hoped it was long enough to instill peace and build a righteous foundation under the feet of the Four, especially. What Valentine hadn’t factored in was the abuse Orion and Ophiah now faced from their father.

What awaited the Four worried Valentine, too. Their purpose was unique among angels, especially the ones on Earth. Each lifetime—each Iteration in which the Archangels had come to Earth and the Four Horsemen reborn—served as a trial. They were born into eras with major wars or world conflict. The Four Horsemen were to train, to ready themselves to fight in that human war. In each of their past lifetimes, the Four had died in combat. Valentine knew that the war in which they fought and won would be the catalyst for the Final Battle of Armageddon. Their victory would serve as their readiness to fight for the end of the world. Valentine had no doubt that this would come to be.

But Michael, Valentine’s right-hand Archangel, had brought something else to Valentine’s attention, something worrying. The Four Horsemen had influence in the Final Battle. If they fought for Heaven’s Army, the Earth would be reclaimed for Heaven, but if they fought for Hell’s Army, the Earth would be forever under Hell’s reign. It was all dependent on their alignment. If the Four continued to walk in righteousness, to acknowledge God as their commander, they would fight for Heaven; if they fell—turned their backs on God and His Law—they would fight for Hell. Valentine was hopeful the Four would honor their origins, but Michael had pressed that between the twins’ abuse and Corvun’s upcoming initiation to RUST, there was room for concern. Valentine tried to calm Michael, reminding him they were doing everything in their power to save Corvun from his fate, but even he wasn’t sure if the things already set in motion could be stopped.

VENATRIX CANES

“Hey! Hey, wait!” Venatrix chased after Corvun as she fled the office. She sidestepped Jayren, caught Corvun’s sleeve, and yanked him around. “Wait,” she said firmly, catching her breath.

Corvun raised his eyebrows, and she saw the sly, demeaning amusement in his eyes. It was the first emotion he’d shown towards her in months.

She didn’t like how his emotions felt.

“What?” he snapped.

“What do you mean, you don’t even know me?” She shoved him in the chest. Her blood pounded in her ears.

“Well, I sure as hell don’t feel like I know you anymore. We were supposed to be on each other’s sides.”

Venatrix glanced at Jayren’s staring eyes, and he looked away quickly. His face was red with embarrassment as he chewed on the dry skin of his bottom lip.

“You were supposed to be on my side, Vena,” Corvun pressed. “Best friends forever, ‘til Armageddon and after. Remember?”

The line shocked her, cut deeper than she wanted it to. It was a vow they made to each other when they were only kids. Venatrix thought back to the night before. She was ashamed to admit it, but she’d looked for Corvun in the crowd of students at the party more than once. He used to come to the parties until he and Caeleb got into a fight a couple years back. Venatrix had tried to break it up. He’d asked whose side she was on then, just like he was asking now. Venatrix’s confidence stripped away as Corvun’s hard gaze picked apart her face. She knew he could see the remnants of makeup, the beginning of a hickey which she had put an immediate stop to.

“You changed,” he said coolly.

She looked away, focusing instead on the rip in the left hem of Jayren’s slacks and a bloodstain that looked as if it’d had several failed attempts to be scrubbed out. “Then why did you stand up for me? Why did either of you bother?” Venatrix asked.

“I was standin’ up for Jayren,” Corvun said.

“Dude, don’t be an ass,” Jayren said.

Corvun rolled his eyes. “Your brothers are idiots. We like you more than we like your brothers. It’s like pickin’ the lesser of three evils.”

“C’mon, stop!” Jayren stepped between them, nudging Corvun back.

“I did it because it’s what you deserved,” Corvun said finally. “It’s what I deserved. It’s what I wish you would’ve done for me.”

“I thought…” Her words grew heavy, and it became hard to breathe. “I…”

“That’s your problem, Vena. It’s all about you. Try thinkin’ about someone else for a change.”

Venatrix searched Corvun’s black eyes, but his emotion vanished as quickly as it had made its cruel visit.

Corvun turned his back and walked away. Venatrix looked to Jayren, but he looked down—pausing on his scarf—before turning and following Corvun. She stood in the circular, terrace-like lobby and watched their figures get swept away into the wave of students beyond. She blinked away frustration. She would prove him wrong. She hadn’t changed, not like he said she had.

Venatrix wore her tennis shoes to ballet class that night.

CORVUN KHLYDE

“No way. There’s no way you’re actually going to ballet class. What the actual flying duck.” Jayren created a few more clever, off-brand swears, stood, and dropped his gaming remote into the low-sitting sofa behind him. He followed Corvun across the room. “Dude, that’s mortifying. Yes, I’d love to go pirouette around in a tutu ‘til our brains fly out of our ears. Are you crazy?”

Corvun grabbed both their backpacks, tossed Jayren’s into his chest, then slung his own over his shoulder. He shot Jayren an exasperated side glance. “Let’s go, Jay.”

Jayren threw his backpack onto the couch and grabbed the cord of his lamp off the floor.

Corvun turned, unsuspecting, and tripped over the makeshift booby trap. Corvun catapulted into the closed bedroom door and collapsed, defeated.

“Listen, you ass!” Jayren said. “I don’t want to go. And you don’t want to go just to humiliate yourself, so what’s the deal?”

Corvun slumped against the door. His arms and legs were numb with exhaustion. He thought about the weightlifting and workout regimen his father insisted on daily. He considered he should’ve opted for a five-mile run instead of his training that morning before school.

“Dude,” Jayren’s voice was monotone for once. Jayren knew about Corvun’s training, about how much it wore him out. “How are you gonna dance?”

“You know, I still go sometimes. On those days you make excuses to ditch class because you’re quote-unquote sick.”

“Thanks man, but panic attacks are an actual thing. Can you just answer the question? Why are you going?”

“Vena,” Corvun said. “I’m goin’ ‘cause of Vena.”

“Yeah? You got the hots for her?”

“No.”

“What, then? She’s the Class A bitch of the century. Let her be. Emptying a whole clip of bullets into virtual zombie brains is a lot more fun than debating a popular girl with an ego bigger than her brothers’ balls.”

“She’s not like the other Archangels,” Corvun said.

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah, okay, you got me. She’s hot. I like her,” he lied. He made a face, scrunched his nose at the thought. He’d grown up too close to Venatrix to ever see her as more than a sister. Corvun grabbed the strap of his backpack again, stood, and turned to leave. As soon as he put his hand on the doorknob, the TV remote smacked into the back of his head. “Ow! Jayren, cut it out!”

“‘Fess up, man. Tell me the truth.”

Corvun stared down at Jayren’s off-white carpet. Old, dried mud smeared the baseboard by the doorframe. It had been there ever since the summer Jayren convinced Corvun to try out for the soccer team with him. Loose change was scattered by the dirt from the night the two of them had made an unsuccessful trip to a local 1980s-style arcade. They’d lost every game they played, and Jayren swore by the hair in his armpits that the games were rigged. And just above the door handle, a yellow smiley-face sticker stared back at Corvun with beady black eyes. It was from Jayren’s most recent trip to see his mom in the hospital, two years ago. It had been taped back to the door each time it came unstuck ever since. This room was their safe place, and it had collected more secrets than any of his past friends had been able to twist out of him. He let his guard down. “Have you ever met an Archangel Heir that would risk their standin’ like that? Showin’ off her tattoo has consequences,” he said.

“No,” Jayren said. “They usually just accept the angelic limelight with dry-cleaned church clothes and holier-than-thou smiles. I’m actually starting to think this ‘angel’ thing is bullshit. It’s just a conspiracy.”

Corvun sighed. “And the Illuminati and the Bermuda Triangle and the flat Earth theory?”

“Yeah, but there’s proof of the Bermuda Triangle and—”

“Listen, Vena doesn’t like what she is. I don’t like what I am. You don’t like who you are. Do you see a common thread?”

“Sure, self-haters. Let’s make a squad. Our slogan can be ‘Why let the haters make us famous when we can make ourselves famous?’ Trademarked!”

“Shut up, Jay. I’m not doin’ this for attention or popularity. She’s human like we are.”

“I thought you were half-Archangel.”

Nephilim. Corvun wanted to correct him. An angel stuck in a human body. It wouldn’t be any use. Corvun had tried to explain to Jayren the hierarchy and where they stood within it, but Jayren dismissed it each time. Corvun stood up and glanced over his shoulder at his friend. “Let’s go. You’d argue a point ‘til the grave. I’m not askin’ anymore. We’re goin’.”

Corvun didn’t wait for Jayren. He heaved his bag onto his shoulder and walked out of Jayren’s room. He listened carefully for the sigh and shuffle of Jayren giving in behind him. Outside, both of their motorcycles sat side by side in the driveway, just behind Jayren’s sister’s car.

Corvun left the helmet hanging on the back of his bike as he mounted it.

Jayren swung his leg over his seat, no helmet in sight.

They walked their bikes off the driveway then steered onto the road. As they rode, the wind picked up. Luckily, the route to North Academy was all back roads for them. Corvun watched a few leaves fall—some browning from the changing season and others ripped from their branches as the wind flared up. The sky in the west was dark and churning. The oncoming storm would be vicious, relentless.

The two pulled up to the recreation center and parked.

“You didn’t actually have to break his nose, you know,” Jayren told Corvun.

“Yes, I did.”

Jayren scoffed. “My sister’s pissed. She thinks it’s my fault.”

“Blame it on me,” Corvun said.

“I will,” Jayren said.

Corvun rolled his eyes. He stared at the recreation center. A cool breeze whipped his shoulder-length hair up around his face and pricked his neck with goosebumps. He flattened it back down against the nape of his neck by habit, against his own Archangel tattoo. Half status. He made more than sure to abide by the rules to hide his tattoo. Even though many of the students at the North Academy had angel descendancy—and even though his own rank as Nephilim was one of the highest—he still felt as good as dirt to the Archangels, to Venatrix, and to his own father.

“This is your worst idea yet, Corvun.”

“Shut up, Jay,” he said through clenched teeth. He tightened a fist around the strap of his backpack and stalked towards the building.

“You didn’t even wear your ballet shoes. They won’t let you in there.” Jayren struggled to keep up with Corvun’s long strides.

“I’m not askin’ them to let me in. I’m goin’ in. I’ll dance barefoot if I have to.”

Inside was hardly warmer but more humid from sweat. They navigated the halls of the building, smelling chlorine as they passed the pools and the stale smell of chalk as they rounded the corner of the boxing ring. Corvun led Jayren down the last hall to the rehearsal stage. He heard a faint piano melody twinkling from within the chamber in the distance. Each step he took towards that little door on the right weighed more and more, until finally he stopped. He stood at the open door, his feet as heavy as anchors.

Venatrix swiveled past the door, a few yards in.

Of course, she was killing time before practice with a solo ballroom dance routine—something they used to do together.

“Last chance to back out,” Jayren said to Corvun.

Corvun shook his head and sighed. “If you’ve got nothin’ better to do than complain, at least hold onto my bag and work on your homework or somethin’.”

“Fine.”

Corvun glanced down at his worn sneakers. A brash slap of a shoe made him look up; he saw Venatrix wearing her own, stark-white tennis shoes. He wasn’t surprised. She hadn’t obeyed the rules either. They’d first become inseparable in school when Corvun came to class breaking dress code and sat with the only other student who had done the same: Venatrix. They’d both worn vintage band shirts that day, and suddenly their parents, their ranks, and the rumors vanished. He wanted that simplicity back.

Corvun paused, checking the perimeter for teachers, then slipped onto the rehearsal stage and walked to Venatrix. She was early, as was he, and the only thing he noticed was the line of broken-in, spare pointe shoes by the edge of the stage for kids like them—who’d either destroyed, forgotten, or refused to bring theirs. They would both have to eventually change into the shoes if they wanted to dance anything more than the ballroom warm-up Venatrix was doing now. Corvun continued to Venatrix slowly, warily, until her eyes darted to him. She looked away as if she had only seen a shadow.

Venatrix leaned into a stretched pose. Paused, disciplined. She continued through her dance, but she refused to keep time with the faint piano playing in the corner of the room. She danced to something only she could hear. She spun into each perfected form in her routine. She faltered, lost her balance, and he stepped up and caught her and held her up. No one watching would have been able to tell that Venatrix’s fall and Corvun’s save was anything but what the two had meant for the dance. Venatrix swiveled away, but Corvun stepped in time with her defensive counter and followed her side-by-side. She yanked her hand back; he snatched her wrist before she could spin away again, caught her waist, and dipped her dangerously low.

Venatrix’s short hair brushed the floor. “I don’t want to talk to you,” she said.

“What if I want to talk to you?” he asked.

“Too bad. Let go of me.”

Corvun quirked an eyebrow at her, and she glared back like a feral animal, biting at the bit to attack him. He lifted her back up and loosened his grip on her. She hesitated, didn’t move. She stayed there in his hands. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk?” he asked slowly.

“Yes.”

“Dance, then.”

“With you?” She scoffed.

He felt the sticky, nervous sweat on her palm and between her thumb and pointer finger. “You’re a horrible dancer, anyway. I wouldn’t be missin’ out,” he lied.

Venatrix lifted her chin and held his gaze evenly. She saw right through it. They both knew better; they used to love dancing together. “Teach me then, if you’re so much better than me, Nephilim.”

“Low blow.”

“Speak for yourself, Ben.”

The childhood nickname softened the sting of her use of his rank. He remembered their youth—growing up on and off with her. He remembered how she’d struggled to pronounce his name when she was only a toddler. She’d called him “Corben,” and the name “Ben” stuck. He stared at her wide, blue eyes. He still saw her as that young girl.

Corvun flattened his hand on her back, formed her in his arms how he wanted. He pushed her posture as hard as he could and lifted his chin, knowing she’d mirror it. She did, and he tilted his head patronizingly. Even though he was four years older than her, she had never had an issue challenging him.

Venatrix lifted her chin higher and looked to the side. She followed Corvun as he stepped into a lunge that twisted back upright. Her breath shook as she danced with him. She wasn’t tired, and Corvun noted it by her ready ability to keep up with every step he led her through unannounced. Something was bothering her. Corvun sped up the dance, dipping her and swinging her back up. Her glassy eyes locked on his, and she tightened her jaw.

“You dance like a robot,” he whispered, trying to lure out her trusting side. “You just follow me blindly. Do you know why I’m better?”

“Humor me,” she said.

“Art is emotion. Dance is no different. It’s expression. Put your heart into it. If you’re angry, dance like it.”

Venatrix spun out of his arm, and he pulled her back like a whip. Her hand gripped his shoulder; her body heated with newfound aggression.

“Better,” he said.

They danced around the stage for a while longer. Corvun felt the energy that buzzed through Venatrix like lightning. Her anger was a storm, black fury and thunder, as she exhaled the frustration next to his face.

“They did it again,” she said. Her voice cracked like electricity. She was near enough to him that she didn’t have to speak very loud for him to hear. “I was volunteered against my will,” she seethed, “for a drinking-stripping game.”

Corvun’s hands pricked with pins and needles where they rested on her back. He let go of her and stepped away. He only stayed close enough for her to continue without risking anyone else overhearing. He swallowed. Her light eyes grew distant, and he fought the urge to look at the ground. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Venatrix rubbed at her dark lashes, cleverly wiping away dampness in her eyes, and made it look as if she’d just fixed her hair. “That’s why I cut my hair. I’m tired of them making me out to be a slut. I’m never going to wear makeup. I’m going to prove to everyone that I’m better than them.”

“You don’t have to do all that, you know,” Corvun said. He looked at the hardwood floor between their sneakers. He glanced up at her meekly. “You were always better than them. Still are.”

Venatrix fell quiet.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I should have been there.”

They stood facing each other.

“Can I sit with you at lunch?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. He offered his hand again, and she took it.

This time, they dueled for control of the dance.

JAYREN OMANS

Jayren stood in the same spot Corvun had left him, just to the side of the door. He watched Corvun and Venatrix stalk through their silent routine. He picked at a piece of loose skin on his finger absently, leaned back against the wall. He stared, and his heart sank. He wondered—now that Corvun and Venatrix were on speaking terms—if Corvun would forget he existed. Jayren worried he was a burden as a friend anyway. Between hearing voices in his head every now and then and the gossip passed around about his mom and dad, even Jayren wished he could just disappear sometimes.

He sighed, thought about fishing his headphones from his backpack and cramming them in his ears to distract himself. That’s when he heard the shy piano melody in the corner and realized he knew it from somewhere. His mind revved up and raced at two hundred miles per hour to place the song. He’d heard it plenty, and he put a finger on it. The song was by one of his favorite, obscure dubstep artists. The genre had gone so far out of style that Jayren never expected to hear it anywhere but in his wireless headphones. Jayren glanced to his right, where the piano was tucked behind thick, red velvet curtains.

The student from earlier that day in the office—the six-foot-something guy carved straight from dinosaur-DNA-preserving amber—sat at the piano. Hell on Earth, Jayren thought. More like “Hell, what on Earth wouldn’t I give to look like you?” He was gorgeous. He continued to pluck twinkling notes from the familiar song, making his own clever rendition. It reminded Jayren of running through sprinklers in summer and the feeling of droplets of water racing out of his wet hair and down his sunburned back. Jayren rubbed his neck and walked over. The boy’s fingers danced over the keys in a light trance, and Jayren wondered how loud he would’ve played if no one were listening.

Beside him on the steps just above the top of the piano, a girl sat with a notebook in her lap. She looked exactly like him—with skin the color of creamy, spice tea and really pretty, long, red hair.

Jayren cleared his throat.

The girl looked up first.

Jayren’s face flushed. “Hi,” he managed in a crack of a voice. He suddenly regretted tagging along. This was his own worst idea yet.

The girl’s cheeks quirked into a small but genuine smile. Her green eyes were beautiful and tired. She had wiped smears of concealer beneath them—Jayren could smell it—and it didn’t fully hide the dark rings on her skin. A sudden quiver of her lips and chin gave her away; she was nervous, but Jayren didn’t understand why. She closed the notebook in her lap.

Jayren picked his brain for their names. He knew them. He’d seen them a lot. They were the only students who probably got a worse rap than he did. Jayren wondered if that was why the girl was nervous—because she thought Jayren had come to bully them like the other students did. Jayren refused to believe the rumors about them were true, and instead, he liked to believe they were just generally too beautiful to talk to. “You guys are the Jude twins, right?” his voice broke again. He swallowed hard.

The boy’s playing changed. He elicited jagged notes, nailing each one down with terrifyingly swift precision. Then his fingers began hammering wrong notes. He gave up with a swiping slam across the keys, a jumbled mix of muted and disoriented harmonies. He sighed.

“Orion, right?”

Orion looked up and stared straight ahead, ignoring Jayren.

“Dude, keep going! That was really good. Was it that song Forget Me Not by that dubstep—”

Orion glanced at Jayren. His eyes were a bright, sea glass green.

“—artist who did all of the…”

“The flower-themed songs? Yeah, actually,” Orion said. “Wait, you know him, too?”

“Hell yeah, he has the coolest stuff.” Jayren took a step forward.

Orion scooted over on the piano bench.

Jayren hesitated then plopped down beside Orion.

Orion traced his fingers down the keys, lightly tapping at the notes to encourage the same, gentle song. His fingers were thin and his knuckles were bruised, but he touched the instrument with care. The piano purred like a happy cat as Orion played. It was as if Orion spoke to the instrument and it to him; they carried on a conversation which had been spoken a hundred times in their own special way.

“So,” Jayren said, “it is Orion then.”

“You can call me Rian. That’s my sister, Ophiah.”

Jayren looked at her again, and she smiled back, a bit wider. If Venatrix’s extraordinarily good looks came from “being an angel,” then Ophiah one-upped her in every way. Jayren wondered. “Are you guys Archangel Heirs? If you believe in that sort of stuff, I guess.”

Orion shook his head. “Not Heirs.”

Jayren’s brow furrowed. “Okay.”

“Do you want to come sit beside me?” Ophiah asked. Her voice was warm milk and sticky-sweet honey.

Jayren swallowed up her offer, set his bag on the bench next to Orion, and jumped up to the steps where Ophiah sat. He perched beside her, and she opened her notebook back up. His eyes devoured the scribbles inside her journal, but dismay punched through his heart when he noticed it wasn’t feelings about boys. Ophiah’s journal was full of handwritten sheet music without lyrics. This could be a good thing, he thought to himself. Maybe she doesn’t have a boyfriend. He settled into his spot beside her. “This is cool. Did you write it—I mean, come up with it?”

Ophiah tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She laughed. “It’s our studies. Mother has us handwrite old scores to memorize them.”

Jayren watched her hands as she flipped over her journal pages like they were ancient scrolls in a museum. Her brown nail polish chipped away from her fingertips, and soft watercolor blues and purples bruised the skin just beneath her sleeve. He almost asked, but she spoke again.

“When you study really far into music theory, you learn some of the lore. Most of it isn’t written anywhere. Mother taught us those parts. The basics are, ‘Music is a gift from God that can be used to counteract demons and other evils.’ There are a lot of different ways, but one of them is the intent in which the music is played.”

Jayren looked at Ophiah again, and he noticed a small patch of freckles she had missed with concealer. They were cute, and Jayren didn’t understand why she covered them up at all. He studied her face for clues. He found a spot—on her other cheek—that was slightly darker than the rest.

Ophiah caught him looking, brushed her hair back into her face, then turned away to grab the violin case behind her. She opened the clattering latches and pulled the instrument from its bed. She touched the body of the violin lovingly, raised it to the crook of her neck, and laid her chin on the small, black plate. She didn’t use her bow but instead plucked at the strings. She mirrored Orion’s playing style, and she matched his melodies with shy harmonies. “When you play an instrument with love, it becomes your weapon.”

Jayren put his chin in his hands and watched her fingers flit over the strings like she was picking wildflowers for a crown. Her music sounded like spring, like rebirth, like the joy Jayren suspected dogs felt when they saw their owners. Each note she plucked tugged on his heart. He tried to hold back his unsolicited smile. He covered his mouth with his palm so she wouldn’t see.

Ophiah glanced over her violin at him and smiled even brighter.

Jayren blushed nervously.

“Do you believe in angels and demons?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

Orion scoffed.

“Do you believe in God?” Ophiah asked.

“Do you guys sing?” Jayren changed the topic.

“No. For what we are, our voices are tools of evil,” Orion said.

Jayren recalled earlier that day in Professor North’s office, when Venatrix had corrected “who” instead of “what.” Jayren noticed Ophiah’s lack of correcting her brother. Orion didn’t change his words.

“We are the hands and feet of God—the instruments God uses—but the tongue is set on fire by Hell,” Ophiah said. “We are not allowed to sing.”

“Are you kidding?”

Ophiah stayed quiet, lowering her violin. She turned to put her violin away and accidentally knocked her notebook from her lap. The pages flipped open to a score with Star Wars Main Theme written across the top in small, neat handwriting.

Jayren reached down and grabbed the notebook then stared at Ophiah, eyes wide. “You know this?”

“Yeah. Orion and I are leading the theater’s orchestra for the play. Are you trying out?”

“I—uh, no. I mean yes. I love Star Wars.”

Dimples poked in Ophiah’s smile.

Jayren’s heart lodged in his throat.

“Who are you auditioning for?”

“Pffft. Luke, of course,” he half-choked.

Orion stopped playing the piano. His eyes were fixed on Corvun and Venatrix, who still marched around the room in a combative dance. Jayren watched, too, and beside him Ophiah turned a few pages and began drawing small notes on the music staff.

“She’s smart, right?” Orion asked.

“I mean, yeah. She’s ahead a few years. She’s in some of Corvun’s classes. I mean, Corvun and her used to be really good friends, and he said she always did better than him in everything—in grades, too, and he’s smart. They grew up together, I guess. He doesn’t really talk about that, though. He never really talks about her at all. I don’t actually know why they’re not friends anymore. I tried to ask him—”

“She’s in my Religious Studies class,” Orion interrupted.

Jayren stopped talking.

“Do you have her number?” he asked Jayren.

“Nah, I just know she lives down the street from Corvun,” Jayren said.

“Ri,” Ophiah chastised softly. “If you want her number, go ask her for it yourself.”

Orion picked at the piano keys again. He didn’t look down, but rather kept his sights up, watching Venatrix. “I like her hair,” he said.

Jayren rolled his eyes. He realized anything she would do would be considered a statement or a new trend. Jayren wished he were so popular he could get away with anything he wanted—and at the same time, do it in style. He thought the first thing he’d do (if he was ever so lucky that the opportunity presented itself) would be to start a food fight and launch mashed potatoes into her face.

CORVUN KHLYDE

By the time practice ended, plans were made, and Venatrix was tagging along. Even though Jayren gave them both the silent treatment, Corvun didn’t change his mind. Venatrix rode on the back of his motorcycle, and he and Jayren parted ways. Corvun dropped Venatrix off at her house.

Corvun stood on the sidewalk, and Venatrix started up her family’s driveway.

She turned around. “Do you forgive me?”

“What for?”

“For not being there for you,” she said. “For not taking your side.”

Corvun held her gaze, but he couldn’t speak.

Her eyes were the saddest shade of blue. “Because I’m sorry.”

“Yeah…” He paused. “I forgive you.”

VENATRIX CANES

Venatrix stared at the mashed potatoes on her plate. Her hair clung to her face in small, annoying licks, still damp from her shower. Outside, rain continued thrumming against the rooftop, shifting through the trees.

Forks clinked against plates.

Her mom spoke, the first to break the dinner’s silence. “Vena, honey, do you want to talk about what happened today?”

Venatrix blushed angrily. She stabbed the prongs of her fork through her steak. She was sure Valentine had called and filled in her parents with full, unbiased detail.

Erin sat—wisely—in silence.

Caeleb, on the other hand, scratched his fork across his plate, and Venatrix shot him a glare. His face blurred together with dark blues and purples, and his eyes were puffy on the inside corners. A piece of white medical tape stuck crookedly to his nose.

She gritted her teeth and made a mental note to thank Corvun. “Do you know that Caeleb treats other angels like shit?” she seethed. Venatrix met her mother’s soft, blue-eyed gaze, saw the change in her expression. Venatrix continued. “Do you know he walks all over the Nephilim like they’re lesser than us? It’s kind of funny he didn’t foresee Corvun busting his nose. I thought Archangels were supposed to be the most powerful entities on Earth these days.”

Caeleb dropped his fork. “Can she be excused? She’s making me lose my appetite.”

“Your face is making me lose my appetite,” Venatrix said.

“Thanks, sis.”

Venatrix stood and carried her plate to the sink and scraped the rest of her still-warm food into the drain. She rinsed the food down and flipped the disposal on. It churned loudly, and at the table, her mother flinched. Venatrix burned in anger and embarrassment and in an inkling of regret as she stalked away from the kitchen and fled upstairs to her room. The air chilled the sweat beading on her neck. Venatrix slammed her door behind her and heard her father raise his voice and yell at Caeleb and Erin; her mother chimed in too.

Venatrix flung herself across her bed. She stared across her room to her backpack, deciding she’d skip her homework and take a low-end A for the semester.

Her phone buzzed on the bed beside her.

She ignored it.

Venatrix glared at her desk lamp for a moment, leaving blind spots in the back of her eyes, then rolled onto her back and looked at her phone. It was Lynx—her closest friend and Corvun’s cousin. A text popped up on the screen saying, ‘Call me.’

Venatrix sighed. She listened to the rain clattering on the rooftop and on the window for another minute before calling Lynx. Venatrix didn’t speak, but Lynx began spewing on the other end of the line.

“Girl, where were you at lunch? I looked everywhere. I saw Caeleb leavin’ school this mornin’ and—and Corvun won’t even talk to me! I texted him, and he read it and ignored it. He never does that. He always says somethin’, even if it’s ‘okay’ to a yes or no question. I tried to call him and he picked up then hung up on me! What happened?”

“He punched Caeleb in the face.”

“He what?” Lynx shrieked.

Venatrix closed her eyes. “Yeah, we both have detention on Monday.”

“Hey girl,” Lynx’s tone changed suddenly. Usually she’d dig more into the drama, but she continued as if it were an afterthought. “Come to your window.”

“Why?” she asked. Sometimes Lynx would sneak over and come in through her window, but Venatrix wasn’t up for a surprise girls-night-in visit tonight. “I don’t want you here right now. My parents are yelling at Caeleb and Erin downstairs. It’s not a good time. I just want to go to sleep,” she moaned. She was surprised her parents even had the time or energy to scold her brothers; they usually didn’t. All the Archangels were usually so busy with either fighting or planning defense or other strategies for the Unseen Wars against the demons that they couldn’t see their own children turning into demons, themselves.

“No, it’s not me, I mean… Just, c’mon! Go to your window!”

Venatrix stood and walked to her window, brow furrowed. She peeked through her curtains to see a boy crouching there, his freckled knuckles ready to tap on the glass. His rosy-auburn hair and distant green eyes gave him away. It was Orion. And it was the last place she ever expected him to be. He looked up at her, and she stared back. “I gotta go,” she whispered to Lynx.

Lynx giggled. “Who is it?”

Venatrix hung up. She cracked the window and knelt to talk to Orion. “What are you doing on my roof?” she snapped. “And how did—where did you get my address?”

“Uh, Jayren got it from…Corvun’s sister? I think…” He smiled, a bit unsure.

Venatrix clenched her jaw.

“Are you going to let me in?” Orion’s face shone brightly, despite the storm and the rain plastering his long hair to his face. There were dimples in his smile, but they felt forced, fake.

“No, my parents would kill me. They’ll kill you if they find you here! Go home. It’s raining,” she felt as if she needed to state the obvious. Something told her he didn’t care.

“I know, so let me in…” He touched her fingertips on the window like a cat reaching his paws under a door, begging for attention, wet and soft and small.

Venatrix pulled her hand back. “Tell me why you’re here.”

“I know what you are. I want to ask you about something.” His smile vanished. “Please. I have to get home soon, anyway. I won’t stay long.”

“You have to be quiet,” she whispered.

“I will.”

Venatrix hesitated, mulling over the odds of getting caught. His touch on her fingers replayed in her head. She couldn’t resist him. She opened the window all the way, and Orion slipped in. He stood by her curtains, dripping with water. He smelled like the earth and the ocean all at once; the dirt and the salty-fresh air, calloused and raw, worn and tireless. He was a juxtaposition; he didn’t make sense. “Don’t move,” she said as she scrambled to find a blanket and give it to him.

He looked a lot smaller than he had at school, wearing his drenched tee and baggy jeans, but he was still tall and lean and toned. His arms were covered by old-style gothic text and deep, blood-soaked bruises.

She shut her jaw tightly to keep from gawking. “Dry off,” she said, but her voice was choked. She wanted to ask to see if that was the reason he was there with her. Her heart plummeted in her chest, dragging her words with it. So the rumors are true, she thought. His father does abuse him. But it was so much worse than she expected it to be now that she laid eyes on the evidence of it. She pushed the quilt against his chest, and his hand touched hers again. She pulled away.

Orion tousled his hair in the blanket. “I’m sorry for—” his voice was thick and rich.

“Shhh!” she hushed him. She stared in his eyes and saw the flinch, the hurt. He looked scared, terrified, and vulnerable, but Venatrix didn’t understand why. He was safe with her, and she would make sure of it. “You have to be quiet,” she reminded.

Orion looked away from her and studied her room instead. He walked around her room with bare feet, looking at the five-by-seven cards she’d pinned all over her purple-gray walls. The Christmas lights that hung around her ceiling turned his skin honey-gold. “Do you do art?” he asked in a whisper; she almost missed it.

“No, I… I just print them. They’re…” The conversation seemed fickle, and her chest weighed heavy with emotion. “I just like the pictures.”

He touched her record player. “You listen to records?”

“Yeah.”

Orion thumbed through the box of vinyl next to the player.

Venatrix noticed a small, white-lined tattoo on the back of his neck peeking through dark tendrils of his hair. She recognized the shape instantly—a shield with four, fanned wings. All Archangel descendants were required to get the tattoo, but she had never seen it in white ink before. “You’re part Archangel,” she said out loud.

“And…part Deceiver,” he finished evenly. He stopped browsing her music and looked up to stare at her wall. Polaroids she and Lynx had taken spotted the space above her record player, strung in with the lights. She felt vulnerable suddenly, to be alone with him in her room, for him to see inside her personal space, the pictures, her bed. “You can see the tattoo,” Orion said, “so you’re full-fledged. Your mom and dad are both Archangels. Only Archangels and their Heirs can see it.”

Venatrix occupied herself with pushing divots into her rug with her heels. Her mind spun. She wondered if maybe Orion could be a new start, if maybe she could redefine what friendship should be with him. Not because of popularity. Not for benefit or gain. Just companionship. No more rumors, she thought. She would get to know him herself. “Who hurt you?” she asked finally. She wanted to hear it from him.

The question made Orion twitch. “Don’t you know?”

She took a step toward him, and he turned.

Venatrix froze.

Orion searched her face. “My—uh…blood father. I don’t know what to call him anymore. The demon that conceived me, I guess.”

Venatrix listened to the ins and outs of his voice, the falters and flickers of doubt and hatred. She’d bet money that the angels instilled that into him. She wanted to believe she heard hope somewhere, but she couldn’t be sure. She walked to her door and locked it. Venatrix grabbed another quilt, motioned for him to give her the wet one, then handed him the dry blanket. “Take your shirt off and wrap up. You’ll warm up faster.”

Orion shook his head.

“Do you have more?” She eyed his bruises again.

He nodded. His hands clutched the quilt, and tears filled the lower half of his eyes. He turned before she could watch one escape.

Venatrix faced away when he lifted his shirt. She hoped it would make him more comfortable, or maybe it was for her own sake.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Is that why you’re here?” She listened to him sit on the edge of her bed.

“No, I—” he struggled. “I mean kind of, but not really. Here.”

Venatrix turned and watched him fish a small plastic bag from his pocket. Inside, there was a folded piece of blue paper. She took the bag when he offered it to her.

“I wanted to see if you could tell me what this is,” he said.

“Why not just look it up online?”

Orion’s eyes were wide and empty.

“No phone?”

He shook his head.

Venatrix sat in her swivel chair and spun to face her desk. She pulled up a browser on her computer and unfolded the paper to read the handwritten prescription. It was a medication she hadn’t heard of. “Who gave you this?”

“Professor North.”

She typed the name of the prescription and scrolled through the results. It didn’t take long to find the use. The drug was an extreme sedative, a tranquilizer for wild animals. It wasn’t meant for humans. She slumped in her seat. “Does your mom know about this?”

“Not yet.”

“Do you want it?”

He paused. “No.”

Venatrix glared at the prescription, snatched it from her desk, and tore it to shreds. The weight on her chest started to lift. She closed her computer and threw the remnants of the paper in the trash. “I hate it. I hate that they treat you like shit,” she said, “like somehow you’re lesser. You, Corvun, Lynx. It’s not fair.”

“You do the same.”

Venatrix spun in her chair to face him. Embarrassment reddened her cheeks.

“Your little scene this morning?” He tilted his head patronizingly, yet somehow still shy. “You showed off your tattoo to people like me. The lesser ones.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t prescribe you an anesthetic strong enough to put out a five-hundred-pound lion.”

“That’s what that was?”

Venatrix shrugged.

Orion slouched, too. He laid back on her bed, and the quilt around his shoulders flipped open to reveal more intricate tattoos on his side. Still, Venatrix didn’t think he looked dangerous enough to take drugs—prescription or recreational—at all.

Venatrix stood slowly and walked over to sit beside him. “Why do you have all those tattoos?”

“Mother made me get them. Ophiah has them too. They’re supposed to be reminders.” Orion didn’t protest when Venatrix tugged the blanket open. “The sleeves are passages from the Psalms.”

Venatrix traced his tan skin with her eyes. Across his upper chest, bold script spelled “Memento Mori.” On each of his sides, a tree stretched its intertwining arms out. One was full of leaves, and the other had bare branches. As beautiful as they were, Venatrix couldn’t ignore the swells of bruises or the way his ribcage protruded past his stomach. Her insides welled with emotion again. “They’re cool. I wish I had tattoos like yours,” she managed. Her heart ached when she saw the tears on his cheeks.

“I wish I had cool hair like yours. It’s awesome.”

Venatrix forced a thin smile. Before she could respond, Orion began drifting in and out of sleep. His eyes rolled back until they were only whites, and it reminded Venatrix of the mural in Professor North’s office. She looked to her bedroom door, back to her still-cracked window. The wind howled outside, threatening to slip inside her home like a thief and shatter her normal life. It fluttered the papers on her desk, the journal entry she’d written that very morning before searching the kitchen for scissors. She held her breath, collapsed back onto her bed, and exhaled.

Sleep came for her with swift arms; it carried her deep into the quiet dark.

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