 
CONVERSATIONS WITH

THE LIGHT BEARER

Justin Villanueva

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014-2016

Smashwords Edition, License Notes.

* * * * *

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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.

The opinions expressed in this book are of the author's only and do not necessarily reflect the views of his religion—because he has none.

DEDICATION

This work is dedicated to my friend, Dani, who more or less gave me the idea to write this book. To my best friend Lawrence, who as usual helped me unclog my writer's block. (Aka Manto is dedicated to him. Only he would know why). And to all the friends and peers who supported me in this endeavor. Above all others, this book is for my loving and caring wife, Joann, who always found time to read and proofread every chapter I managed to write.

Thank you.

I hope you enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

*****

CONVERSATIONS WITH

THE LIGHT BEARER

*****

## CHAPTER I

## THE INTERVIEW

"Tell me about yourself."

Those were the very first words.

"Say what?"

It all started six years ago. Pale light engulfed the room, draping everything in a life-sucking warmth. It was dreadfully dull. Barely the size of two toilet cubicles, the interview room reeked of dingy carpets and conditioned air, the absolute surrender to despair and corporate dictatorship.

"Tell me something about yourself, Mr. Pines," said the impossibly hefty woman. The interviewer had short straight hair down to her neck, square glasses, and an intricate necklace hanging from her neck. (In which, by the way, seemed more like a cow's bell on her more than anything else.)

"Pardon me, my lady," I inquired to my bewilderment. "But where exactly am I?"

For about half a minute, she just sat there, staring at me with her thick, raised eyebrow. Her sausage fingers began to tap on the desk. I swallowed. It was the only thing between us. It was terrifying. The woman didn't even have wrists. It was like the hand was attached directly to her arm. And the neck—no, don't even get me started on the neck.

"Excuse me?" The woman raised her voice, with as much emphasis on the 'me.' "Is this some kind of joke?"

"No, my lady. This is no jest," I calmly replied. "I am simply puzzled by my sudden relocation."

"What? W-What's wrong with you?" she stuttered. "And stop calling me 'my lady'! I'm not your lady!" she exclaimed, and thank God she is not. (Though I meant that as an expression and not a fact, for I know He does not have anything to do with it.)

For a moment, I paused. By then, I already knew I was in some poor lad's vessel. The only question—for which I had been asking for quite a while now—was where on this godforsaken earth did my son banish me. Unfortunately, it seemed that my approach, under the unfortunate circumstances of my body transfer, (and quite the impeccable timing, I might add) was highly unlikely to get the expected answer. So in a way, I had to improvise, as I usually do—since the dawn of time.

"Forgive me, err..." I peered intently at her badge. "—Rebecca, but I was just trying to brighten up the mood. You see, I easily get frantic over such serious affairs that I find myself too stunned to be of any logical merit."

She just sat there, her face as constipated as before. It seems my silver tongue has lost its magic, I thought. But then she stopped tapping, and spoke.

"Becky..."

"Pardon?"

"You can call me Becky."

And so the spell takes its toll. "Oh, Becky... But why? Rebecca is such a lovely name."

She smiled to my delight. "R-Really?" she muttered, her voice reduced to that of a begging puppy. "It's an ugly name. Nobody calls me that here."

And so the opportunity arose. "Oh, but they should! Rebecca, do you know that's my mother's name?"

"Oh my! I'm very sorry, Sir Vincent. I—"

"Vince. You can call me Vince."

"Oh, okay, Vince. Now let me take a look at your résumé."

It looked too easy. I had my charms, of course, but this was too easy. And then I glanced over my reflection at the window behind her. The man, this Vincent Pines, was surely a polished gentleman. A true professional with devilish good looks, my new host resembled an early thirties Timothy Dalton with slicked-back hair and a lean build, sporting a black coat and tie that could give James Bond a run for his money. Not bad. Not bad indeed. At least my son had the decency to find me a suitable-looking host. From then on, I knew I had her in the palm of my hand.

"Shall we continue then?"

****

"Now the serpent was more crafty than any of the wild animals the LORD God had made."

—Genesis 3:1

## CHAPTER II

## DEATH PAYS A VISIT

It came in the night, an hour before moon's peak.

The gleaming crescent hid warily behind the veil, the black night as silent as death. If people knew any better, they would have painted their doors with lamb's blood. Not really a novel motif—not to mention the stench it would cause—but I suppose people can sleep at ease these days without fear of their first born suddenly dying from a heart attack. The wind blew stronger. The window curtains billowed, casting malicious shadows over the varnished floor. And then suddenly, I wasn't alone anymore.

"Good evening, Samael," said the unseen entity. It was only a voice, though I knew he was there. I could smell the queer stench, fragrant yet grim, like a bouquet of flowers on a late afternoon funeral. "How fares your mortal life?"

"It's been six years, for the love of God. Six years gone in the blink of an eye. Six years since my blasted son banished me to live and die in the mortal realm." I rested my back on the headboard. It felt odd receiving a guest in my nightclothes. But then again, he didn't even knock. "And please don't address me by that name. I am no more a part of Heaven as I am of Hell."

"Would you prefer Lucifer Morningstar? Or perhaps Shiva the Destroyer?" the deep but refined voice continued. "Yes, I recall you visited India quite often back then."

"Vincent," I answered swiftly, before he mustered any more titles I had since Creation. "Just Vincent. And I would hardly consider myself a destroyer, if you know what I mean."

"Very well. So Vincent, eh? Derived from the Roman name Vincentius, this in turn derived from the Latin vincere, which means to conquer. Quite a suitable name, you have chosen."

"Despite my love for etymology, no, I did not come up with that one." I cleared my throat. "That is the name of this body."

"I see."

For a while, the angel was silent, though I could only imagine the boy scout inspecting my chambers, scrutinizing every nook and cranny of it, and formulating a mental note from which he would report to his big boss upstairs. In essence, the bedroom was quite small, about four meters wide. A small, round table for the occasional midnight snack rested on the corner. The bed, a single bed size, lay in front of it.

"Oh my, where are my manners?" I said as I made the gesture. "Please do have a seat."

"Why, thank you, Vincent." The matching chair beside the table moved, floating for a while in midair, then dropping softly a few inches in front of the bed. Quite graceful, I might add. "A lovely place, you have here."

"Suitable to my needs, I suppose," I replied. "So what can I do you for, Azrael?"

"Nothing, really. Should there be a reason to visit an old friend?"

I raised an eyebrow. Friend? No reason to visit me? Something was definitely wide off the mark. "Old friend?" I snickered. "Since when did we become friends?"

"Ever since Egypt, I suppose," the angel answered. "You even paid visit to take a gander, did you not?"

"False, thou art not. Though I came to simply confirm a wager: if He could really have used such cruel and implacable tactics, not to mention disgraceful, all just for the Egyptian Prince to mind his faults."

"And were you the victor?"

I laughed. "Of course."

"And why were you so confident?"

"Why?" I scratched my head. "Because that little fiasco you mustered was child's play compared to the Great Flood, where not only children died, but the rest of the world drowned with His pride."

The billowing curtains settled, the wind silent as a whisper. "Yes. I suppose what He did was far more . . . what's the term? Oh, yes—epic."

I scratched my chin. "Epic?" I always wondered if these so called 'angels' had any morality in them. "So tell me, Anubis, if we're talking about Egypt and all. Did you enjoy it? Did you take pleasure in reaping the life of every First Born from their bodies?"

The chair moved an inch, sending a piercing echo. "We do what we are commanded of. To obey is our duty, to trust is our faith."

"Blind obedience, if you ask me." I snickered. "And from whom? That self-absorbed, arrogant, murderous Father you never see? Or that barbarian commanding His army?"

Azrael's voice grew deeper, multiplied ten folds as if he was possessed by a legion of demons. "Thou shall not take the name of the Lord God in vain!"

The cold draft returned, now stronger, and the light bulb flickered incessantly. "Calm down, angel. No need for the theatrics." I said calmly, sauntering towards the shelf where my midnight snack was hidden. "Chocolates?"

And then his voice returned to normal. "Oh, no, thank you. We angels do not eat, but I guess you already know that."

These angels were always a dupe when it came to proper manners and etiquette. They just couldn't resist it. When one of them went apocalyptic as Azrael did, all you need was to offer them a seat, a snack, or anything that would require them to show their gratitude; a bunch of sissies, if you ask me. I can only think of one who had no decorum, no manners at all—that barbarian. Oh, how I despise him.

"Oh, silly me. Sometimes I just get so famished in the middle of the night. Pity though, you can't taste it. I have plenty to share. I have some roasted peanuts, Gummy Bears, some Hershey, Crunch, and some Oreo."

"What does it taste like?" he said, with a tone of interest.

"How would you know? You haven't tasted anything else before."

Azrael chuckled. "I suppose you're right."

I strolled towards him, pulling another chair as I placed the treats on the table.

"These bears... They have so many colors!" the angel exclaimed, like a kid on trick-or-treat.

I nodded. "Yes, they do come in delectable saturations."

The green bear began to float, then the yellow, then the orange. "Dear God! I have never seen such marvelous creatures!"

Facepalm. Yes, facepalm. Azrael, the Angel of Death, the Grim Reaper, is officially a dupe. "Uhm, they're not actually real—"

"Can I keep them?"

"Say what?"

"Can I keep them?"

"But you can't eat them."

"Eat them? Of course not!" the angel said, his voice filled with apparent glee. "Why would I? They're fascinating!"

I started on the Oreo. "Sure, sure. By all means, take the whole bag."

"Truly? Are you certain?"

"Yes. Don't worry. I can always buy a pack down at 7/11."

The poor Gummy Bears levitated and went straight back to the plastic bag, then in a sudden twist, they were gone. "Thank you, Samael. Err... I mean Vincent. Your good deeds will not go unrewarded."

"Really, now? A chance in Heaven, perhaps?"

The Angel of Death coughed, clearly with intent. "Err... Now that you mention it..."

I laughed hard. "Just playing with you, angel. Not really hoping for that." I took a sip at the milk. "Especially with mighty Thor around."

"Sir Michael? Despite what he says, I think your brother misses you."

"Delight in your thought, angel," I said, moving on to the Crunch, "for whatever you may think of him, he will always be what he is—a moronic, bloodthirsty warmonger."

"But he is still your brother."

"Hah! Brother?" I snickered. "Not you recall his sin against me?"

Azrael paused, then resumed, "But... But you broke the Law. You—"

The taste of crackling rice and chocolate exploded in my mouth. "Fine. Let us not dwell on events long past. What is it you came for again?"

"Oh, yes. Uhm..."

I licked the chocolate off my fingers. "Yes?"

"Have other spirits passed your quarters?"

Visits? Other spirits? Something odd was certainly afoot. "No. You're the first, actually, in quite a long while. The last was another exile, Beelzebub, though he was just inviting me to another company outing."

"Swimming?"

Last were the peanuts. I always saved them for last. "Yes. Three days, two nights."

"Wonderful."

For a while, he paused; the kind where one was lost on his next words.

"Ehem!" I cleared my throat. "You were saying?"

"The War."

With a raised eyebrow, a scooped another handful of nuts. "What about it?"

"It's coming."

I kept chewing. "Hmm... Is that so? Has it finally come to that?"

"Yes. I'm afraid so." Azrael sounded serious. If Heaven itself had sent the Angel of Death to court me, then it could only mean one thing.

Swallowing hard, I asked the question I already knew the answer to. "And why, for all reasons, are you telling me this?"

The angel paused, then said, "Well, with your son Mammon ruling Hell in your stead, the Almighty Father... the Heavenly Father asked me... to ask you..." If there's anything I hate more than bullcrap, it's constipated bullcrap. Even Death couldn't say it straight to my face.

I grinned to my delight. "Well, go on now. Spit it out."

Finally he managed to let it all out. "Father wants you to join us. God wants you to join us."

****

"About midnight I will go throughout Egypt. Every firstborn in Egypt will die, from the firstborn son of Pharaoh, who sits on the throne, to the firstborn of the slave girl, who is at her hand mill, and all the firstborn of the cattle as well. There will be loud wailing throughout Egypt—worse than there has ever been or ever will be again."

—Exodus 11:4–6

## CHAPTER III

## THE BLOODY SEXIST BIBLE

It was Thursday night—drinking night. Central always had a promo during weekdays: three cocktail pitchers and two choices of sizzling side dishes. And as the years passed, Thursday sort of became our preferred arrangement to dabble incoherently on despised politics, hidden charges, exasperating bosses, and loathed timesheets. It was indeed a night to look forward to; an evening of fun and the occasional visits to massage parlors and houses without kitchens. A few more minutes and lover boy arrived.

"Hey there, Vincy!" howled the young man with shoulder-length hair. "Been here long?"

"Yes, for an hour now." I turned to inspect his rugged ensemble, a walking mannequin of leather and bling. "If I may ask—what the heavens are you wearing, Beelzebub?"

"Asks the man who looks like a funeral attendant," Beelzebub retorted, brushing his slick black hair with his fingers, his eyes wheeling about. "And don't call me by that ugly name. You don't hear me calling you Loki or Hades or Sata—"

"It's called a suit. You should try it sometimes, Ritcher."

That's good old Beelzebu—er... I mean, Ritcher for you. Of all the things in Heaven, Hell and the mortal realm, what he despised the most was his name—which was pretty much reasonable. And of all the exiled entities, he was the one who took pleasure in it the most. He savored every bit of it, really. The fame, the glamour; the girls and the gadgets—he wanted it all, he wanted to be human, which was pretty much what he got.

As for his fortunate host, well... he wasn't anywhere near as appealing as mine, especially before Beelzebub took over his body. The young man was basically a bore—complete with a large belly, round spectacles, and a kimpi haircut—which was even more stressed due to his lack of wit and confidence. Poor lad.

And just like me, the demon didn't really had any say on which body he would be exiled to, but good old Beelzebub made the most of it: ditching the glasses, going to the gym, taking on a strict diet, eventually losing weight and updating his overall wardrobe. In a nutshell, Ritcher turned the dull pig to a six-abed, cologne-reeking, ass-grabbing ladies' man.

Not bad for the Lord of Flies.

"No, thanks. Never liked the tie. Makes me feel old." Ritcher winked at the girl across the table as he took a seat. "So how are you, man? What have you been up to lately?"

"Between surviving the boss and the landlady, I'd say nothing much, really. Nothing you'd be interested in anyway."

"Wait—what boss? Are you talking about Nancy?" He wondered, placing a hand on his jaw. "She's hot, man. Tightly curved in all the right places. I'd do her every day. I'd do her every day if I were you. "

That's Beelzebub for you—a true gentlemen.

"Well... Despite her perfectly enticing figure, I just find her so horribly strict and unreasonable. There's just something about her I can't stand."

"So the girl's got a stick up her ass. What gives?" Lover boy continued his profound lecture. "Usually it's the nerdy, librarian types that get you going, if you know what I mean."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Ritcher. You're the satyr around here."

The music grew a little louder. He leaned forward. "No idea? I'm pretty sure Perse would disagree." He grinned, like a man who knew a past long buried and forgotten, and should be kept long buried and forgotten. "Bringing her down and all."

Oh, Beelzebub. He just had to bring that up. "Well, she was dear to me, I admit, but our short-lived love affair just proved that a perfect match doesn't really lead to a perfect affair."

"Boom!" He slammed on the table. "So the Devil may care? Or cry?"

The waitress, Michelle, who was only waiting for Ritcher to arrive, finally brought in the cocktails. Lover boy filled our glasses as he winked at her. "Hey there, beautiful." He brushed her arm. "What time do you get off?"

As regulars, Ritcher and I knew Michelle quite well. And if you ask me, I'd say lover boy knew her a little more, if you know what I mean. She was attractive indeed, with a slender figure, milk-white skin, long straight hair and irresistibly pouty lips. She wore a white collared shirt (with ample cleavage to boot) tacked in beneath a black above-knee skirt, short enough to showcase her long, luscious gams. Michelle was one reason we frequented the bar, and for Ritcher, one reason to always bring protection.

"Hey Ritch," she said slowly in her soft, tempting voice. "Did you miss me?"

"Why, of course I did," Ritcher reassured her, then pulled something from his jacket pocket. "I even brought you flowers."

Oh, Ritcher. He never did run out of tricks. "Flower. That's just one stem," I murmured, though Michelle didn't seem to mind. She smiled as she took the single tulip. "Awe... That's so sweet, Ritch."

"Did you buy that from the vendor loitering outside?" I asked sarcastically.

"Shhh..." He placed a finger on his lips. "Don't spoil the magic, Vince."

I shook my head, then raised a toast to an old friend. "Shall we begin the night then?"

"I'll toast to that, my friend." Ritcher smiled. "I'll toast to that."

After a few more minutes, Michelle went to the kitchen and returned with the side dishes: sizzling pork sisig and cheesy beef nachos.

"Why don't you join us, Mich?" I asked as I took the plates from her.

"Oh yes," Ritch pulled a sit for her. "Why don't you join us for a while? It's not like the place is packed tonight anyway."

She looked around first, then sat beside Ritcher. "Okay, but only for a while."

****

The night was swift and the drinks were nigh endless, and by two in the morning, we were already as intoxicated as Ben Stiller, Owen Wilson, and that hot lass Ben ended up marrying. Michelle was the first to go down, already half-asleep on Ritcher's shoulder. It was only the two of us left. Two men, two more pitchers—it was the only way to go.

"So as I was saying," I continued. "They're just sexist. Bloody sexist people."

Ritcher began drinking from the pitcher itself. "What were we talking about again?" He managed. "I got lost after the Boston pedophile priests and Justin Bieber's new haircut."

"I hate Justin Bieber."

"Amen to that, brother."

Michelle groaned. "The Bible."

"What?" I asked, and by then, I too, already started drinking from the pitcher.

"You were talking about the Bible," she repeated.

I clapped my hands. "Oh, silly me. And look whose listening."

She scratched her head, her eyes half-open. "Of course, I've been listening to you two talk about everything." Her voice sounded weary and upset, but was probably too tired to make it out. "Ritchy... Can we go home now?"

Ritcher kissed her on her pale forehead, down to the nose and to her soft dry lips. "Just a few more minutes, okay?"

She nodded, warily, and resumed to listen.

"As I was saying, one of the most sexist books out there—is the Bible."

Mich raised an eyebrow. "Huh? What?"

"Well, if you've actually read the Bible, my dear, you'll find the evidence not just certainly discernible, but quite overwhelming as well."

She kept silent, and with a gesture, Ritch managed to speak. "Do tell us, Your Grace."

"Thank you, Beelzebub," I replied with the reciprocal gesture.

"Beelzewhat?—" Michelle raised an eyebrow, her other eye closed.

"Now for a deeper understanding of my proposed thesis, let us look back at the story of Creation." I began scavenging on the leftover onions. "Book One: Genesis."

Mich, envious, began feasting on nacho bits left on the plate. "So what about it?"

"Tell me, my dear. Who did, ehem, Father create in his own likeness and image?"

"Mankind, of course" she said without a doubt.

I smiled. "Precisely. Mankind. Only Man was made in his image, which was of course the man we all know as Adam."

"But He created Eve in his image too, right?"

"No. the biblical Creator is of course, in all literary and divine concepts—may it be from ancient gospels or recent dogmas, from the old Hebrews to the new Christians—a man, a male, a Father to all. So from whose image was Eve created? Can anyone tell me?"

She started playing with the food now. Ritch was kissing her neck, marking his territory. "I don't know."

"Oh please. Even a first grader can answer that."

"Hmm... If I remember, she was created from one of Adam's ribs."

I clapped my hands. "Correct!" I grinned, taking another gulp at the dark green mixture. "And why was she even created in the first place?"

"Because Adam needed a companion?"

"C'mon. You can do better than that," I challenged her. "Give me the precise words."

She thought for a while, hesitated, but decided to answer anyway. "Because Adam needed a helper."

I raised another toast. "Bravo! And so by the Bible's straightforward definition, Eve (and all women by extension) were created simply for the purpose of serving and supporting Adam, (and all men by extension) all because the poor man was lonely. If that's not sexist, my dear, I don't know what is. And on top of that, not only was she only pulled from his rib, but Eve was also the one who introduced mankind to, according to the Bible again, Original Sin."

"I'll toast to that, my friend." Ritch raised his pitcher again, already half empty. "We are all sinners in the eyes of the Lord," he said, in a very drunk manner.

"But still it was the Devil who tempted her! He was the cause of Original Sin!"

Beelzebub straightened, staring with uneasiness, fearful that I might have made a quick slice at the girl's throat for foul tongue. But I, of course, was not affected by such old wives' tales, as I already knew the truth long before any poets began writing as prophets.

"Don't you see? The serpent could not temp Adam, who was strong and faithful, so he went for the weak one, the feeble one."

Michelle pouted, with one hand on her chin. "You're sexist, Vincy..." she said in a slow, dry tongue.

"Me? My dear, that's all in the Bible. And like all parables, the very moral of that story is for men never to trust women, as they will surely lead us to Sin."

"We are all sinners in the eyes of the Lord," Ritcher repeated, and this time, it sounded more like a response to a prayer.

"That's not true," the naïve girl said in denial. "You're just making that up."

I chuckled, almost choking on my drink. "Making it up? My dear, just look at our history, notably the Catholic Church's history. Do you know how many women were accused of witchcraft and burned at the stake during the Dark Ages? Joan of Arc? The Salem Witch Trials? The Spanish Inquisitions? Countless, I tell you, and all murdered in His name."

"B-But... They were bad, weren't they? The witches were evil?"

"My dear, the very reason why women aren't getting dragged and burned this day and age is because people know better. Before, when people got sick, they burned the most probable suspect they could find—a witch, a woman. Now people just go see a physician."

She sighed, in inevitable defeat and surrender. "Well, I guess you're right, Vincy. Come to think of it, I always wondered why only boys can become priests, you know. Why women can't hold masses or give homilies."

"Yes, that is the true face of the Church. They see women as a cause of sin, as Eve was, so they keep them hidden in convents, calling them 'nuns,' veiled from the public, concealed from the world." I raised the cocktail pitcher high, gulping it down, the cold liquid flushing down my throat with a fiery and bitter aftertaste. With a wipe of my mouth, I resumed our silly banter. "Think about it. With the exception of dear Mother Mary, all women in the Bible were introduced merely as some biblical figure's spouse. Noah, Abraham, Moses—do you know any of their wives' names? Of course not. Who would? They were only meant to serve as plot devices—as child bearers to further the bloodline and the plot."

She chuckled. "Like Hollywood?"

I nodded with a snigger. "Yes. Exactly like Hollywood."

Michelle scratched her head. "So much for being 'All equal in the eyes of the Lord,' huh?"

I smiled, quite proud of my new convert. "Shall we drink to our last toast?"

"To the last toast!" Ritcher said, raising his pitcher.

"And to the bloody sexist Bible!" Michelle yelled, standing with an empty pitcher of her own.

****

The clock struck three; the breeze swept down from the empty heavens, biting and caressing, like a lover with dead, icy hands. It was about time to go, about time indeed.

"Where to?" Ritch asked, taking Michelle's arm over his shoulder. "Still sober?"

A smile danced at my lips. "Yes."

"Up for an after party at my place?"

"After party!" Michelle answered half-drunk, raising one arm.

"And so it is," I answered. "Shall we?"

"We are all sinners in the eyes of the Lord," Ritcher replied with a devilish grin.

****

"I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man, she must be silent."

1 Timothy 2:12

## CHAPTER IV

## VINCENT GOES TO CHURCH

It was a cold Sunday evening, with the street damp under the leather of my new pair of black oxfords, and strangely enough, I found myself heading towards enemy territory, or so they say. A street urchin, about six and a half, kept bugging me to buy her dangling candles even before I reached the second block. There were many like her around; young children forced to labor by their parents at a very young age, many who were supposed to be holding a book instead of a candle or a flower; children who were supposed to be counting grades instead of pennies.

But alas, the Church taught them too well: that there is no wrong in having too many children, even if you do not have the means to provide. And so because of this archaic and stubborn way of thought, more street urchins are born every day, every hour, and every minute, feeding the power-hungry dogma dictators with daily offerings and an assurance of authority.

As I reached the large arched door of the ancient, towering structure, surrounded by stone walls blemished with spreading mildew and sprouting tendrils, I gave the visit a second and final thought, until eventually, a smirk broke on my face.

"Might as well," I said with a waving gesture.

"Please buy some candles, sir," the urchin persisted, pulling on my black suit.

I looked down at her, and smiled. "You're quite the stubborn one, aren't you?"

"Please buy some candles," she repeated.

"But dear, I'm not here to pray."

"You can make a wish!"

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really now?"

"Yes!" She explained. "Every candle gets you a wish."

She kept tugging me, which was starting to get annoying, but I was tired of standing as well, so I finally gave in, as the poor girl earned her reward.

"Fine," I said in defeat. "Give me one."

She smiled vividly, and in less than a minute, the child was gone, without even uttering a single word. "A wish, eh?"

****

Inside the cathedral, I gazed at the impressive fresco, a detailed portrait of several biblical figures stretching across the expanse of the whole ceiling. One of my favorites, of course, was the Creation of Adam by Michaelangelo, who was unfortunate enough to be named after my prick of a brother. Oddly enough, this image of the near-touching hands of God and Adam reminded me of a theatrical poster of the 1982 film, E.T., which perhaps was made to serve as an allegory of sorts, if not for laughs.

I stood near the entrance for a while, where an old church lady handed me an offertory envelop, and as I noticed, the benches were scarcely occupied, with only a few "Golden Girls" at the front left (the usual penny collectors) and a choir by the right, middle row, where the group surrounded the pianist and the electronic organ. They were singing a hymn, the usual Latin, which was of course made so no person could understand the lyrics; like how teens these days kept singing to Asian pop songs without understanding a single word.

Sauntering along the isle, I noticed each side of the row had a flat screen, a 32-inch Samsung LED by my guess, and a pair of vertical Bose speakers. With twenty rows multiplied by two for each side, you'll pretty much see where the money is going. After all, these people are immune to tax, and yet they do love to meddle on political affairs.

Paying my respects, as I do with every religion, I dipped my hand on the Holy Water stoup, made a cross gesture, and contrary to popular belief—it didn't burn me. Nothing can. As the tower bell began to ring, I knew it was time. I proceeded towards the small prayer area in the corner room, and strode along the confession booths until I found the one with the sign "Will be back in five." He always did have a sense of humor. I went into the booth and closed the door.

"I would like to atone for my sins, Father." I said on my knee, to the best I could.

"I'm on a break, my child," a deep, solid voice emerged. "Please come back later."

I chuckled. "Did it sound believable just now?"

The priest paused, coughed, then said, "Oh, it's you."

"Still using the old sign, eh?"

"You're late."

"Hey, I came didn't I?"

"Hmm..."

I could hear him chewing beneath his loose, moist dentures. "Sounds delicious."

"Just some hotdogs," he said while chewing. "I've been cooped up here the whole afternoon. They just keep on coming, I tell ya."

That's Father Henry Lim for you. A balding man in his fifties, the parish priest was perhaps the holiest man I have ever known, if you mean holy by the most PR and seminars held on live television in the district. Henry was also one of the very few mortals I respected. But as a friend, he was no different to any other man, and like all men, he had his weaknesses.

"Haven't met the quota yet?" I jested. "It must be pretty tall these days."

He spat on the floor. "Damn quota. There ain't no quota. And these people, they can get really annoying. Some of 'em have the lamest sins, I tell ya."

"Enlighten me."

"There's this one kid, says he steals coins from his own coin bank. I mean, my God, does that even count? And then there's this woman, says she missed one day to go to mass, one day! And then I learn she goes to church every day! Jeez... This isn't the medieval era anymore."

"I guess they're just running out of stories, you know?"

"But the worst was this lady, a fine lass based from her voice and perfume. Says she committed sin by masturbating about Ryan Gosling while watching 'em movie. I don't care who this Gosling fellow is, but that's just too much information, I tell you."

I laughed hard. "If people went to Hell for masturbating, then everybody would be there."

"Damn right!" the priest said, now gulping down a bottle with a tinge of alcohol. "Damn people. Wasting my time."

"Wait... Is that... red wine?"

The priest drank copiously for a few seconds. "Yeah. The dispenser ran out of water. Found some wine on the cupboard instead. I think old Benson was saving it for the Bishop's visit, but oh well..."

"Manischewitz?"

"No, of course not," he said firmly. "This isn't dull kosher. I don't like the taste of sacramental wines."

I closed my eyes, sniffing the bitter taste in the air as I wet my lips. "It's a Dom Romanee Conti."

His eyes widened behind the wooden screen, and perhaps it reminded him that he was in the presence of no ordinary man.

"Ha! You never fail to surprise me, you old snake," he said, coughing on his drink.

"The moisture, the bitterness... This is quite aged, isn't it?"

"You can tell that just from smelling it?"

"Yes. I've tasted it before... perhaps centuries ago, even..." I said confidently. "1964? 1958? Wait—it's much older... 1947?"

Henry placed the bottle down. "Actually, it's a 1945."

I snapped my fingers. "Damn, I was close!"

"Yeah, yeah... Quit yer braggin' now."

"The last time I checked, a bottle of that age would cost you around... say, $12,000, right?"

The priest coughed, then resumed gobbling down the hotdogs. "Yeah... But we got this free from the Cardinal, I think. Or was it the Pope..." he thought and tried to recall, to no avail.

"Is this one of the cardinals who spent $30,000 on his wardrobe?"

"Yes. I think it was Cardinal Ray Burke. He was very... generous."

I laughed. Religion has its perks, really. When a politician spends a million, we rally and call him a thief. But when a cardinal spends the same amount on his wardrobe, we kneel down and kiss his hand. Now imagine how many cardinals there are in the world. And then imagine how much a Pope's attire would cost. Indeed, the Church is rich—very bloody rich. "Oh yes, I think I saw him on the news once. A rather bold fashion statement, I might add."

"Well, anyway, let's talk about why you came here." That's good old Henry. Always had a knack for making people forget what really mattered. He wouldn't have been able to give amusing homilies if he didn't. But this wasn't a homily, and there were other more suitable arrangements to catch up on the golden days.

"You know what?" I said, my knees starting to get numb. "Let's."

****

"I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ."

―Mahatma Gandhi

## CHAPTER V

## JUST ANOTHER DAY OF EXORCISM

The next evening, Father Henry and I took a stroll along the downtown slums. The yellow lamp posts flickered disturbingly, while the air reeked of the foul stench of evaporated urine, both human and bestial. Naked and half-naked children ran across the cracked cement, their bright laughs providing a stark contrast to the swallowing gloom. Some of the residents took a peek through their glassless windows, and perhaps I thought, that they wondered why a priest and such a well-dressed gentleman would be lost in such a dingy neighborhood. For a moment, I wondered as well.

"What are we doing here again?" I asked in my usual suit and tie.

"The child, Vincent. The child." Henry was sporting a black suit as well, but with a clerical collar instead. Nothing much I could do about that.

"Oh yes. The child."

After making it past the cockfight pen and all the drunkards surrounding it, with their towels over their shoulders and their bets raised up high, Henry finally located our destination. A crowd seemed to have taken root outside the house, drawn by a peculiar voice screaming and shouting from the second floor window.

"Father Lim!" the bulky woman at the door said. "Thank God, you're here! Come! Come! Please come in!"

Once inside, we made our way through the living room, the kitchen, then up the rusty, spiral staircase, shaking precariously as we took each step. Inside the crammed room, there was a little girl strapped tight to a chair, about nine years old, growling and biting as she tried her best to escape.

"Please Father," the mother begged. "Help her! She's been like this for a week!"

The priest nodded, and stared directly at the girl. She shot a look back, and then at me, almost inhuman-like. "Papatayin natin sya!" she said in-between gnaws, her voice deep and croaky.

"Dios Mio!" the mother said, making a cross gesture multiple times. "Is that the Devil's tongue?"

I chuckled. "No, ma'am. I believe that's Filipino."

"Silencio!" Father shouted as he showered the girl with Holy Water. "The Lord God commands you to leave this child!" The girl screamed and continued to curse.

I tried to suppress my laughter. He was just too good.

"Tessa," Henry continued in a firm but reassuring voice. "Please leave the room and lock the door."

"Father?" the mother replied, trembling in fear.

"Leave the room. Your daughter is possessed by a very powerful demon."

"Will she be all right, Father? Will she—"

The priest held her shaky hands together, pulled a rosary out of his pocket and placed it above her open palm. "Yes, dear. We can save her. The Lord God is on our side. But for now, let us handle it from here," he said, and quite convincing too. "The best you can do, sister, is pray. Recite a thousand Holy Marys and a thousand more Our Fathers."

The mother, with gleaming, hopeful eyes, bowed, said her thanks, and finally left the room to begin her prayer vigil. Finally it was just me, the priest, and the possessed child.

"I think you overdid it," I said plainly. "I don't think the last part was necessary."

Henry began drinking the Holy Water. Apparently, it wasn't Holy Water at all. It was gin, with a hint of lemon. "The hell it was necessary. The old woman would have bothered us the whole night."

I sighed. "Well, I guess you're right."

"Gin?" he said, handing me the small white bottle with a cross on it.

"No, thank you," I replied. "I'd like to keep myself sober for a change."

"Suit yourself."

I smiled, then shifted my attention towards Emily Rose. "That was some fine acting back there," I applauded her, "with the Constantine move and all."

"Finally! Someone who appreciates talent!" the girl said. "I was going first with the Emily trick, you know, with the one, two, three, four, five, six chant, but I guess I've done it too many times. My other choice was the twisting neck Exorcist trick, you know? But yeah, it's overrated."

"Oh, yes. The twisting neck has been rather done to death," I agreed. "And Father Henry, of course. That was some top acting. Hats off to both of you!" I continued with a bow.

"Yeah, yeah," Father Henry answered as he sat on the bed beside her. "Ye have any food here?"

She shook her head. "Sorry, I kind of overdid it with my performance last night. They won't give me food anymore."

"Jeez..." Henry mumbled, rubbing his large belly. "Fine. Let's proceed then," he said as I pulled a chair of my own. "Affiliation?"

"What?" the girl raised an eyebrow.

"Affiliation! Goddammit... A priest don't have all day, you know."

"Up or down," I helped the bewildered creature.

"Oh..." she managed. "Down, I guess."

Father Henry stared at her intensely. "Are ye sure?"

"Yeah! Like I won't know where I came from."

"All right, just making sure." Henry scratched his chin. "Sometimes them angels also find their way down here and get stuck inside a meatsack."

"Really?" the demon asked. "That happens?"

"Yes," I interrupted, crossing my legs. "That's why we have the Nephilim and all. But let's not dwell on such dull subjects. Let's talk about you."

The demon coughed, clearing her throat. "My name is Lilith XIV, servant of House Morningstar."

"Morningstar, huh?" I said. "So why were you bound to the mortal realm? What was your crime, my dear?"

She kept silent, while Henry was now starting to doze off on the bed. Lilith, of course, was alas, another exile. Like me and Beelzebub, there were legions of demons bound to earth, with the sentence of living a mortal life. Lilith was no exception, though it was unfortunate that her host was too young, and too poor.

And this was the main reason why most cases of exorcism occur in not-so-fortunate areas. If a demon found her host to be not so suitable, she would throw tantrums, shout fake screams and curses, and basically act as to what humans perceive demons to be—as crazy, biting creatures—until the family calls for a priest, who accordingly had the power to send them back down.

I admit going directly to a priest would be a lot easier, but somehow scaring humans was more appealing, and in time it sort of became a long-held tradition.

"Ehem..." I cleared my throat purposely.

"I discovered something."

"What is it?" I leaned forward. "Tell me."

"He—" she said, then stuttered. "H-He is coming."

"Who?"

The demon leaned closer, speaking in a soft, terrified whisper. "He will return. The Chosen One—the Son of God."

Hmm... So that blasted Azrael was telling the truth about the War.

"I see. Who did you hear this from?"

She gulped. "That's the funny part. I was making the usual rounds near the royal garden, chasing out the ghouls and the hell-hounds, until I stumbled onto a bush where I heard two people talking. The first who was facing my direction was clearly Lord Mammon. But the other..."

"Yes? Who was the other?" I urged her, while Father Henry's snoring got loader and loader.

"He had shoulder-length straight hair, a skinny build, and spoke very much like you—a gentleman. But what bothered me the most was his crooked nose. It looked really weird."

"Hmm..." Could it have been Belphegor? Or perhaps one of the Seven Sins... Maybe it was Envy. He is a shape-shifter, after all. But the crooked nose? Perhaps it was—no, it couldn't be. He wouldn't.

"Can I go now?"

"Oh, yes. I feel the contract binding you is much less potent than mine. Unlike me, you have the chance to be free again," I said, resting back on the chair. "Henry!"

Old Henry was with the sandman now, but we needed him urgently. "Henry!" I repeated. "For God's sake, this is not your house! Henry!"

Lilith smiled. "Do you want me to wake him up?"

"Oh, yes. Please do."

With a wink of her eye, the rope binding her simply fell down on the floor, and with a snap of her fingers, the front leg of the bed broke and poor Henry fell tumbling down to the floor.

"Arghh! Begone demon! Release from ye body and free thy child's soul from hellish bondage! Sanctuary! Sanctuary!" he spouted, waving his hands like some monkey, pouring whatever was left of his gin on the little girl. Clearly he was still half-asleep. Lilith then approached him, helped him up, and slapped him hard on the face.

"Ahh! Ah—what happened?" he said, now very much awake.

"I told you not to drink on the job."

Henry managed support on his right leg, then stood up. "Shut your trap. I was having a fine dream with Scarlett Johansson, you know."

I stood up. "Fine. Now it's time for the real thing. Send her back now."

The girl frowned, running to hide behind the priest. "No! I don't want to go back there! They'll just send me back!"

For a minute, I thought about it, and she was right. For some reason, somebody down there didn't want this Second Coming fiasco spreading to soon among his lot. "Fine. You can stay here. Let's go, Henry."

"Alrighty then. Wanna drink? I know a good place. Girls no older than twenty."

"No! Lilith yelled, and the room shook, the ceiling cracked. One thing I've noticed with newly-bound demons for the past eternity is that they still have some control over their powers in their early weeks. As time passes, they lose their abilities and become completely boring, completely mortal—like me.

"Don't leave me here! I hate this place! I hate this body!"

"Hmm..." I thought, scratching my head. "What do you say of a deal, Ms. Lilith?"

She gripped her tattered clothes. "What deal?"

"I will let you lose, but you must help me find this child, this Second Coming."

The demon looked down on the floor, then up the broken ceiling, and then she answered. "Okay! It's a deal!"

"Splendid." I held my hands together in a single clap. "Henry, release her."

The old priest was probably still drunk. He threw the Holy Water bottle on the floor. "Make up yer goddamn mind! Exorcise the girl. Don't exorcise the girl. Exorcise the girl again."

I laughed. "Exorcise but don't send her back. You can skip that part, right?"

"Fine. Yer just making this all complicated, you know."

I looked at my watch. "It's getting late. Go ahead with it."

Father Henry began to chant in Latin. At first, I always wondered why exorcisms where always done in Latin; on why demons react to it more than any other language. I thought it was all too mystical, but unfortunately, I later learned that the priests were just too lazy to translate it to another language. In fact, even the demons didn't understand Latin anymore. It didn't matter. All that mattered was for the incantation to be recited.

"Wait!" Lilith interrupted.

"Espiritu Santi—what?! What now?!" Henry yelled, quite hungry and frustrated.

"You." The girl stared at me with her snake-like eyes. "You didn't tell me your name."

"Oh, my apologies, my lady," I replied calmly, taking her small hand. "I just didn't assume you would be interested."

She then made a bossy pose, placing both hands on her waist, her eyes narrowing with a piercing glare. "Unlike Father here, I already knew you weren't human the moment you stepped into the room. But at the same time, I'm not really sure what you are."

"Well my dear, if you must know, you have the acquaintance of the founder and benefactor of the bloodline you serve."

"Huh? Who? What's your name?"

"My name, my young lady, is Lucifer, the Morningstar."

****

"How you have fallen from heaven, morning star, son of the dawn! You have been cast down to the earth, you who once laid low the nations! You said in your heart, 'I will ascend to the heavens; I will raise my throne above the stars of God; I will sit enthroned on the mount of assembly, on the utmost heights of Mount Zaphon. I will ascend above the tops of the clouds; I will make myself like the Most High.' But you are brought down to the realm of the dead, to the depths of the pit."

―Isaiah 14:12-15

****

## CHAPTER VI

## THE VOICE OF GOD

Midnight, the brisk air heavy with smoke and corporate chitchat, occasionally delving into benefits changes, the 80's unknown action stars, latest video scandals, and further monotonous malarkey. The sickle moon gaped over the dispersing nimbus, slicing through a deep cut of amber bloom. Out on the road, the damp, slick pavement ran vastly hollow, while on the sidewalk dimly-lit terminals crawl with empty cabs and sleeping hobos.

It was a night like many seasonal nights before—the graveyard shift.

"So much for the fourteenth month, huh?" Russel puffed.

"Yeah... And now they got rid of the reimbursement, too." Ritcher added.

"Not to mention the SL bonus!" Jess said, frustrated. "That was supposed to cover the tax, you know?"

Ritcher blew a perfect circle. "What the fuck, right? No holiday pay. No weekend pay. Damn corporate rules. We're burning our free time for nothing."

"Sucks." Russel pulled another cig from his pocket. It was his fourth. Ritcher flicked his lighter over the chain smoker's face. "Thanks."

For a while, there was silence as the group savored the flavor. This was how the evening breaks usually began. The breath of a dragon; a congregation around a circle of fire and smoke. If one were to follow scripture, then one might say this wasn't far from where I actually came from.

"Anyway, have you seen the new scandal?" Russel broke the calm.

Jess smiled. "Yeah, I have it right here." He pulled out his phone.

"Damn, your fast!" Ritcher said, laughing. "That's master Jess for you."

The group pulled in closer to watch the nasty deed, purposely caught in the act, of course. "Is it playing? It's too dark to see anything," Russel said, squinting.

"Just wait a minute, you pervert," Jess said, teasing him. "They haven't turned on the lights yet—"

"Shhh! I can't hear it!" Ritcher interrupted.

What followed was, what I'd like to call, a healthy exercise with a bit of worshiping and a bit of cursing, with the words "Oh, my God" and "fuck" and "shit" thrown into the medley of a young woman's voice, presumably a student, whose tender tits seemed to be the focus of the group.

"Wow! She's got huge breasts!" Russel said with widening eyes. "And she's so young!"

"Probably just turned eighteen," Jess thought.

"Or maybe sixteen," Russel said. "I know sixteen when I see it."

Ritcher preached the apparent acrobat. "Look how flexible she is! She can really grind!"

"Yeah... That rock star is one lucky son-of-a-bitch," Jess said, quite bitter.

This continued on for a few minutes until Jess's girlfriend called, only to find out he got her pregnant. Too bad Jess didn't care to do a background check first. In a nutshell, the girl was Christian. Figure out the rest.

"Hey, Vince!" Ritcher called. "Deep in your thoughts again, eh? Have you watched this already?"

Cigarette smoke crawled out of my mouth. It felt good. "No need."

Ritcher was unconvinced. "Hmm... I bet you're going to watch it later though."

I kept my stare on the moon. "I don't watch porn," I replied firmly, then smiled. "I do it."

The group laughed in a chorus.

"That's Vincent for you!" Russel said, clapping his hands.

"You're the—"

And then, in a sudden gust, Jess stopped, stiffened, as if all the life was washed away from his face. I turned to look at Russel; he was the same, his hands suspended in midair before they could meet for a clap. Even the smoke from their breath remained stagnant; its wavy shape constant as it floated like a painting in front of them. This was, and do believe me when I say it with the utmost certainty, not good.

"Who the hell can do this?" Ritcher said, looking around.

I closed my eyes, drawing in the smell of something terribly familiar. "I don't think this one is from hell."

From the bushes a figure began to take form, an eerie silhouette slowly gaining the outline of a man. The creature came closer to us, its winged shadow growing larger as it approached the light. The aura was immense, its spirit scorching like blue fire. It was indeed a very powerful entity, and despite not having a visible body, we could still feel its commanding presence.

"Who amongst you is the Light Bearer?" the voice said, loud and deep and cold.

I stepped forward. "It is I," I said, "and to whom do I speak?"

"I have no name, for I am only a Voice, a Voice for the One Who Commands."

I raised an eyebrow. "Metatron?"

"No. That is my role, not my name, though you can address me as such."

"And to what do we owe the presence of an archangel?"

Metatron was visibly transparent, but his aura was powerful enough to blur everything behind him, like staring through a ball of fire. "War is coming. You must realize that by now."

"Yes, I do," I confirmed. "Azrael already paid me a visit, and as I said before, my answer is no. I will not join any side. Not this time. Not anymore."

He cleared his throat. "You misunderstood me, Light Bearer. I am here for a different errand. The Angel of Death has his own."

Has his own? Do I smell treason?

"Then let me guess," I offered. "This is about the Chosen One, correct?"

"It seems your ears have caught distant whispers."

I smirked. "I have my birds, yes."

"And yet, despite the good season, your hunt fails, as your birds have brought you nothing but scavenged entrails, have they not?"

I began to ponder. What could the Voice of God possibly want with me? For those unfamiliar with the archangel, Metatron has his roots from the oldest of scriptures, mainly from the Talmud—the Bible of Jewish Law. "With all due respect, messenger, and I would love to chat all night," I said in the most civil manner, "but what exactly is your errand?"

The angel remained calm. "Hmp... Blunt as always, I suppose."

I laughed. "I have been thrown out of Heaven and Hell. What else would I have to lose?"

I expected a laugh, or even a giggle, but no, God doesn't laugh, and so does His messenger.

"Yes, you have, Light Bearer. You are a traitor amongst traitors, a heretic amongst heretics."

Oh, boy. Angels will be angels. "And yet you still address me as the title I once held. Why?"

"Why? Why does everything need to have a reason with you?"

"Because everything does."

I pulled out another cig. It looked like the meeting was going to take longer. It must have been ages since the poor creature had anyone to talk to. In biblical history, when people claimed to have been talking to God, like for example, the Burning Bush by Moses, they were actually talking to Metatron, the only entity to which God seemed to speak to. But in this day and age, the archangel barely leaves his room anymore.

"Hmm... You are indeed the polar opposite of your brother."

Ritcher, who had been listening by the bench for the whole conversation, pulled out a laugh. "Damn right, you are!" He then stood up, easily bored, and began playing with the inanimate bodies. I turned back to the angel.

"At least we agree on something," I said.

"Indeed we do."

Ritcher walked towards the parking lot in front of us, just behind the blue Jazz. The headlights were still open as he went inside the back seat. "Shit, man! You gotta feel her boobs!" the pervert shouted, most likely squeezing with delight. He was referring to the Jazz's owner, Nancy, the project manager. "They're real! You owe me five bucks, man!"

"Ehem..." I cleared my throat deliberately. "Please do pardon my poor excuse of a friend. His stay in the mortal realm has not been good to him."

"That is unfortunate."

The angel's outward lack of emotion, not to mention any normal reaction, was slowly getting on my nerve. "Well, you were saying?"

"The Chosen One."

"So what about the cross bearer?"

He paused for a while, and then said, "The Chosen One lives among us."

I raised an eyebrow. "Really, now? Can you be a tad more specific?"

"Do what you must. I have delivered the message," he said. "My task is done here."

"Wait!" I stopped him. "That's it? There's nothing else?"

"Yes. My task is simply to deliver, not to interpret. That task falls on to you."

Hmp. How typical. "Fine. See you around. Tell your master—"

Before I could finish, the angel snapped his fingers, and in an instant, life returned to the world, sweeping away the coldness that briefly enveloped it. The smoke, free from its spell, was now dancing in the air. The lamp posts flickered and the cool breeze returned. Time was back on its track.

"—man" Jess said as he resumed motion.

"Huh?" Russel said in bewilderment. "Tell your master what?"

I feigned laughter, quite annoyed at the angel's abrupt exit. "Tell master Jess here, he's the man."

They bought my lie, a white lie, of course, and I was now laughing with them until we heard a woman scream by the parking lot.

"What the—" Jess said, looking around, then noticed, "Where's Ritcher?"

****

"Do not give your mouth to make your flesh to sin. What did he see? He saw Metatron, to whom was given permission to sit down and write the merits of Israel..."

―Talmud, Hagiga 15a (Jewish Law)

## CHAPTER VII

## FALLEN ANGELS

It was a cold night. Heavy rain had swept the streets clean and barren, washing away both people and rubble, leaving everything cold, wet, and blue. Neon lights flickered along the murky alleys, rainbow bridges leading to the pot of gold, or so they say. And surely enough, I found myself heading to one of these peculiar establishments—to visit a very old friend I have not spoken to in quite a long while.

At the door, I took in the strange but familiar scent of something terribly potent, though at the same time, a welcoming presence. I went in, and as I rubbed my shoe on the rug, the wind chimes began to rattle. The jazz club whistled to the song of saxophone, the tables creeping with the whispers of small talk and intimate paramours. Reeking of smoke and spirits, the club was a haven for angels and demons alike, mortals and immortals, with no fear or loathing for one or the other, at least while they were inside.

"Welcome to the Last Days!" said the waitress as she took my coat. The lass was sporting a bunny girl outfit, and not the fluffy one, mind you.

"Oh, Vanessa, my dear." I kissed her by the hand. "You look ravishing in your uniform as always."

"Oh, Sir Vincent." She giggled and gave me a soft pinch by the arm. "You always say that."

"But my dear," I continued to feed her the silver tongue so I could get the best seat. "Such a fact does not even require a jury."

Bunny girl giggled again. "You say the silliest things, Sir Vincent. The usual?"

I nodded. "Yes, please."

****

Vanessa ushered me to a sit by the corner, with a good view of the stage and the rest of the tables. As with my usual order, she brought me a cup of steaming Earl Grey, complimented with a cold slice of chicken sandwich. I began stirring as I took in the scent, and as I was about to grab my first bite, a man, a gentleman, suddenly took a seat across me. He was a large fellow in his fifties, wearing a suave, sparkly gold coat over a red long sleeve with a purple bow tie. I think, perhaps, the bow tie ruined it, but I do respect the man too much to point it out.

For his figure, the club owner had large hands and a large belly, and a face primarily overgrown by a bush he called hair. It was all messy and gray, and his unkempt mustache and beard made it terribly difficult to see anything besides his eyes. In fact, the man does remind me of Alan Moore, or someone sporting the same style, if you could call it one. A bush with eyes, yes. A bush with eyes.

"What brings you to my fine abode, my friend?" he said in such a cool but raspy voice. "The light does not simply pass by the shadows."

I took my first sip, savored it, and spoke. "But alas, the light has gone from me. I am but a mere customer in this fine establishment."

The man chuckled, rubbing his pregnant tummy. "You are too kind, Vincent, but we all know these petty monkeys would have never reached their true potential if you hadn't done what you did."

I smiled. "Yes, I admit that is true, and I am flattered, Samyaza. But credit is also due to you and the rest of the Watchers—the rest of the Grigori. You taught Man how to read, to write, to make weapons, and even how to interpret the sun, the moon and the stars, not to mention giving them heroes of old to praise and adore."

"But it was you, Vincent, who inspired us all to think for ourselves. It was you who showed us how to seek the truth and grasp for knowledge," he said as he finally stopped his belly-rubbing. "The Grigori would be nothing without you."

As for the aforementioned biblical term, the "Grigori" which literally meant "Watchers" were a group of angels most notably mentioned in the Book of Daniel and Enoch. These angels were sent down to earth for one and one purpose only—what else? To watch mortals. But the Grigori became curious with earthlings, especially the women whose beauty and flesh they began to crave. Thus began the forbidden union of mortal and divine, in which the Nephilim were born—children who were half mortal, half immortal. These hybrids, powerful as they were, would go down in history as the heroes of old, exhibiting remarkable strength and abilities, not to mention a knack for the paranormal.

During the heydays of the Greek, they were more commonly known as demi-gods, because many angels back then pretended to be gods, or were, for some such reason, would always be associated with at least one. A prime example would be my barbaric brother, Michael, who back in those days, and due to his penchant for war and conquest, was considered to be the god of war, Ares. I on the other hand, was always associated with the god of gloom, the ruler of the underworld—Hades.

And what of the Grigori during those times? Besides of course, their love of women, they also taught Man various crafts and skills, further increasing the "knowledge" that Man already possessed. And since Heaven forbid knowledge to be shared to mortals, Samyaza and the rest of the Grigori, similar to my own predicament, were labeled "Fallen Angels" and were thrown out of Heaven.

We have been good friends ever since.

"Oh pish-posh. Enough of the flattery, Old Sam. We might grow fat from it all."

The Grigori guffawed. "Really? I guess you have flattered me to much already!" He began to rub his large belly again. "So what can I do for the First Fallen Angel?"

"About that." I leaned over, the tea steaming over my face. "It seems I am in need of one of your progenies. I need to find someone, and I think you already know who it is."

"So . . . you're looking for the Reincarnated Christ, huh?" The mad dog hollered so loud the whole establishment heard what he said. Everyone turned their heads at us, at me. Angels and demons glared at me with sinister eyes, banished monsters inside mortal men.

Tension was brewing until Old Sam raised his hand, releasing a cackle. Within the confines of the Last Days, he is the law. All those who would disobey would suffer the wrath of the Grigori and his brood of Nephilims.

I shook my head, relieved. "You just had to shout it out to the underworld, eh?"

"My bar, my rules."

"Fine."

He leaned close. "So, I gather you'd like a reading, huh?"

I took a bite at the sandwich again. The chicken was exquisite, with just the right amount of tenderness. "Yes, please."

Samyaza, or Old Sam as I often addressed him, rested back on the chair and hollered out a name. "Kyoko!" The bunny girl came bouncing from the kitchen. New and young, the Asian vixen glittered with porcelain skin and black hair, wearing the same scantily clad costume as the rest of the herd.

"Yes, daddy?" She said, sitting on the old pervert's lap.

I slapped my forehead. I completely forgot. Old Sam was always a busy man. If he's not out teaching Man, then he's in some kitchen teaching a house wife a thing or two. And because of this, the Grigori always seemed to have a fresh supply of demi-gods, a fresh supply of Nephilim.

Old Sam brushed her cheek. "My dear, would you give our good friend here a reading?"

"Sure!" Kyoko said in a very gleeful manner.

"anese, huh?" I raised my eyebrow. "You just got to collect them all."

He blinked. "Why, yes. I met Kyoko's mother during my visit in Okinawa. For Vanessa, it was way back in Istanbul, if I'm not mistaken. Or was it Isreal. As for Karla—"

"Ehem!" I cleared my throat on purpose. "No need for the play-by-play, you horndog."

"Fine, fine." Sam slapped Kyoko on the butt. Suddenly, a fine woman, a college student by the looks of it, entered the club. Samyaza almost broke his neck looking back. "Now that's a smoking fox, right there. Young too! Eh, Vincent?"

"Daddy!" Kyoko said, pouting. "That's bad!"

Samyaza turned back and laughed. "Oh, baby. Give daddy a kiss, will you?"

Kyoko, while on her father's lap, leaned over and kissed him on the lips. I tried to forget the memory but I think it lasted for more than a second, complete with the tongue. The image was like a teenage girl asking a gift from Santa Clause, but in an adult video kind of way.

"Samyaza! Would you please stop doing that in front of me."

The bastard definitely took his time. Daddy sure loves his daughters. "All right, I'll be gone for a while." He slapped Kyoko on her firm ass and she stood up. "I'll just take a short nap and my baby girl here will take care of you, all right?"

I placed the cup on the table. "Fine. Go ahead and nap yourself to death, you horny bastard."

"Nice to see you too, Vincent," the Grigori said as he went to follow the new customer to the ladies' room.

I leaned back on the chair, finally finished with my snack. As I closed my eyes, Kyoko suddenly sat on my lap, her arms around my neck. In return, I wrapped my arm around her waist. "Oh, I almost forgot about you."

"Are you ready, sir?"

"Sure. Go on then."

"Okay, just close your eyes," she said, and so I did. But what I was expecting to be a palm reading of some sort never came, for I did not feel her flesh on my hands, but on the tip of my mouth. When I opened my eyes, everything was swallowed by blinding light.

Slowly, the light began to fade. As I turned my head around, I realized I was lying face flat one the floor, inside a room painted in untainted white. When I tried to push myself up, I found it too much of an effort. For some reason, my body felt too heavy, as if some great beast had settled on my back.

Suddenly a deep voice emerged. "What are you doing?"

I looked around, though no matter how hard I looked, I couldn't find the source of the voice.

"Who are you?" I answered back.

His voice echoed across the room. "I am all, and all I am."

"Is this a vision? Is this the future?"

He didn't answer.

"Tell me!" My voice echoed as well. "Why can't I stand?! Is it a sign I will fail? Or will I be punished? Again?!"

The room echoed my words, adding each sentence to an endless loop. "Why am I here?! Tell me!"

I tried to push myself again, but it was just too heavy, too hard. I was pinned to the ground. Soon the words were swallowing me, deafening, grinding in my ear. My own voices were driving me mad. "Tell me!", "Why am I here?", "Who are you?", "Is this the future?" and so on and so forth. The voices kept going and going, louder and louder, until suddenly, I cracked.

"Stop it!"

And then finally, there was silence. As I opened my eyes, I saw a man in glowing white, his back towards me.

"What do you want from me?" I said, my voice dry.

There was a long pause, but after a while, He answered. "The question is, what do you want from me?"

****

"When men began to multiply on earth and daughters were born to them, the sons of God saw how beautiful the daughters of man were, and so they took for their wives as many of them as they chose. At that time the Nephilim appeared on earth (as well as later), after the sons of God had intercourse with the daughters of man, who bore them sons. They were the heroes of old, the men of renown."

—Genesis 6:1-4

## CHAPTER VIII

## NIGHT OF THE NEPHILIM

After the queer vision with the white man in the white room, I woke up, and to my surprise, Kyoko was staring wide-eyed at me, her arms still around my neck and her warm breath to my lips. "Oh my, you're a very good kisser, Mr. Vincent."

"Pardon?" I asked, a little lost myself. "How long was I out?"

"Out? We just kissed, silly."

I raised an eyebrow. "You mean you haven't even started on the reading yet?"

She giggled. "Of course, not. I haven't even recited the spell. Do you want to—"

"No! I mean—it's all right, my dear. You don't need to."

She started pinching my cheeks, as if I was some dog of hers. "Really?"

"Yes," I replied, brushing her cheek in return. "I think I've had enough visions for one day."

And then, as our eyes locked on each other, she swoop in for a kiss; our lips meeting once again. The Nephilim really knew how to do it, with the tongue and all, and as I was enjoying the strawberry flavor, I realized this was not the time nor place to be caught on idle love-making. I had to take my leave; more pressing matters were at hand. I pushed her back a little, and said, "Uhm... Kyoko?"

"Yes?" she whispered naughtily.

"You're a really beautiful girl, you know that?"

She smiled. "Awe... You really mean that? Vincent? Vincy? Can I call you Vincy?"

"Uh—Yes. Vincy is fine," I continued, trying to come up with an excuse. "You see—"

"Want to come up?" she said, pulling down on the chest part of her bunny suit, revealing her God-given cleavage. "I have a room upstairs. We can—"

I swallowed. As much as I was fond of prostitution, especially sacred prostitution, I simply had to take a rain check. So I stood up, my knees a little numb. The horny rabbit was forced to bounce off my lap.

"Perhaps in the next visit, my dear," I said, dusting off my suit. "I'm afraid I have an appointment to catch."

She pouted, her eyes furious with doubt. "Oh c'mon! You seriously think I'm gonna buy that?"

I swallowed again. "W-What?"

The girl was pulling on my necktie. "Don't you like me, huh?"

"Of course, I do. You're very beautiful. You're—"

"Then why?" She pulled harder on my tie. "Are you married or something?"

I scratched my head. I forgot these half-breeds could be a real cuckoo. "No, I am not."

"Then why? Why? Why?!" she continued, slapping me hard on the cheek. By then, the loony wench was attracting more attention than what her job required her to do. The customers were now staring at me again. It didn't take long for two towering gentlemen from the bar to approach us. They were, in both appearance and attire, twins. They loomed over at six and a half inches, no older than twenty, sporting the same set of purple collared shirts with short sleeves and purple slacks. The only thing that set them apart was their bow tie, gold for one and red for another. (What is it with bow ties and this place?)

"Is this guy—" Goldie started.

"bothering you?" Red followed swiftly, as if they were one person inside two bodies.

Kyoko stood back as one of them pulled her. "No. He—"

They didn't let her finish. "What are you—"

"doing to our sister?"

Sister? Just great. More loony Nephilims. Just how much children does the old bastard have? And then, I cracked a laugh. It was just too hard to resist. "How sweet, the two of you finishing each other's sentences. Did you practice that the whole night?"

They laughed as one.

"You are—"

"really funny—"

"little—"

"man."

They said this in such a swift and flawless exchange that although the first time was quite hilarious, hearing it more than once was getting a little bit disturbing.

"All right, twin towers," I said, trying to sneak my way around the table. "I've had a good time, really, but now I'll best be on my way."

"You're—"

"not—"

"going—"

"anywhere."

Suddenly, Goldie grabbed my arm and pulled me with his massive hand. Red did the same with my other arm, and in no time, the two giants were pulling me toward the back exit. The people gasped, perhaps curious to who this unfortunate but dashing fellow was, but no one dared to stand in front of the giants, less even speak.

Outside, the night-brisk was cold and the floor was damp, but worse was the air reeking of garbage, mostly from left-over food which had begun to rot, laying only a few steps from the corner. The two towers, with all their vigor and strength, hurled me out of the door, and into the wet and dingy asphalt I fell.

"Good heavens." I raised myself. "Was that really all necessary?" I took out a napkin and wiped my face. At that exact moment, I felt a sudden heavy blow, right in the middle of my chest. With a powerful force, I was sent flying back to the wall, the garbage bags catching my fall. The strange thing was, they didn't even move an inch. The two Nephilims just stood by the door from where they threw me.

"You will—"

"no longer—"

"bother us—"

"little man."

And then, as I was about to speak, I felt another force of the same sensation, right between my neck, dragging me up, trying to suffocate me. It was, in all honesty, not a very good feeling, especially if you had no hands to fight against.

"Damn it!" I managed to shout out. It was the one with the red bow tie, his right hand directed at me with an open palm. "Damn crazy Nephilims! You can't do this!"

"You—"

"hurt—"

"my—"

"sister."

I struggled with all my might, but with my feet floating in the air, there was no use. How I hated this feeling, this feeling of helplessness, this feeling of being mortal. "What?! She slapped me!"

"You—"

"incited—"

"violence,"

"fool."

"In—"

"accordance—"

"with—"

"Samyaza's—"

"Law,"

"you—"

"must—"

"die—"

"now."

I began to panic. Since my extensive stay on earth has weakened my soul to the point it was no different from that of a mortal man, my death would simply equate to any other person's fate, and that was to join the stream of life, the soul of this world, where everything comes from and returns to. Simply put, I was not ready to do so. Not yet, anyway.

"Stop it!" I mustered, waving my hand, desperate for even an inch of the power I once held. If only I did, if only I had my abilities, then these half-breed bimbos would have been dealt with even before the fight had begun.

"You—"

"are—"

"weak—"

"mortal."

As they continued their duet, the pressure on my neck was getting stronger and stronger, tighter and tighter. I was running out of breath when Kyoko suddenly entered the scene and managed to halt the two.

"Stop it," she shouted. "Romulus! Remus! I said stop it!"

Somehow, I gasped and managed to breathe, though the invisible grip still managed to keep me off the ground. I tried to speak, but I could only manage to cough.

"He—"

"broke—"

"the—"

"Law," they repeated.

"The—"

"human—"

"must—"

"die."

And then, finally, Kyoko cracked. "No! I told you! Stop it!" she pleaded. "I like him!"

Remus, the one with the gold tie, grinned at me, while his brother Romulus the Red smiled likewise with the unyielding resolve to choke me to death.

"I have a better idea!" Kyoko interrupted, and I managed to breathe again. In that instance, I reminded myself to thank my savior later.

"Erase his memories, Remus!" the loony wench shouted. "You can do that, right?"

Scratch that. Kyoko was crazier than his brothers. With all these loony demi-gods around me, it felt like Greece all over again. It wasn't really a good era to remember, especially with that Hercules ravaging everything in his path. Or even that Perseus, hoarding every little celestial artifact he could lay his hands on. The damn klepto. I mean, yes, they were called heroes but they sure caused more trouble than they actually solved.

"No!" I shouted, trying to break free. "Not that!"

Kyoko smiled as she touched my cheek. "We will be together forever, my love."

I swallowed. It was just too terrifying. Then, Remus, the other one who apparently had some sort of telepathy to alter memories, approached me as Romulus lowered me enough for his brother to reach my forehead. A telekinetic and a telepath—what a perfect twin indeed, although Remus's brainwashing seemed to require physical contact as compared to other more potent telepaths.

"Damn it, Kyoko!" I protested. "Don't do this!"

"This will be quick and painless, my love," she said as Remus placed his hand over my head. "Just close your eyes." What followed was, what I'd like to call, an intense, fiery sensation, as if a river of fire was forcing its way through, crashing down on the gate of thought. I wasn't going down without a fight, of course. Not from an angel, not from a demon, and especially not from these demi-hack whack jobs.

And then, all of a sudden, he stopped.

"What is it, Remus?" Kyoko demanded. "Is it over?"

No, it wasn't over. Not at the current state of my memories, to say the least. Lady Luck still smiles upon me. "Having fun yet?"

"This man..." Remus the Gold said, a bit frightened.

"Remus?" Kyoko spoke again. "Tell me. What happened?"

"I-I can't read his mind," Remus continued, trembling and taking a step back, though I was more surprised because he said it alone without his brother. In that moment, the grip on my neck vanished, and for the first time I finally heard their brother's voice.

Romulus seemed lost, shaking his head. "W-What happened? Why are we outside?" Somehow, the mental battle took a toll on Remus. The link was broken, his brother now free.

Kyoko was severely growing impatient. "What the hell are you saying, Remus?!"

The telepath stood beside his brother. "I can't read his mind at all, Kyoko. His will . . . His will is too strong . . ."

"His will?!" Her eyebrows met; she was furious. "Damn it, Remus. You're the fuckin' psychic! Just erase his memories! Erase it all if you have to!"

Remus argued, and for a slim chance of a miracle, the tide was now turning. Like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, the plan was beginning to take form. All I needed was one more piece, one little slice to make the picture whole.

"Romulus," I called, to the surprise of the quarreling siblings.

His gaze darted towards me. "W-Who are you? Wait, weren't you the guy inside?"

"Why are you following them?" I continued. "Don't you fancy me?"

Remus the Gold then intervened as I expected. "Romulus only answers to me, you fool. There is no use talking to him. He is my puppet alone—"

Bad choice of words. The fool probably forgot his mind trick already wore off. His brother was now thinking, and thinking straight. "I wasn't talking to you, Goldie," I intervened back. "I was talking to Romulus. He is a person, not your attack dog."

Remus was furious to this remark. "Just kill him, brother! Kill him already! He knows too much of us already!"

The wind blew stronger, the flickering light bulbs exploding in a beat. Kyoko's eyes glowed all white, her voice piercing through the darkness. "I told you! Just erase his memories! I want him! Is that too hard to understand?!"

It was indeed, a very frightening scene. But amidst the ensuing uproar, something preferable took place. Just when I was about to escape as the siblings go demi-battle with one another, the ice finally broke.

And about bloody time.

"You're one spoiled brat, aren't ya?" Romulus told his sister.

The bunny girl was raging mad. "What did you just say?!"

"I said, 'you're one spoiled brat,' Kyoko," Romulus the Red answered, raising his hand at his sister. The crazy whore was sent flying and crashing to the wall. The impact was so strong that it knocked her out in one hit.

"B-Brother? What are you doing?" Remus said, suddenly fearful.

"He is finally doing what he wants to," I answered for him.

"A puppet, huh?" Romulus replied with a grin, and with another waving gesture, Remus was sent crashing up the third floor fire escape, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings. "So who's a puppet now, huh?"

By then the remaining giant was now picking the dust off his hands, as if the Nephilim actually had to touch somebody to start a fight. "Prick," was all he said. But still I had one left, and I would have to find some way to defeat this monster, this monster who single-handedly toppled two of his kind.

I was grasping for a smoke when he approached me. "So you do fancy me?" I said, for if I was to win the battle, it would have to be a battle of wits.

"Hmp... What gave me away?"

"My dear boy. That was the easiest piece of the puzzle." I pulled out a pack of cigs from my pocket. "Do you have a light, perhaps?"

"Oh, here," Red said as the lighter floated towards me. It's actually funny if you think about it—the Light Bearer asking for light. What has the world done to deserve this. "C'mon, tell me."

"The bar."

"The bar?" he repeated.

The cigarette sprung alive with the gift of fire. "Yes, the bar. Every time I would enter a locale, an establishment, or attend some sort of gathering, I would usually pick the corner where I would be able to observe the mass collective quite easily. I have enemies both in Heaven and Hell, of course, not to mention a landlady who I happen to owe a certain large amount of money."

"And?"

"And then I saw a pair of identical twins as I was talking to Old Sam." I said, filling the cold air with smoke. "But while the one with the gold bow tie ogled passionately at the incoming ladies like a mad dog, the other one with the dashing red stared at several men from different tables, including me. It was just too hard to miss, really."

The Nephilim smirked. "Do you have eyes at the back of your head?"

"I sure hope not." I chuckled as I handed the pack. "Cig?"

He waved his hand. "No, I don't smoke. I only have the lighter because of my brother."

"Figures."

"Well, thanks for helping me out there. My siblings can be a real pain." Romulus scratched his head. "I just got tired of that spoiled brat always getting what she wants. And my brother Remus, jeez. He's always in my head messing things up."

I chuckled, almost coughing to my own smoke, reminded of my own prick of a brother. "Brothers, huh?"

"I know, right? And you know what's worse?"

"What?" I said, hugging myself. It was getting rather cold.

"He hates the fact that I'm gay!" he exclaimed. "Kept calling me a faggot and a queer, for Christ's sake."

"Yes, therefore the mind control," I confirmed. "I could only imagine the things you went through as a child."

"He would control me all the time, with his mind tricks and all, making me appear like some boring stud that I wasn't."

I patted his shoulder, comforting him. "There, there. I'm sure Goldie won't bother you anytime soon after what just happened."

And then, he pulled me towards him, using his power, hugging me as tight as a bear. Red began to cry. A shoulder to lean on—that's what the Devil's been reduced to these days. How brilliant, simply brilliant.

"You really think so?" he said, with hiccups along the way. Romulus was so tall that my height only came up to his chest. His tears began falling on my face like little droplets of rain.

I kept smoking while his grip was on me; my head sideways facing the alley. "Yes, I do think so," I said, "and don't worry about people who condemn you for being who you are."

Finally, he let go. "Really?"

I coughed hard. "Yes. Thanks to archaic teachings of the Church, there are plenty of narrow-minded people who fear and despise the gay community. But as a person, Nephilim or not, you won't be able to live a normal life if you let them get to your head."

The giant wiped his tears with his massive hand. "I guess you're right, mister."

"I am right," I confirmed. "Look at some great men in history: Alexander the Great, Julius Cesar, Leonardo Da Vinci, Sir Isaac Newton, Oscar Wilde, Alan Turing, and heck Andy Warhol. These people were gay and they were proud, for being 'gay' means 'happy', am I right?"

He laughed, finally. It didn't really suit a man that large to be crying. "Really? Is that true? I didn't know so many great men were gay!"

At last, I reached the cigarette butt, and dropped it to the ground. I stared at the faint spark it left before stepping on it. "And so are you."

Romulus smiled, and offered me a handshake. "Thank you, mister—?"

"Pines," I answered with a smug. "Vincent Pines."

After Red took my number, I began to walk off, when suddenly, my phone rang before I could even turn the block. "Checking the number, eh?"

The Nephilim smiled from afar, a phone on his ear. "Look, I heard you're looking for Him."

I smiled. "Yes, and thanks to your old man, everyone else knows."

There was a slight pause. "I . . . Listen, I shouldn't be telling you this, but I think I know where He is."

A drizzle fell on my cheek. Dark clouds were gathering once more. "Really? Where?"

****

"If a man lies with a male as with a women, both of them shall be put to death for their abominable deed; they have forfeited their lives."

—Leviticus 20:13

## CHAPTER IX

## THE CHOSEN ONE

"Can anyone tell me who John Baptist de La Salle is?" I said, sauntering back and forth the middle aisle of the classroom. Thanks to my newfound friend Romulus, I learned that the Son of God was in a school aptly named after its founder. "The green school by the train where all the rich kids go to," he said. "I could feel it whenever I take the train. The spirit, the energy, I've never felt anything like it before." Fortunately, the school president was a good friend of mine, and the man was more than willing to help me in this considerably large manhunt. And despite my worry, finding the child went more effortless than I had imagined. As it happened, Lilith, my other newfound friend, decided to honor our agreement and accompanied me to locate and confirm the source of the spiritual anomaly. Once she'd set foot on the campus, it only took her a few minutes to pinpoint which class the child belonged to. It was a room of fifth graders, youngsters aged eleven to thirteen.

"Duh? He was the founder of this school," the large kid at the back row boasted. As I was to learn later, his last name was Zobel.

"Ehem," I cleared my throat. "That is, of course, quite evident. Something a little deeper, perhaps?"

Fat boy pouted and began to ignore me. A few seconds another student was gleaming with an answer. She raised her arm, begging to be called. There was no other challenger, though I teased the girl a bit before calling her out.

"Yes, you, the girl with spectacles," I said, pointing at the teacher's pet, wagging her tail like there's no tomorrow. "What's your answer?"

Four eyes stood straight up. "St. John Baptist de La Salle was born on the 30th of April, 1651 to a wealthy family and died a poor man on the 7th of April, 1719. He was a French priest, educational reformer, and founder of the Institute of the Brothers of the Christian Schools. He is a saint of the Roman Catholic Church and the patron saint of teachers. He dedicated much of his life to the education of poor children in France; in doing so, he started many lasting educational practices. He is considered the founder of the first Catholic schools. He—"

"Good! Right on the cherry!" I clasped my hands together, halting the girl before she could recite the whole entry from Wikipedia. "That seems to be quite a detailed background check. Very good, Ms...?"

"Iris," she said. "Iris Cojuangco. My father is—"

"Very good!" I clasped my hands again. This kid was really the chatter, mind you. "You can take your seat, Ms. Cojuangco. You have a star for that."

"A Star?" Four eyes raised her tone and an eyebrow. "What are we, kindergarten?"

I swallowed. Children these days can be really scary. "I'm sure you're not," I said with a grin. "Anybody else? Anybody?"

"And who are you again?" the princess persisted to annoy me. "Where is Ms. Angie?"

I smiled to the best I could. "As I told everyone before, Ms. Angie is sick and I am her sub for the day, got it?" No, she wasn't sick. Lilith was driving the woman's body around while I was on her class. On my part, I was able to convince the school president to let me sub for the day, no credentials and all. It was either that or everyone finding out about his affair with one of the students.

What are friends for, right?

I sauntered again as I ignored the nagging princess. After a few seconds, she finally gave up and took a seat.

"He's a tool," answered another girl with a deep voice. She sat alone at the corner end by the window, with no one in front or beside her. A wolf among the sheep, the pale student stood out like a scarecrow on a field of squabbling crows, dead but alive, visible but invisible to all. Cut short to her chin, her red hair glistened like warm blood dripping down a bleached skull. Hell, it didn't take a genius to notice it. The children were afraid of her.

Perhaps I should have been as well. "Pardon, my dear?"

"He's a tool," she repeated. She was wearing a gray jacket with a hood, and a set of large headphones with a shade of green and purple. "He's a tool, just like Jesus and all the crappy saints."

"A tool?" I continued. "Please do tell."

The strange girl moved her eyes to the window, staring blankly at the swaying branches and wobbling electric lines. For a minute, silence fell upon the room, for no one dared to speak, nor even look. Finally she turned around to the class, to me, and removed her headphones. "Like I said, DeLa Salle is a tool. Just as Ms. Wikipedia pointed out a while ago, the guy dedicated much of his life to the education of the poor."

"Yes, please continue," I said, sitting on the table one leg over the other.

"That was basically his goddamn motto, right? But look at this room. You find a single poor child here? Cojuangco? Zobel? Plus a bunch of rich Chinese kids? Hell, do you even know how much the tuition fee is in this school? A load of shit, I tell you. A load of fucking shit. They talk about helping the poor and all, but De La Salle University is one of the most expensive schools in the country."

I nodded. "Yes. That is, unfortunately, quite the sad reality."

"I know, right? So like I was saying, he's a tool being used by the Church. Just like Jesus and all the poor dummies who died they call martyrs. Sure they had good intentions, but that was long ago. Now that they're dead, people are just using their names for their own fucking greedy interests."

I was stunned. It was at this precise moment that I was finally reunited with the Holy Ghost reincarnated in man, or in this case—girl. At this distance, it was impossible not to detect her unique and powerful essence, leaking like a dam just waiting to break. From that moment on, I knew it was Him. He always was a rebel. Probably what got him crucified in the first place.

"Bravo!" I gave a standing ovation. "A very thorough and thought-provoking insight on the matter at hand, I might say. And to whom do we owe this pleasure?"

"Dani." The girl started scribbling on the back of her notebook. "Just Dani."

****

After the class, I gave a subtle pursuit, following the Son of God all the way down to the school gates, keeping enough distance between us. Though I would prefer to imagine myself as an investigator shadowing his suspect, I actually looked more like a pedophile stalking his prey.

I approached her and smiled. "That was a very interesting thesis you brought up, Ms. Dani."

Little Jesus stared blankly at the street, and with her ghastly headphones on, she couldn't possibly have heard me.

"It's a Friday night, eh?" I said, a little louder, but still no effect. I was about to tap her on the shoulder when the bus arrived. The door opened in front of us. This was it. The apple seemed too ripe to waste.

And then, suddenly, she spoke. "Hey, mister. Are you gettin' on or what?"

I blinked. "Oh, forgive me, I thought—"

"Jeez..." she muttered and went aboard. Instinct pulled me in to follow her. It no longer mattered if I were to look like a child-stalker; the salvation of the world rested on my shoulders. As I climbed on the bus, I spotted her already sitting at the back. I made my way and sat two rows in front of her, beside a rather hefty old woman sleeping by the window. She was snoring a bit, with a red bonnet on her head and a half-finished Subway in her hand. Unfortunately, it was the only empty spot left.

Tired of the long day, I closed my eyes for a bit and began listening to the radio. "What if God was One of Us" by Alanis Morissette was playing. How conveniently appropriate. Perhaps the whole universe conspired after all, wouldn't you agree? I began to hum to the song. Music, ever since it was concocted in the mortal realm, was by far the most ingenious discovery of Man, alongside prostitution and movie theaters, for me at least. It's strange, really, that I can't seem to fathom the Apocalypse, the End of Days, without any sort of harmonic companion to capture the dramatic rise and fall of the war to end all wars. Among my playlist, I would highly recommend "Time to Say Goodbye" by Andrea Bocelli. It's such a beautiful song. Never mind the lyrics. Just listening to the singer's voice, as Heaven and Hell clash one final time, well, it's just breathtaking.

But of course, as much as I want to see Michael and Mammon reap each other's throat out, the thought of their armies killing, destroying and laying everything in their path to waste simply leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. After all, real war is not beautiful. It is ugly. Soldiers fight for kings they have never met, for purposes they barely understand, and for gods they have never seen. Kings die, kingslayers die; a whole dynasty is massacred, all just for another house to take its place. And soon, the cycle repeats itself. Such a dreadful cycle, the cycle of death.

As I was adrift in my thoughts, a voice suddenly surfaced. It was the large woman sleeping beside me, and though she was still asleep with her head on the window and her eyes shut tight, her mouth began to stir up a conversation.

"Master?"

I turned to look at the woman.

"Was I right, master? Did you find Him?" Despite her different voice, her manner of speaking was quite clear. It was her, the succubus.

"Lilith?" I asked, a little bit surprised of her sudden entry.

"Yes, Master. I'm just dropping by to check up on you."

I sniggered. The way she spoke, while in the body of some sleeping meatsack, was just too hilarious to pass. "What in the heavens? What are you doing here, Lilith? What happened to Ms. Angie?"

"Is it the wrong time, Master?" she said as her host began to drool. "I left the woman at the park. Or was it the mall . . . Ughh . . . never mind."

I managed to control myself, covering my mouth. Ever since we'd set the demon loose, the succubus had been leaping from host to host like she was in a fitting room. It actually got annoying sometimes. "No, here is fine. What news do you have for me?"

"Your brother, Master. He's..."

"Michael? Pray tell. What about my brother?"

"Come closer, Master. I can't say it aloud."

I looked around. Other entities might have been lurking. I leaned closer to the woman, but then I smelled her breath—it stunk of alcohol mixed with the Subway she was holding and probably some Mexican food. She probably had gingivitis. The smell was horrible. Her snoring somewhat made it tolerable but now she was actually talking. "Is it really that important?" I whispered. "God, this woman needs a mouthwash."

"Yes, Master," she whispered back.

I pondered for a while, then said, "Fine." I came closer, my ear to her breath of a dragon.

"He is here."

"Where?"

Lilith paused for a while, then continued. "In this city."

Perchance it was just mere coincidence? But of course, an archangel of that status, not to mention of that ego, was someone not easily swayed to visit by mere mortal affairs. For all I knew, Michael was here for the child as well, though how his orders danced with Metatron's was still a riddle to me.

"You felt his energy?" I continued to talk in low tone.

"Yes, and I have confirmed with other entities. The rumors spread like wild-fire. It seems he is jumping from host to host as I am."

I nodded and leaned back on my seat. Finally I could breathe again.

For a while, I contemplated on the situation.

"Master?"

I took a deep breath. In that moment, I realized what the Voice of God truly meant in his message; an epiphany, if you may. It was all for me to get to the child first, before Michael, before Heaven or Hell or anybody else. "Yes, my dear?"

"Before I leave this body, do you have any instructions for me?"

"No—I mean, yes. Just keep an eye on the girl. Follow her to her house in case I lose her." I coughed. "And please leave that body before you get permanently attached to it."

"All right, Master. But how about you?"

I leaned forward, folding my hands together, as if praying. "The way I see it, Michael, that bloodthirsty barbarian, seeks to recruit the child to aide him in the coming war. In fact, if the prophecy is true, then the child Herself—the Messiah, the one they call 'Faithful and True', will be the catalyst for this whole bloodshed to begin."

She gulped. "Then you seek to..."

"Yes, Lilith," I confirmed her suspicions. "For the sake of this world, to avoid the Last War and to prevent Armageddon—yes, I will do it. I will kill the Son of God."

****

"I saw heaven standing open and there before me was a white horse, whose rider is called Faithful and True. With justice he judges and makes war. His eyes are like blazing fire, and on his head are many crowns. He has a name written on him that no one knows but he himself. He is dressed in a robe dipped in blood, and his name is the Word of God."

—Revelation 19:11-13

## CHAPTER X

## DEAR MOTHER MARY

Soon evening arrived, and I found myself stumbling upon a fancy neighborhood; the kind where the trees towered, the lawns flourished, and the houses brimmed with French windows and fancy balconies. The lane was paved clean and dry (with concrete and not cheap asphalt), and for the most part, it was completely barren.

A lamp post flickered above me as I stared at a two-storey residence, complete with an attic window, a chimney, and a pot-filled porch. Strolling across the lawn, I realized the house was rather dull and silent, to the point of mundane, though perhaps this was the cover they intended to parade. Or perhaps not, though it was such a contrast to her more striking appearance and personality. But as I often forget, this Son of God was just a child, and since God barely showed up at all, somebody else must have been doing the job for Him.

Suddenly a voice uttered beneath me. "The anomaly is here, Master. I can smell it."

I was so startled I almost jumped. "Jesus Christ, Lilith! Will you stop doing that!"

The succubus was in the body of a black cat. She curled around my leg with her tail waving about. She gave a soft meow. "Sorry, Master. The cat was the closest I could find."

I sighed. "Fine. Let's go."

The black cat bounded for the door.

Suddenly, a cranky voice surfaced from the house. "Who's there?"

It sounded like a woman, though it was too old to be the mother.

"Oh, good evening," I answered back. "Sorry for the late visit, but I came for the review."

The door opened and an old woman stepped out, wrapped in her bedroom robes, a nest of curlers on her head. She was about seventy years old, by my guess, supported by a walking stick. Strangely enough, she reminded me of my landlady, Mrs. Emerson, another candidate for the home for the elderly. "Came for what?"

"The review for the finals tomorrow. Dani asked me for some books."

"Huh? Who are you anyways?"

"Oh, my apologies. I am Professor Pines, Dani's new tutor."

She raised her walking stick, and pointed it at my face. "Listen you... I know who you are. There's no Dani in these parts. You must be one of 'em schemers trying to get inside our house and rob us!"

My eyes widened and turned to Lilith, who was now busy cleaning her fur by the porch. "Meow" was sadly all she could muster with the given circumstances.

"Oh no, madam," I began to persuade her, though I took a step back for it seemed like she was genuinely going to hit someone with that cane of hers, and that someone was most likely to be me. "I am certainly no imposter or thief, if that is what you care to imply," I said with the utmost sincerity that even a lie detector would not be able to tell. I hold the title of the Prince of Lies, after all.

The old woman took a step forward, and she never dropped the stick for even a second. "Get out of my porch, you thief," her voice getting a little louder, waving her deadly weapon at me. "I'll call the police if you don't leave!"

I was now off the porch and on the grass, when Lilith came in between us, hissing fiercely with her back arched high. The woman, surprised, gasped and retreated a step back. "I see! A black cat for a familiar, eh?" she said, and I almost laughed, really, at the silly remark. "Bet you're going to use some of 'em black magic on me!"

In a second, old granny went cuckoo, swatting the ground with her stick, and basically trying to hit the black cat running around the porch, pouncing everywhere. "Come here, demon spawn! I'll give you a beating or two!" she yelled, starting a ruckus. Fortunately, Lilith was smart enough, using her nimble body to evade the old lady, and it didn't take long for the flower pots to get dragged into the brawl.

It was getting really late, and I was about to take my leave when another voice, a softer, more feminine tone, came from inside the house. "Mother!" the woman exclaimed, and loony grandma froze in action, with only a finger's length between her weapon and Lilith's head. "What are you doing?!"

"Oh! M-Mary, you see—"

"Mother!" The beautiful lady sauntered before me. She was wearing a fairly figure-hugging night robe, pink and made of shiny silk, wrapping her down to her knees. She had straight, jet black hair, at shoulder length, and she had, in my opinion, a much younger exterior than what her age would suggest.

I was, in all honesty, instantly swept away.

"The c-cat, Mary. The cat!" Old grandma grasped for an answer. Her savage temper, not to mention her questionable state of mind, was suddenly replaced by this timid, stuttering elderly. "T-The cat was up to no good again! I swear!"

The lady in pink, Mary, and how convenient the name was, approached her poor excuse of a mother, and placed a small blanket over her shoulders. "Oh, mother. It's all right. The cat won't bother us anymore."

"But-But— "

"No buts," Mary said, assisting her confused mother slowly back to the house. "You forgot to take your medicine again, didn't you?"

Grandma was mumbling more incoherent nonsense, when suddenly, she stopped and stared right at me. "Oh, dear. It seems we have a guest. How rude of you, Mary. The man must have been standing there for quite a while now."

I slapped my forehead. I just couldn't contain it, the hilarity, really. By then, there was no more questioning her sanity. The old lady wasn't just senile, she was borderline schizophrenic. I simply took a bow and began to introduce myself again. "Good evening ma'am. Please forgive me for such a late visit. I am Professor Pines, Dani's new tutor. And by God, I do hope you believe me when I say it is such a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs.—?"

"Williams," she answered swiftly. That was, perhaps, one of the oldest tricks in the book. Whenever I would introduce myself to a stranger, and I would require their name, I would simply act with a pause as if I somehow forgot it along the way. "But please, call me Mary."

"Ah, yes!" I laughed. "Silly me. Sometimes there are just too many students that their names easily get muddled in my head."

She giggled. "Oh, that's okay, Mr. Pines. Actually, I have been expecting you. The school president called a few hours ago about you. Dani is just in the shower. She'll be down soon."

Good, I muttered. It seems the man intends to keep his job at the school.

"Pardon?" Mary said.

"Oh nothing, I just—"

All of a sudden, Granny spoke again. "Jeez! Will you two just get in. It's freezing here," she said, and off inside she went. "And prepare some tea for our guest, will you? I'm going to bed now," her voice echoed from inside the hall.

"Oh, forgive me, Mr. Pines. Please do come in."

I blew warm air to my hands, rubbed it, and stepped inside. "Why, thank you, Mary."

She closed the door and locked it. "You're welcome. Would you like me to take your coat?"

"Why, yes, please," I replied, finally inside the warmth of a proper shelter. "Thank you, Mary." Once inside the house, we passed through the welcoming area, a myriad of paintings and jars and all sorts of wooden animals hanging about. She then led me to the living room, a large chandelier hovering over an elegant flower piece on the center table, several picture frames of grandparents and grandchildren atop the shelves beside the fireplace, and the head of a dead stag on the wall across my seat. Overall, the wealth of the family was quite given, no doubt about that.

"Coffee or tea?"

"Tea, please."

As she went to the kitchen, I heard a voice by the window beside me. It was Lilith. "Master! Master! Can I come in?"

"I'm sorry, Lilith. You're a stray cat, remember?"

She tried the begging-cat-eyes on me. "Please, Master. It's freezing here."

"My dear, just find another body, please?"

"But Master..."

"Lilith! I told you to—"

Right then, Mary came back with hot tea and some biscuits, and though a bit strange, she suddenly had light makeup on. "Who's Lilith?"

I turned back to face her, and shrugged. "Uh, who?"

"Were you talking to someone? I think I may have heard somebody." She then peered at the window, and saw the big black cat waving its tail. "Oh, it seems we got another one."

"Pardon?"

"The strays," she answered. "I feed them from time to time, but my mother keeps driving them away." She then opened the window and grabbed Lilith, much to the demon's delight. "She thinks they're the devil's spawn or something."

I chuckled, almost spilling the tea. "Poor creatures, taking all the blame."

She sat down, stroking the cat's fur. "Yes. Whoever said that cat's eyes were the gateway to hell is the one to blame. Silly old superstitions."

"You can blame the Egyptians for that."

She looked clueless to my answer. "Pardon?"

"The Egyptians. You can blame them. Though it was actually the Christians who popularized the idea that witches kept black cats as pets."

She laughed, covering her mouth. "Oh, Silly me. I forgot you're a teacher."

Lilith was reaching for the biscuits on the table, but Mary kept her close to her chest. She tried to free herself, making a fuss, but the woman seemed to be genuinely accustomed to feline companions.

I grinned at Lilith as I took a bite at the chocolate chip, much to her envy. "Yes. I guess I am a teacher, sharing knowledge with the rest of mankind."

"Are you a poet, perhaps, Mr. Pines?"

"Vincent, please." I took a sip. It was Jasmine, the tea, I mean. "A poet? Why do you say?"

"Nothing, really. It's just the way you speak."

"Really?" I chuckled. "Do I make myself too difficult?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Pines—I mean Vincent," she said, twisting her wedding ring around. "It's actually very... charming. And you look very young for a teacher."

I swallowed. Could she be possibly flirting with me? I thought. "Why, thank you, Mary. But I hope you don't mind me asking this, but how is your mother?" I said, trying to gather more information.

"Oh, my mother? She's been like that ever since my father died of a heart attack a few years back while hunting with his friends. I do hope she hasn't hurt you or anything. She can be really violent at times. Sometimes she even forgets I'm her daughter."

"It must be difficult, Mary, and I am only astounded by your sheer love and commitment."

The woman laughed, to my surprise, and Lilith finally got a chance to escape, leaping towards the table. "Commitment? Now that's a word."

For a while, I paused, pondering how this lovely woman would be able to cope with the coming death of her only child.

"Vincent?"

I blinked. "Oh, sorry, Mary."

"Is there something wrong?" she asked, a bit worried. "You were blank for a couple of seconds."

"Please forgive me. I do easily get lost in my thoughts at times."

She simply smiled, and what a wonderful smile it was. "It's okay. I do that too, sometimes."

For a while, she just sat there, staring and smiling, wearing that pink silk night-gown. She was just beautiful, simply beautiful, and all I could do was smile back, a genuine smile in quite a long, long time.

All of a sudden, another cat, a brown one, came pouncing from the kitchen. It spotted Lilith, gave off a fierce hiss, and in no time was chasing the other. The cat leaped on the table, spilled the tea, but Lilith was too spent after her recent scuffle with the old woman that she just decided to leave and jump to the window. The other cat followed her, and after a while, we were finally alone.

Mary then broke the calm. "Oh, my. Let me clean that up for you," she said. She went to the kitchen with the cup, and came back with a wiping cloth. "I wonder what's keeping Dani."

And as if Dani had heard her mother, a voice suddenly echoed upstairs. "Mom! Where are the towels again?!"

"Speak of the devil," Mary said. "I'll be right there, sweetie."

The girl came down with a towel around her small body, her red hair dripping wet. She walked towards the dining room, leaving puddles on the polished tiles.

Mary came in with another towel to dry her hair. "Dani, sweetie, you're all wet!"

"Thanks for pointing it out, mom."

Little Jesus then glared at me as her mother dried her hair. She spoke to Mary, all the time keeping her eyes on me. "Who is this guy? Another one again? I thought you already stopped dating? I thought you were getting back with dad?"

Mary then gave a very fearsome, if not authoritative look. "Danielle Williams! To your room! Now!"

The girl merely brushed it off, rolling her eyes. "Fine, fine." She walked, or should I say, she marched, up to her room, making sure she left traces of her wet feet. Once she was inside, she slammed the door, and began playing some old school rock-and-roll tunes. The first song was "Bad Reputation" by Joan Jett, one of my favorites. Her speakers were so loud the music was literally bursting through her door.

"I'm sorry you had to hear that, Vincent," Mary apologized. "It's been like this since the separation. She was just closer to her father than me."

"No apologies required, Mary," I consoled her. "Dani simply misunderstood the situation. It is I who should apologize for coming in such an inappropriate hour."

Mary smiled again, a smile holding in so much pain. "It's okay, Vincent. Oh, and you can go up there if you need to start the review."

"Well then, thank you again for the tea and the biscuits, Mary. It was such a delight to make your acquaintance."

She giggled as she finished up cleaning the table. "It was a delight for me as well. Just call me if you need anything, okay?"

I nodded. I hope I wouldn't need her. Not with what was about to happen.

****

"And the angel answered her, "The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be called holy—the Son of God."

—Luke 1:35

## CHAPTER XI

## THE SECOND COMING

I knocked on the door. By then she was playing "We Are The Champions" by Queen. She wasn't answering. I knocked again. With all that loud music, I wondered if she could actually hear me. Grandma must be somehow deaf if she could sleep with this sort of ruckus every night.

At last, she opened the door, and the music escaped, slapping me right in the face. Dani was wearing an overall pajama, with stripes of vertical white and blue, and a purple fluffy slipper which had a face of a rabbit, or perhaps a dog, though to distinguish it would be rather irrelevant since there are no purple rabbits or dogs. She was still busy drying her hair when she spoke, but with the music on, I couldn't hear anything else besides Freddie Mercury's immaculate voice. I shrugged and she went straight to bed. I closed the door and sat by her study beside her.

As for the room, it was bigger than your average quarters: the bed was queen size, there was space for a mini library on the corner, a large French window beside it, and even had a separate small area for a personal wardrobe and an internal bathroom. Unfortunately, it was all marred by Hello Kitty, with shades of pink and white. The mouthless cat was everywhere. The room proved she was also very untidy, not that I was surprised though, with console controllers, leftover food, books, and more books scattered on the dusty carpet.

"Can I turn this off?" I tried my best for her to hear me, making shapes with my mouth. It was no use; she was reading a book now: The Catcher in the Rye, the goddamn book with the goddamn boy. Somehow, I was seeing a resemblance. A bit frustrated, I pushed the red button on the sound system and the world returned to its silent glory.

"Have you read the book?" she said.

I blinked. "What? That book?"

"No. The one in the bathroom," she said sarcastically. "Yes, this book, dumb-dumb."

I chuckled, then nodded. "Yes, my dear. I have—"

"Then shut up."

I blinked again. Perhaps killing her wouldn't be that difficult, after all. The kid wasn't only rude, she was a downright ass. But I kept my ground, resting my back on the chair, and smirked. She indulged in her reading for about a minute or two as I began to whistle.

"Jeez, mister." She spoke again.

"Yes?"

"Can you tone down a little? I'm trying to read here."

My patience was wearing thin. She had no problem with the loud music before, but now she's getting distracted by a simple whistle? I leaned closer. "Dani, I'm going to tell you something."

Little Jesus kept her stare on the book. "If it's about the ending of the book, I'll kill you. If you want to date my mom, I'll kill you. And if you tell my mom that I told you this, I'll find you, pluck your eyes, and bury you alive."

I swallowed. Was this really the Child of God? Or the Child of the Devil? Though if that was the case, I would have taught her a proper lesson or two. A proper lady should, by no less, act like a proper lady. Not like a monster. "I am not really your new tutor."

She ignored me.

"And neither am I a real teacher at your school."

This one got her turning.

"And you, my dear, are no ordinary child."

And then, she blinked, closed her book with a slam, and stared at me. "I would like you to leave now, Mr. Whoever-you-are."

I stood up, fixing my tie. "The name is Vincent, my dear, and I do hope you can forgive me for what I'm about to do." I grasped for the peeling knife in my pocket.

She raised an eyebrow. "What? You're gonna kill me, dumb-dumb?"

I stared at her, those fierce brown eyes glaring back. Danielle Williams was an innocent eleven year old girl about to die for the rest of humanity to live. It was the only way, the only way to prevent the War. And if I had to play the role of the biblical scapegoat once again, if I had to dirty my hands and plunge it into the filth, were death sweeps and decay awaits, while Heaven indulges and grows obese from all the worship and praise and glory—then so be it. I held firmly on the black handle, my thumb sliding along the blunt side of the hidden blade. As I was about to pull it out, she spoke.

"Fine! I'll study, okay!? I'll go to school I won't skip classes anymore!"

I was stunned.

"I promise I'll be a good kid!" she burst, almost into tears. "Just leave me alone! I've had enough of you people trying to become my dad. I don't need another dad! I just want my own dad back! I just... I just..." her voice weakened, followed by hiccups.

My grip abated, my resolve lost. I was too startled to speak. This girl, for whatever reason her death might have justified, was still just a human being, like any other of her kind. She was just a girl, a child, and the simple thought kept whirling in my head. In that fateful moment, I decided I would sully my hands no longer.

Damn the angels and their war. Mortal affairs are no longer of my own.

She kept crying, and I sat beside her on the bed. "There, there. Stop crying."

The poor girl looked at me, and said, "Will dad come back?"

I smiled, to the best I could. "Your father will be back. I'm sure of it."

Someone had to say it. Oftentimes, humans, in the midst of certain pain and sorrow, needs to be told something comforting, even if that something is a complete and utter lie. It is just, as they say, human nature. People need to believe in something, even if, in the back of their minds, they know it's not true, and it will never happen at all. Evidence is of no longer consequence when hope enters the fray, and this is where faith is born—a seemingly abundant commodity certain powerful organizations feed on fervently, if not lavishly.

"Really?"

I smiled, messing with her crimson hair. "Yes. Things will settle into place. And you will be happy. One way or another, I suppose."

One way or another. That's one good way to put it.

Dani hugged me tight, her head to my chest. She had her eyes closed, with a little bit of tear left on her cheek. "Thank you, dumb-dumb."

To my surprise, I smiled, and hugged the child back. And for a minute, we just sat there, for that was all that was needed to be done.

Suddenly a strong gust slammed the windows open, sending a chilly draft into the room. The pink turned to gray as every other color faded from the world, swept away from its very existence. The billowing curtains, frozen in its wavy form, splattered shadows across the lifeless carpet, like two massive wings of some terribly large creature. Time was stolen once again, and this time, I already knew who the culprit was.

There was a clap, and then a voice, a voice I haven't heard for a long, long time.

"Bravo!" a barbarian spoke. "You always loved the theater, did you, brother?"

I stood up, careful not to break any of the girl's bones. She was frozen stiff, of course, but you can never be too careful.

I looked at her, in that frozen instant, for I have never seen such a happy girl.

Then I turned to him, and unlike the other cronies before, this one was arrogant enough to snatch a host. It was a body of a large man in his thirties, muscle fit and sharp, sporting a blonde hair all tied to the back, dressed in a grey coat over a white shirt and tie. If anything he looked like a banker, a very fit banker.

"What are you doing here, Michael?!"

His gaze probed the girl's chambers. "Such a small and filthy place this world is, wouldn't you agree, brother? I can't believe you can actually manage to live here."

I pulled out my knife. "I asked you. What are you doing here?"

Michael laughed hard. "Really? You're going to stab your own brother?"

"From what I recall, you had no difficulty stabbing me, brother."

The angel began sauntering the room, picking up things that seemed to somewhat amuse him. "Oh, Luci. That was eons ago. You're still mad at me? I think you should have already forgiven me for that." He pulled out a Hello Kitty plush from the top shelf, then dropped it.

My grip on the knife was strong. "Forgiven? You're asking forgiveness from someone who our whole kingdom denies forgiveness for a sin committed, as you mentioned, eons ago?"

"Such a drama queen you are, brother," Michael said, strolling towards the books, as if he had any interest in reading them, unless of course it contained his name in some variation or another. "We all have our place in this world. We have been called by many names, you and I, but as always, I am the hero, and you are the villain. I am Thor and you are Loki. I am Ares and you are Hades. I am Vishnu and you are Shiva. I am Indra and you are Yama. I am Mars and you are Pluto. And finally, I am Michael, and you are Satan. That has been Father's design from the very beginning. The world needs balance, and to sustain this, evil is required, and that's where you come in, little brother. You were the necessary evil that was required from the very beginning."

I laughed at his assessment, but it was true. "Yes, I suppose I am the necessary evil. People need to fear something in order to worship something else. If there was no Hell to fear and no Devil to scorn, if people didn't believe in any of it, then there wouldn't be any need for prayers, I suppose. People would just go to Heaven whether they did good or evil, and that would be so boring, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, yes." The angel was now staring at a pile of Hello Kitty plush on the floor, an impressive collection to boot. "Look at this. Ages ago these petty humans were worshipping us, brother, us! Offerings and pilgrimages were provided daily! Now all you can find are these pathetic creatures who aren't even real!" he said as he picked up a plush from the floor. "Look at them! They don't even look scary!" The cat without a mouth stared back at him, and in his rage, he tore it apart, severing the poor cat's head from its body. "Damn it!"

Now this was the brother I knew, the brother who would smite farmers for target practice with his lightning, the brother who would wage war to merely prove his strength, the brother who would stab his own brother in the back. It was Michael indeed—the Archangel of God.

"So what do we do now?" I said calmly.

He threw the two pieces of the plush on the ground. "I-I am here to—I am here to take the child, brother."

Michael was stuttering. I knew him all too well. If I was the Prince of Lies, then my brother was the most discernible liar one could ever come across. His intellect just wasn't high enough. Poor lad. I decided to play along. "So I was correct! You do intend to use the child in the coming war!"

"Yes! You simply are a genius, brother," the fool believed me. "So please step aside so I can claim her."

He continued his ruse, but unbeknownst to him, so did I. "No! I have come here to prevent the Apocalypse, and that is what I must do." I knelt with one knee on the bed, and aimed my knife right at the girl's chest. "I'm sorry, Michael, but I just can't let you have her. The girl must die."

In a quick stab, the knife met her chest, leaving only the handle exposed.

The fool laughed so hard he wasn't even drunk. "Ha! Very good, Luci! You did it! The Child is dead! Now the prophecy is complete!"

I grinned, confirming my suspicion. "I see."

Michael looked lost. "Huh?"

I dropped the knife on the bed. To his shock, he was surprised to learn it was only a piece of wood the same length as the blade's handle. Sleight of hand, as mortals say. "So that was the game from the very beginning, eh?"

Michael's eyes widened, his right hand forming a fist. "W-When did you?" he stuttered. "You... You—You tricked me!"

"I knew something was off. It was just too easy, every angel throwing breadcrumbs, leading me to the gingerbread house. I just knew there was a play on stage. I just didn't know the title until now: The Antichrist who killed the Reincarnated Christ and started the Apocalypse. What a play indeed. And I commend your acting, brother. Though a bit rusty on the edges, I admit you are somewhat getting the hang of it."

The angel raised his hand towards me, opening his palm, grabbing my neck with his power. "Damn you, Lucifer! It was so easy! Why didn't you just kill her!? Why didn't you just play the scapegoat as you have ever since Creation?!"

I tried to speak. "Because I am tired of it, brother. I am tired of playing the villain in all our little stories. This time, perhaps, I think I would like to be the hero for a change."

"But—The Prophecy! The Prophecy must be fulfilled!"

"Let me guess. The Apocalypse will not come with the Second Coming of Jesus Christ, but with his Second Death."

He gulped, which only confirmed it. Oh, brother. Behind that thick head of yours must have been the brain of a dinosaur—tiny and useless and doomed to extinction.

I grinned. "So it is true."

Michael then raised his other arm, and I felt completely powerless. He had complete control over my body, a puppeteer pulling all the strings. Such cheap tricks. "If you're not going to kill her, I'll make you do it!"

My hands moved on their own as I grabbed Dani by the neck. I was choking her. "No! Michael! Stop this!"

"It won't be long, Luci. Once the Devil kills the Messiah, the horns will be blown and the spears will be raised. Angels will rise in anger and revenge. Under my lead, Heaven will come down upon Hell and chaos will erupt. You cannot stop it."

As I was choking the poor girl, I felt a tingle, a sudden spark from my hands crawling up to my arms, eventually spilling to my whole body. I closed my eyes, and took a deep breath, for it was a feeling I had craved for such a long time.

I released the girl, got off from the bed, and stood straight up, much to Michael's surprise.

"W-What happened?" the fool stuttered again. "Why can't I control you?"

I raised my hand, examining it, like a magic wand I had lost long ago, and now had finally made its way back to its master. "I'm sorry, my dear brother, but it seems I have to take a rain check on the Apocalypse."

The fool was rather persistent. "No!"

A smirk danced at the tip of my lips. I snapped my fingers, and time went back to the world. Dani tumbled onto the bed, surprised I was standing when she was just holding me.

Michael began to panic. "W-What?! It can't be! How did you—"

Then, I grabbed the girl's arm, smiled at my brother, and snapped my fingers once more, saying, "Let there be light."

A blinding light engulfed the room, swallowing everything, and without a moment's notice, we vanished, and Michael was left hanging with nothing but bad news.

****

"For the Lord himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first."

—1 Thessalonians 4:16

## CHAPTER XII

## FAITH HEALING

"Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!"

A few days after the incident with brother deary, I took the girl to a televangelist show, right in the front row. They call it "Faith Healing," and it catered mostly to Christian fundamentalists, a new "experience" for rich politicians and celebrities, and as a last resort for desperate and terminal patients. It's all about the theatrics, if you ask me, but as I mentioned before, evidence is of no longer any consequence when hope enters the fray.

People will practically believe anything these days.

What a poor lot. After all my effort to share knowledge with mankind, a certain number of mortals are still gullible enough to be deceived by these selfish, heartless charlatans; these faithless frauds who use the name of the Father for their own plundering purposes, preying on the innocent and feeding on the weak.

"Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!" The swindler repeated his excrement on stage. "Praise be to the Lord! Oh God! Oh Jesus Christ! Now raise your arm, brothers and sisters! Who has come here to be healed? Raise thou arms and shout, Amen! Amen!"

The massive stadium echoed with their response. "Amen! Amen! Amen!"

"Now who here has cancer?" the healer asked, leaping down from the stage. As one of the greatest televangelist frauds during the eighties, Peter Popoff was—and still is—a practicing racketeer. And yet, for some further reason that tends to elude me, the swindler is still able to hold faith healing sessions, or rather, fake healing sessions, despite his alleged crime decades ago. Similar with cases of convicted government officials, people seem to easily forgive and forget, and it is in this ludicrous train of thought that I usually find myself puffing a smoke or two to my annoyance. Back in the day, Popoff was earning a revenue of somewhere along four million dollars a year with his self-proclaimed "healing" powers. People with several severe diseases such as breast cancer, brain tumors, tuberculosis and so much more would come begging to him, opting for faith healing rather than standard medicinal procedures.

"What a douche," muttered Dani, who had now dyed her hair dark blue. "What a scumbag."

I cleared my throat. "Why did you color your hair blue, my dear?"

"I just wanted do," she said, glaring. "What? You got a problem?"

I blinked and turned forward, avoiding her devouring stare. "No. No problem."

"That's good. Anyway, what the hell are we doing here?" she asked, looking irritated by the crowd. "And why did you have to get the front row seats for Christ's sake? Where did you even get the money for this?"

"Don't fret. I have my connections." I smirked without looking at her. "And you, my dear, need to learn."

"Need to learn what?"

I turned to her. "To use your abilities."

Little Jesus gave off a confident expression, folding her arms. "I told you. I can already do that. That's why my classmates are afraid of me."

"Moving tables with your mind is child's play, my dear," I said. "You are capable of so much more."

Dani pursed her lips, wrinkled her forehead, and stared at the spouting healer. His saliva was everywhere on the floor.

"Read his mind," I said plainly.

She raised an eyebrow. "Shut up! I'm trying already," she muttered under her breath. With her paranormal gift, Dani was able to discover her telekinesis at a very young age. But unfortunately, without any proper guidance or training, she was never able to hone her other talents. Not until I came along, anyway. She needed to be strong. If her death was indeed the catalyst for the Armageddon, then she would need to learn to stand up on her own. Angels and demons could be lurking about, just waiting for a chance to get her alone.

Popoff continued, strolling dramatically to his next victim. What a douche indeed. He was all hammy; wouldn't even have passed the theater auditions, if you ask me. But for his sham, it was all adequate: the shouting, the exaggerated expressions, the meaningless hand gestures—it was televangelist entertainment at its finest. I snickered at my seat. I suppose people will believe anything as long as you start the sentence with 'God tells you'.

"Stand up, 1672 Roadside Street! God tells you to stand up!" He shouted to the sickly woman on a wheelchair who had a bandana covering her bald head. "That is correct, am I right?"

"Yes, Sir!" she answered, to her best effort.

"Not yes Sir, but yes, My Lord!" he shouted at her face, spilling saliva all over her. Poor woman. "For it is the Lord who shall heal you, the Lord our holy God, the one and ever merciful Father!"

The poor woman stuttered. "Y-Yes, My Lord! Please heal me!"

The pastor began to talk to himself. "Yes, God? Her name is Glenda? And yes, yes. You want to heal her?" He nodded to himself, as if confirming someone else's answer. If I had seen him somewhere outside the stadium doing that kind of act, I would have mistook him for a madman. This was, of course, Popoff's most famous trick: he would tell people God whispered to him, telling him the name, the afflictions, and even the exact address of his audience. "Is your name Glenda?"

"Y-Yes, My Lord! That is my name! Please!"

"Then I, the Lord and powerful God, through thy kindness, shall heal you of your suffering!"

The crowd watched anxiously, holding hands together.

And after a second of silence, the healer slapped the woman right in the forehead, pushing her with a force so heavy that the woman was sent tumbling backwards on her wheelchair. "Be gone demon! Be gone breast cancer! Leave this woman! Return to hell were you belong! For God had told me to smite that cancer with my hand, and so I did!"

I laughed, covering my mouth. It was the most hilarious thing I have ever seen. The poor woman never knew what was coming. I would pity her, of course, but she deserved that for believing in such false claims so easily. I pity these people. I surely do. God seemed to have become a brand, a packaging, and people purchase this trusted brand with such faith and devotion that they no longer care who the vendor is. Just like a detergent. Whether you acquire it from a mall or a dirty market, as long as it's the same trusted brand, there's no problem, right?

The lot around her gathered, helping her up back to her chair. She was a bit dizzy, for who in their right mind would hit a defenseless, sick woman in a wheelchair?

"Are you healed, Glenda of 1672 Roadside Street?" The imbecile continued to bathe the woman's face with his spit.

She gleamed with hopeful eyes. "Yes, Sir! I mean--Yes, My Lord! I am healed!"

And so he raised his hand. "Amen, brothers! Amen, sisters! Let us thank the Lord our ever merciful God, Our Father! For Glenda of 1672 Roadside Street is now healed! Can I get an Amen on that!?"

The crowd roared as one hungry beast. "Amen!"

"Can I get a Hallelujah?"

The crowd answered again. "Hallelujah!"

"Can I get a Thank You, Papa God?"

There was a slight pause, but of course, they followed. "Thank you Papa God!"

I snickered hard. The last one was the winner. The man could practically make anyone say anything. I'm glad he wasn't a politician. Not yet anyway.

"Now I tell you: throw your medicine! Throw your pills away! For such things are the work of the Devil! Throw them, people! All you need is faith, and faith you already have!"

Of course, the people obeyed and threw their medicine away, and they died soon after, but that didn't stop more people from believing.

The man then strolled back to the front row, towards Dani and me. "I can feel someone, someone here who is sick. Someone who has a brain tumor!" He was now standing in front of Dani. "You! The girl with blue hair! Sherlock from 221B Baker Street! The Lord God Almighty has asked me to heal your poor soul!"

Dani turned to me, her eyes furious. In order for the swindler to turn to us, I filled out the prayer cards with a fake identity and a fake disease. And as I expected, the man was foolish enough to believe the given information. 221B Baker Street, after all, was Sherlock Holmes's address. This not only proved his pronounced stupidity, but also proved that the voices he heard did not come from God, but from a contact via a hidden earphone.

The man placed his hand over Dani's head. "Are you ready to be healed now, Sherlock of 221B Baker Street?!"

Dani turned back to face him, and as the healer lowered the microphone near her mouth, she answered with a flat voice. "You're a fake."

The little girl's voice echoed throughout the stadium, and the mindless masses were silenced. No one spoke, and the word 'fake' bounced from corner to corner, from lips to lips, from whisper to whisper. Popoff's face stiffened with a constipated expression, as if he was a student caught running naked in the school hallway. "Pardon me?"

Dani kept her tone. "You're a fake, asshole."

The healer stood back, suddenly afraid of this small harmless-looking child. "A demon! A demon has possessed this child! The Devil has sent her to defy us!"

The crowd gasped, making the sign of the cross repeatedly.

"In the name of the Almighty Powerful God," he said aloud, and I covered my face with a handkerchief to shield myself from his spitting salvo. And why does he have so many titles for God? Almighty Powerful God, Lord God, Lord God Almighty, Our Father, Ever Merciful One; it really gets on my nerves. Why can't he just give him one name and stick with it. "I banish you from this body! Be gone demon! Be gone!"

And as he did, he slapped Dani right in the forehead, but to the surprise of many, the girl didn't fall down. She just remained standing, steadfast and unwavering, devoid of any emotion.

As I peered in closer, I noticed the healer's palm never even touched Dani's forehead. She had blocked him using her power, something that only I, and surely Popoff, was able to perceive.

"I-It can't be!" he began to stutter. "W-What are you?"

Dani smirked. "I'm your worst nightmare, motherfucker."

The charlatan fell to the floor, dragging himself backwards, away from us, away from the girl he called a demon. "God help me!"

Dani gave off a fake smile again, turning her head a bit and widening her eyes, in a sort of demonic way. From then I already knew what she was doing. She was inside his head, and from what I could see, it wasn't a pleasant experience. Not for Popoff, at least.

After a minute, the pastor stood up, picked up the microphone, and said, "My dear brothers and sisters! I have a confession to make." Whispers were floating about, but this got their attention. "I... I—I am a—"

Peter Popoff stuttered heavily. Dani took a step toward him, apparently terrifying the man based on his alarming expression. She just smiled, which just made him more nervous.

"I—I am a—I am a fake!" his voice echoed in the silence. "The girl is right!"

For the first time, the people didn't know what to say.

"I am a swindler, a charlatan! I have deceived you all!" He plucked the hidden earphone out of his left ear, and waved it in the air. "This is the voice I hear! Not from God but from my wife, hidden in the room over there," he said pointing towards the one-way mirror on the wall. "I have deceived you all, please forgive me!"

There was a gasp from the audience, then a cry, then a holler. The weak fell into tears and the strong raised arms, throw items at him. It started with pins, then cans, then bottles. The crowd turned into a mob, fueled by anger, rage, and disappointment—the worst kind of mob you can get. One tall man punched the healer, then another in a business suit, then another. More people began to pour in. He was outnumbered. Security came in to drag the swindler, but it was too late. Popoff had already suffered several injuries from the beating: a cut on the head from a bottle, a bruise on one eye, and probably a pair of broken ribs from all that kicking. The people swarmed like insects hungry for a leftover pie. And he bled like a pie, for that was what he deserved.

"What did you tell him?" I asked Dani as we walked away to the exit.

Little Jesus grinned. "I told him that I was a demon, and that I would haunt him forever if he didn't confess right now."

"That's a good one," I approved, winking at her. "Pizza?"

"Damn right, I want pizza. I'm fucking hungry!"

I smiled, then offered a hand. "That was some telepathy you displayed."

She slapped it in return. "You're not half bad yourself, dumb-dumb."

****

"For such people are not serving our Lord Christ, but their own appetites. By smooth talk and flattery they deceive the minds of naive people."

—Romans 16:18

## CHAPTER XIII

## TEMPTATION OF THE DEVIL

A flash of light exploded into the night, only to vanish as soon as it appeared. Sleeping cars erupted in alarm, stirred by the sudden blast of wind. Teleportation was the first of my powers to return, as my dear brother learned the night of our escape. Unfortunately, I found the skill a tad restricting, in that it required physical contact with the girl to be of any use.

In other words, no Dani, no flash bombs.

"What's her name again?" I asked, still holding her hand. The quick transition from indoors to the chilly outdoors provoked a rousing thrill down my spine.

Her grip was strong. "Sarah."

Soon the breeze settled. As we reached the house, a fit and healthy chap in his fifties answered the door. The man of the house had grey hair and sported a fringe, perhaps with the faint hope of concealing his receding hairline. He had a very pronounced jaw, which you can practically lay flat on a table, and his firm handshake almost crushed my hand.

"Good evening, Sir." I squeezed his hand in return. "Condolence."

The man narrowed his eyes on me, then shifted to Dani, who was still holding my other hand. Somehow, he knew who Dani was, but he didn't speak. After an awkward moment, he simply nodded and let us in as he closed the door behind us.

I looked around for familiar faces, but there were none. The casket sat peacefully by the living room, surrounded by an intricate arrangement of marigold, violets, calla lilies and so on, all labeled with the name of the donor, or some such group or organization. A few guests chattered on the loft upstairs, a chandelier hovering over everyone else.

"Does he know you?" I said without looking at her. "The father?"

"Maybe. Maybe not," she said nonchalantly, as usual.

"Hm..."

"I need to pee."

"Sure. Go ahead."

She stared at my grip. "Can you let go of my hand?"

I looked down and almost forgot. "Oh, sorry."

Dani then pulled her grey hood on, strolled casually, and grabbed a handful of assorted sweets from the tray beside the attendance book. In a moment she was gone, and I began to browse the list. Our next case was to investigate the sudden death of her classmate, Sarah, who apparently committed suicide a few days earlier. For Dani, she considered it strange, not because her classmate committed the act, but because she wasn't informed, nor were there any letters written. They made a pact that they would commit suicide someday, together, and Dani was very upset she was not invited. They were that odd, and that close.

I dragged my forefinger down the list, then back up to the previous page, and so on. It was common for entities to use the name of their host, such as me, but oftentimes they would leave their own signature. Old habits, I suppose. It was easy to miss, especially if the mark was incomprehensible, though some signatures were as simple as a question mark. I searched at a glance: Parker, Anderson, Pullman, Martin, Campbell, Hayter, Gaiman, Westerfeld, Lovecraft, Grey, Brown, White, Black, Taylor, Smith, Ericson, Jones—

Then, I stopped, and noticed the signature. Beside the last name 'Jones' was not a name, but a single letter. I narrowed my eyes, leaned closer, and realized it wasn't a letter, nor even a character at all. It was a symbol, and a very old one at that. In place of a common sign was a round shape, a snake in a circle, swallowing its own tail. It was a sign of a person I was very much acquainted with—the mark of the Ouroboros.

"Wormwood," I muttered. "What the hell are you doing here?"

A voluptuous woman with long blonde hair approached me. She was wearing a silver necklace and a very expensive black dress. "Vincent? Is that you?"

I blinked. I tried to recall who she was, until I did. "Nancy?"

Yes, it was Nancy, Ritcher's coveted squeeze, the project manager. "Of course it's me! Who did you think I was?"

"Oh, forgive me, Nancy. I didn't notice you with your new hair."

She placed her hand on her waist, as she usually did, when she would ask for the weekly status or some sort of favor. "Do you like it?" she said, using the other hand to brush her hair. "Isn't it beautiful? Ain't I beautiful, Vincent?"

I nodded, as was my default response to almost everything she said.

"So what brings you here? How do you know the Ericsons?"

I rubbed my brow. "I—"

"You never really talked about your personal life, you know."

One thing I was sure of, if you had talked about your personal life with Nancy, the project manager, then you probably had talked about your personal life to almost everyone at the office. She was such a telltale, that woman. If perhaps you were planning to announce an invitation at the office, say for example, a wedding or a funeral, then save yourself the trouble and just tell the damn woman.

"Er... Nancy, I was—"

"Wait a minute!" she said to my surprise. "Aren't you on a leave for a month-long trip to Singapore?"

I raised an eyebrow, without the slightest idea that a scenario like this was about to take place. What a small world indeed. "Ahm... You see, Nancy. It was cancelled. Certain obligations came up that required my immediate attention."

"Oh, Vincy. You really were the smooth talker."

"Pardon?"

Nancy licked her upper lip wet, placing her index finger on my chest. "Are you going somewhere later?"

"Actually, I have—"

"How about a movie?"

"Uhm..."

"Or dinner, perhaps? At my place?"

I gulped. I forgot how Ritcher was always so envious of me. He really fancied Nancy, but unfortunately, Nancy fancied someone else.

"Look, Nancy. I have—"

Suddenly someone grabbed my hand. It was Dani, she was back. The girl stared at Nancy, and the woman stared back. "Oh!" Nancy exclaimed. "I see..."

"Nancy, it's not what you think."

The woman giggled. "Why, I should have known, Vincent. Explains a lot. Never saw you for a family man though. Is she your eldest?"

I slapped my forehead. "No, she's not my daughter."

"Divorced?"

"No."

"Lovechild?"

Well, I had Mammon, but the woman was referring to mortal children. "Uhm . . . No."

A server passed by and she grabbed a glass of red wine. "Don't worry, Vincent." She winked, swirling the wine. "Your secret's safe with me." She was about halfway her wine when she began to panic, as if there was something wrong with her drink. Suddenly the woman spat a batch of blood from her mouth, soaking her dress, her legs and her shoes. When she turned to the glass in her hand, she discovered it was indeed filled with blood.

"OMG!" she said, dropping the glass to the floor as she ran screaming to the bathroom. The people were shocked, but those far from us didn't even notice and went back to their own gossip exchange.

"That'll keep her mouth shut for a while," Dani said calmly. "Fucking gossip hoarder. I hate 'em. I fuckin' hate 'em."

"Thanks."

"No problem." She then tugged my hand. "Let's go talk to Sarah."

"All right."

****

At the casket, painted with dull brown and white, lay a beautiful girl with curly copper hair and freckled cheeks, wearing a white Sunday dress that one would usually wear nowhere else. Her arms were crossed above her chest, and a flower, a stem of a daisy, was clasped under her hands. She seemed so young, even more so than Dani.

"I hate you," Dani said to the corpse of the child. "I fuckin' hate you."

I kept silent and placed two coins over her eyes. Old habits, I tell you.

Little Jesus looked at me oddly, then turned to her friend again. "Why didn't you tell me? You made a promise!" she said, kicking the flowers beneath the casket. "We made a promise! We were supposed to do it together!"

Only the old ladies praying at the front row noticed her. Everyone else was preoccupied, obliviously minding their own affairs.

"Damn it!" she cursed, her grip on my hand getting stronger. "If you only—"

"Dani," I interrupted.

She had a tear in her left cheek. "What?"

I pointed my head towards the loft above us. There was another girl, with the same curly copper hair, the same freckled cheeks, and the same white Sunday dress. She stared at us, at Dani, and when a waiter walked in front of her, she vanished like smoke. "I think she wants to talk to you."

Little Jesus released my hand, wiped her eyes with her sleeve and proceeded to follow the lifelike apparition. I, on the other hand, went up the stairs as well, but to the opposite direction of where Dani went. Walking past the chatters, the long restroom line, and a few racing kids, I found myself talking to a lone individual, and though I hate to admit it, he was a rather fine looking gentleman of the same caliber as myself. No doubt about it. The slender man brandished a purple silk tuxedo, with shoulder-length hair and the most peculiar crooked nose leaning to the left. Sometimes it came to mind if it was the tux or that damn nose. Women tend to have all sorts of kinks, in my experience.

I smiled. "Good evening, Wormwood."

The man turned and smiled in return "And so it is, Morningstar."

We shook hands. "Please, just Vincent will do."

"Fine, Vincent. So what brings you here? Did you happen to glimpse my dashing ensemble all the way from the parking lot?"

I grinned. "No. I saw your signature."

The angel rolled his eyes. "Oh, that. Old habits die hard, I suppose."

"Yes, they do," I replied, grabbing a glass of wine from a server. "So what are you doing here, Wormwood?"

The man with the crooked nose leaned over the railing, shaking his own glass as he watched over the gathering below. "Why do you ask, my friend. You of all fallen angels should know that I, the Third Star, remained neutral after the Fall. Unlike you or your brother Michael, I took no part in the petty scuffle of Heaven and Hell. My matters are of mortal, and my engagements are of enterprise."

"And that is what worries me more, my friend."

He took a sip. "Yes, you do, Vincent. You always do."

For a while there was silence as we savored the flavor.

"It's a bit bitter, isn't it?" he broke the calm.

"It always is around you," I jested. "And you still consider me an angel?"

"Why, of course, you are!" Wormwood laughed. "The best and brightest there could ever have been or ever will be!" He emptied the glass in the third gulp and offered, "Refill?"

"No, thanks."

"Suit yourself." He then shook his glass, and in a few seconds, it was filled with another round. "I just love a good drink, don't you, Vincent?"

I pondered for a while, but then I thought, there was no other way but to ask. "Wormwood..."

He sipped again. "Yes?"

"Have you been to Hell recently?"

The fallen angel raised an eyebrow, a sudden twinge on his glass. "Hell?"

"Yes. Hell. One of my subjects saw you talking to Mammon. Is it true?"

He talked with his eyes still on the crowd. "Was it the succubus? That Lilith?"

"It matters not."

Wormwood sighed, to my dismay.

"You know the Treaty, Wormwood. You swore no allegiance to any side, and yet you manage to inform the Dukes of Hell of this Second Coming? What are you now? Their new dog? Or just a player who sticks to the winning side?"

The angel slammed the glass on the ledge, and in a blink of an eye, we were suddenly standing on a rooftop somewhere, overlooking a bustling city at night. The wind blew strong as our coats flapped and billowed in the darkness. "Don't talk to me about laws and treaties, Morningstar. We all know where you stand. And I have grown tired of this feud. Why not let Heaven and Hell finally have the onslaught they so desire, and when the battle is all over—"

"Then you shall slay the victor and claim the throne for your own?"

Wormwood laughed. "Why not, eh? Let the lions and the wolves tear each other, while I wait to cook and roast them for a grand feast!"

"Hmp... So much for being neutral, eh?"

He scratched his head. "Neutral? But I am! Don't you see? I am on no one's side but myself!"

I gulped down and emptied my glass. "So what about mankind?"

Wormwood shook his head. "As I have told you, my matters are of mortal. My dream is for a world devoid of Heaven and Hell, where I shall rule the mortal realm on my own!"

I closed my eyes, and dropped the glass to the floor, shattering it. "Such a waste."

"What?"

"It seems you have fallen even farther than me."

The fallen angel's face turned red, and his crooked nose was not helping at all. "You speak as if you are in the place of power, my friend. Perhaps you do not know that I am aware of your current state? That whatever Michael is now afraid of, was just a fluke of your abilities? That without the girl beside you, I could throw a spear into your heart and you would not even have the strength to deflect it?"

I stood, unwavering. "Believe in what you will, my friend, for freedom is a right even the divine are entitled to."

Frustrated, the angel did produce a spear, longer and taller than a man, and posed himself to throw it. "If you truly claim the power you once possessed, then turn this spear into ash, and your heart will be spared."

"A blade for blood will not save us, but a word of the wise."

Wormwood hurled the spear, only ten paces from me, but before it could reach my chest, the angel transformed the spear, dispersing it into a hundred red petals. "Damn it! Are you that prepared to die, huh? For this child?"

"Why didn't you do it? Why didn't you kill me, Wormwood?" Of course, I knew, Wormwood, my friend, would never kill me. Not directly though. He then sprinted toward me, punching me in the right jaw, then one in the solar plexus. I knelt to the ground, coughing blood. He kicked me again, on the chest, and I was sent lying on the floor, facing the star-littered sky.

"Oh, my dear Morningstar . . ." Wormwood dragged me up to the ledge of the building. "If you claim to possess your powers once again, angel, then spread your wings if you can!"

My friend then threw me off the ledge, off the building, and I was sent falling down eighty floors or taller, much longer, for in the length of it, I had felt I was floating instead of falling, and the yellow lights of the windows were but a fleeting flash of a dream. After a while, the fall ended, and I woke up, lying on the roof of the same building, staring at the stars once again. I pulled myself to my knees, wiping the blood from my lip with a fist.

"Such petty tricks, Wormwood. I know you can't kill me. Or rather—you won't."

The man with the crooked nose fixed his purple tuxedo, and snapped his fingers. The roof then began to seem taller, gaining altitude as the seconds pass, higher and higher, until almost half the world was beneath our feet. "Can't you see it, Morningstar? The world is ours for the taking! When Heaven and Hell have bled and rot and fallen to memory, all shall be left is the mortal realm, and we can rule it together! All you need to do is bow to me, my friend. Bow to me, and I shall restore you to the title you once held and so cravingly desire! Bow to me, and you shall once again be called the Light Bearer, the brightest angel of them all!"

I pulled out a cig from my pack. Sparks flew as I inhaled on it, without a lighter. "I'm not really good at bowing, if you know what I mean."

"Hmp... So you got your Dragon's Breath back, eh?" he observed. "Be that as it may, you'll need more than cigarette fire if you plan to go against me."

I smiled, then exhaled the smoke. "And more you shall receive."

He sighed in defeat, and said, "Fine, fine."

After a while, I looked around, hesitated, and said, "Can you send me back now?"

"It's the father."

"Pardon?"

"The father killed the girl," Wormwood said. "Not directly though, but he denied her medical treatment. The mother wanted to send her to a hospital but the father didn't. She had kidney failure, but they went to a faith healer instead. Three times, actually."

I sighed, with utter disappointment but not much surprise. "Christian fundamentalist?"

"Looks like it."

"Which sect?"

"Don't know, don't care."

I shook my head, disturbed that such people are so blinded by their faith that they let even their children suffer for their pride. This wasn't the first time, of course. The world is filled with these ill folk, hoodwinked by the Church into believing faith is enough to heal cancer or a tumor. But the worst part is they don't feel any remorse for their actions. Most of this lot actually believes that if their children die, the only fault was that the child did not have enough faith. How sad. How sad, indeed. If the Dark Ages would come again, then I think it already is upon us. "But what are you doing here?"

"Well, the girl is dead, but she's strong. She's not dispersing yet. Only a few can escape from the Over-Soul, and this kid can surely run. Her apparition is running around the house as we speak."

"Yes, I saw her ghost. So what are you now, Death's stand in?" I mocked. "Does Azrael even know about this?"

"Of course not. The Angel of Death carries the souls of both mortal and divine to the Over-Soul to be renewed, which in my opinion is a very boring job. I, on the other hand, offer them to the highest bidders. Souls are a highly potent energy source, after all."

"You're upsetting the balance, my friend." I shook my head. "Souls are harvested to be reincarnated, not to serve as weed bags for bloody demons. If you still plan to take the spirit, then you'll have to go through me."

Wormwood laughed hard. "The world's not ready for your death yet, Morningstar. But if that day ever comes, I'll be right there to snatch your precious soul."

There was a long pause, then I spoke. "Thank you, Wormwood."

"Hmp!" the angel replied, scratching his crooked nose. "See you at the end of the world."

I bowed, and as I stood straight, I saw myself back at the wake, standing back on the loft with the other guests. Wormwood had vanished as if he were never there, but as I looked to my hand, I realized the wine glass was restored and refilled. I raised the glass and sipped. "See you at the end, my friend. Cheers."

****

I waited on the bench outside. "Took you long enough. So how was the girl?"

Dani came out after half an hour. She took a seat beside me. "She's free now. That bastard father of hers killed her. She was sick and he didn't even call a doctor! He kept brining her to those fucking faith healers, you know, like the one we frosted? But she never got better. Her mother wanted to do something but her father was just so stubborn."

I nodded and listened in silence.

"So yeah, I was so mad. I was just so mad. Sarah has a younger sister, you see. And Sarah was just so worried her father was going to do the same to her sister if she got sick."

This got me turning to her. "So what did you do?"

"I made the fucking bastard see her. I took him to a room and he saw Sarah standing right in front of him."

I smiled. "Must have been a frightful scene."

"Fuck, yeah! He deserved it, alright, that stubborn over-zealot prick."

"And?"

"And what?"

I turned my eyes to the ambulance outside the house. "That's not the whole story, isn't it?"

Little Jesus dipped into her pocket, grabbing a pack of chocolates. "Oh, that."

"Dani?"

She slammed a fist on the bench. "Fine! I fried the guy's brain! It wasn't enough that Sarah scared him! There was no guarantee in that! The only way to assure her sister's safety was to get rid of him!"

There was a brief silence, then I patted her on the head, and simply said, "Okay."

Dani was dumbstruck, perhaps expecting some sort of scolding. "Okay? That's all?"

"You saw evil, and dealt with it," I answered. "That is all you need to know."

She smiled in return. "Want some?"

"Chocolates?" I grabbed a pack. "You don't need to ask me about chocolates, my dear."

"Wait, I'll get more from the tray! Wait here!"

And then I frowned, for I knew a long and dangerous road was ahead of us. "I'm going to need all the chocolates I can get."

****

"The third angel sounded his trumpet, and a great star, blazing like a torch, fell from the sky on a third of the rivers and on the springs of water—the name of the star is Wormwood. A third of the waters turned bitter, and many people died from the waters that had become bitter."

—Revelations 8:10–11

## CHAPTER XIV

## SPIRIT FROM THE EAST

The TV flashed, relentless. Beelzebub (alias Ritcher) yawned like a horn on the couch, his feet at ease on the smaller chair. The poor exile looked terribly ill, or perhaps simply bored, often making an odd expression revealing his befuddlement and disorientation, or even a hint of contempt, for what he was watching. The program featured three small girls soaring through the skies with a gleeful combination of red, blue and green, as they make their way to save the world from a primate whose brain mass proved larger than his whole body. Apparently the show was on a Friday night marathon, and the opening theme would roll into the scene every half an hour or so. And as much as he seemed to loathe it, Ritcher was now singing along to the chorus.

"♪ Fighting crime, trying to save the world♪" chanted Richer, lifeless like a zombie.

"I hate this episode," mumbled Dani, sitting on the other end of the couch. "Bubbles can be so stupid sometimes."

"I know, right?" said Ritcher, staring blankly at the screen. The Lord of Flies was sporting his trademark "Rock Star" ensemble, all black and glossy leather. "Tell me about it."

"She's so fucking sad. Always the crybaby."

"Can I have the remote?" he gambled. "We've been watching cartoons for two hours now."

Her answer was quick and heartless. "No."

Further annoyed, Ritcher began fiddling with his phone. "Hey Vincent! You really don't want to go out? Michelle's out with some friends. I can introduce you to—"

"Nope," I answered swiftly, my face covered with the new edition of Maxim. I sat by the table near the window. "I'm waiting for a call."

Ritcher looked even more perplexed. "What call? It's already been two hours now. Jeez..."

I kept the cover up, staring at Olivia Wilde's stunning figure. "Just watch a movie or something."

"Oh, c'mon! The girls are starting to party already!"

I paused, then said, "You can leave if you want to, you know."

Ritcher, frustrated, yanked his hair with two hands and sighed in defeat. "Fine, fine."

Then, in a swift plunge, he snatched the remote from Dani's hands, and managed to change the channel to a basketball match. "Ha! Gotcha!"

Dani remained calm, and even before Ritcher could begin to enjoy himself, she opened her palm, and the remote flew from Ritcher's clutches and back to her grasp.

"Hey! Not fair!" The exile said, like a kid who lost to his playmate. "No powers!"

Little Jesus simply smirked, ignoring him, and changed the channel back to cartoons.

For a while, there was peace, until Ritcher spoke again. "Hey, how old are you anyway?"

"Eleven."

He blinked. "Eleven!? Hey Vincent!" the poor man complained. "Isn't it her bed time yet or something? Heck, isn't her mother looking for her?"

I placed the magazine down on the table. "All measures have been taken. No need to worry about that now," I explained. "And Dani, give the remote to our friend, all right?"

Dani spoke, her eyes fixed on the screen. "He's not my friend."

"Dani," I persisted.

"Plus his head is filled with naked woman. He's a real pervert."

Ritcher coughed. "What the—You said she couldn't read your mind, man?"

"Yes," I answered. "My mind. Not yours. I think that much I made clear."

"Hey, that's not fair, Vincent." Ritcher frowned. "I'm not gifted like you."

I smiled. "It's not a gift, Ritcher. It's called practice. And if you'd spent more time using that head above your neck rather than the one below, then just maybe—"

Ritcher yawned in surrender. "Fine. Fine. I get it."

"Now, Dani," I turned to her. "Please hand over the remote to our guest. You have been watching too much already."

Annoyed at all the interruption, Little Jesus finally gave up. "Jeez. Here. Take it."

The Lord of Flies held out a grin of victory and proceeded to scan the channels. At first he turned back to the basketball match, but it was already over. He then began to forward through successive movie channels, having a window of about two seconds for each one.

And then, Dani began to speak every time the channel would change. "Batman Returns. The Tuxedo. The Living Daylights. Star Wars Episode IV. Dead Poet's Society. White Chicks. Men in Black II."

"What the hell are you saying?" asked Ritcher, now on the Asian channels.

"The Twins Effect. My Sassy Girl. The Ring."

Then finally, on WOWOW.

"Battle Royale. No, wait. That's Battle Royale 2."

Ritcher looked dumbstruck. "Wait, did you just tell me all the titles of those movies?"

"Duh."

"C'mon. You could tell that fast?"

She looked amused. "Yeah. I've watched a lot of movies since I was little. No biggie."

I laughed and added, "Sometimes, she can even do it with just the sounds too."

"Whatever." Ritcher tried to conceal his amazement. "Wait, did you mention Episode IV?"

"Yeah. Channel 36."

He turned to watch the classic. The man had some taste, after all. "I like the original trilogy better."

Dani snuggled a pillow to her chest. "Yeah. Chewy rocks."

****

After a while, the two began to converse amicably, and as the clock struck ten, I decided to pay my lavatory throne a visit. I took a sip from what was left of my cold tea, stood up, and grabbed a random book from my desk to read. Inside, I switched on the light, opened the toilet seat, and sat down, prepared for a healthy reading of what appeared to be, of all books I could have grasped—the Bible. Yes, I was reading the Bible while sitting in the privy. What could be holier than that?

The book showcased the typical black hardbound edition, with the size of a pocketbook and the thickness to block a bullet. It featured a very convenient index tab on the side of the pages, similar to a dictionary I once read, so as to easily locate the gospel of interest. I read on. One peculiar fact to note was that, the Bible, despite its mass production value, always seems to have such small texts. If one is familiar with the standard minimum font size, the census around it is eight and above. But as for the holy book, the font size, due to its sheer thickness, happens to be around the value of four, or even lower for supplementary passages—a detail I find very unnerving since it actually discourages people from reading it.

I have always wondered why it was such so, until I realized the Church actually preferred the people not to read the Bible in the first place. In fact, in the beginning, the Bible was always written in Latin, and was never allowed to be read by commoners outside the clergy, since, as they said, "The book was too holy for the eyes of common men." It was only when a German monk named Martin Luther (a very close friend of mine from long ago, and I do miss him terribly), decided to translate the book to his native language, paving the way for a deeper and complete understanding of the Word of the Lord, not obtained from a preaching priest or pastor, but read by one's own eyes.

And of course, as some narrow-minded religious spokesperson would declare otherwise, that this is a sham, the clear fact still remains, and for good measure. For if one had read the scriptures as I have—page for page, chapter by chapter, verse after verse—then one would come to the conclusion that the god in the Bible is a ruthless, merciless, and murderous manipulator, a deity who deserves no less admiration for his uncanny imagination to slaughter a man in so many foul and disturbing ways, for reasons so minute and unreasonable that you would find yourself either laughing or raising an eyebrow in no less time.

I kept reading.

Suddenly the bathroom tiles echoed a voice. "Konbanwa, Susanoo-san."

I turned to my left, only to find the once tranquil water in the pail now erupting with bubbles. "And a good evening to you too, Aka Manto."

"Red paper, or Blue paper?"

Aka Manto, a dear friend of mine during my festive days in Japan, was a sort of spirit who would visit public bathrooms to play pranks on people savoring their private moments. A famous legend he built around himself was a riddle: he would ask the sitting person if he would want red paper or blue, and if his answer was red, the spirit would lash at him until his cloths were blood red. On the other hand, if the person were to answer blue, the spirit would strangle him to death until his face turned blue. During my stay in Okinawa, I happened to chance upon the naughty devil in a public cubicle, and to my annoyance, I answered, for which my response just happened to be the correct and only acceptable answer.

"No paper, my friend."

"Good."

The bubbles alleviated, though a few would pop out every time he spoke. He did not have a face, not even on the water, and it would seem to an unknowing spectator that I was speaking alone to my pail of water. "So how's Japan?"

"It is sad, Susanoo-san. They don't believe me anymore like they used to. Teenagers these days use headphones, listening to their godless music all the time. That's why they don't hear me anymore. It's sad, really. Really sad."

I kept reading. "That is bitter news."

"Yeah. So I decided to migrate to a third world county, you know? Somewhere they don't have headphones and deafening music and Hyde. I hate Hyde."

"Who's Hyde?"

"Just some rock vocalist. Girls go crazy, I tell you."

"I see."

The bubbles continued, forming small ripples on the water's surface. "So what's the news, Susanoo-san? Any eight-headed snakes to slay, perhaps? Like the good old days when you were banished from Heaven?"

I snickered. "This is hilarious..."

"Nani?"

With the book still in my hand, I turned to him, or rather, the pail. "Oh, forgive me, my friend, but you must certainly listen to this passage."

"Hmm..." he mumbled. "Western mythology, eh? Okay. Go ahead. If I'm to migrate somewhere else, might as well learn a few things along the way."

I cleared my throat. "Book of Kings, Chapter Two, verses twenty-three to twenty-four:

'And he went up from thence unto Bethel: and as he was going up by the way, there came forth little children out of the city, and mocked him, and said unto him, Go up, thou bald head; go up, thou bald head. And he turned back, and looked on them, and cursed them in the name of the LORD. And there came forth two she bears out of the wood, and tore forty two of the children to pieces.' "

The water fizzed, almost in a boiling manner. Aka Manto was laughing his heart out. "What the hell? Are you saying them kids got killed by two bears sent by this god, just because they mocked some guy who was bald?"

I chuckled in return. "Yes! Apparently, the trivial expression 'god damn you' was not so trivial at the time. I mean, forty-two children slain in His name for telling a bald man he was bald? This is classic. I can't believe I missed this before. It surely beats the two brothers who offered the wrong fire."

"Classic indeed. Wait, what happened to the two brothers?"

"It's on Leviticus. Wait just a sec." I turned the pages, looking for the tale. "Here: Leviticus, Chapter Ten, Verse One:

'And Nadab and Abihu, the sons of Aaron, took either of them his censer, and put fire therein, and put incense thereon, and offered strange fire before the LORD, which he commanded them not. And there went out fire from the LORD, and devoured them, and they died before the LORD.' "

The spirit laughed his heart out, clearly entertained. "Honto ni?! He torched them brothers for just bringing the wrong kind of flame? Couldn't He have just sent them back to get the right one?"

"Unfortunately, no. The god of the Bible is a perfectionist, I'm afraid. And he is unforgiving, unlike what most of his followers preach and believe."

There was a knock on the door. "Hey dumb-dumb! Who you talking to in there? I need to pee!"

"I'm busy. Use the cubicle in the lobby."

Dani kicked the door to her annoyance, then she left, and I was alone again, with my pail of water, of course. "Kids, eh?" I said to the water.

"Tell me about it," he bubbled, then sighed. "Where were we?"

"The torched brothers."

"Oh yeah! What a drag. It surely beats any god I've encountered so far. I mean, I thought that philandering Zeus was the worst for having so many consorts, but at least the guy wasn't a mass murderer."

I grinned. "Yes. And not only is He a murderer, but also a hypocrite. In a famous passage in the Exodus, He gave Moses the Ten Commandments, with one very clear rule on murder: Thou Shall Not Kill."

"Not setting a good example, eh?"

"Precisely." I nodded. "There's one favorite of mine. It's—just a sec," I said, searching for the page again. "Here: Book of Numbers, Chapter Fifteen, verses thirty-two to thirty-six,

'While the Israelites were in the wilderness, a man was found gathering wood on the Sabbath day. Those who found him gathering wood brought him to Moses and Aaron and the whole assembly, and they kept him in custody, because it was not clear what should be done to him. Then the Lord said to Moses, The man must die. The whole assembly must stone him outside the camp. So the assembly took him outside the camp and stoned him to death, as the Lord commanded Moses.' "

The water began to boil hard. "Really? It really mentions in the book that the god commanded this Moses and his men to stone some poor lad to death? Just because the guy was picking wood on some sacred day?"

"Easy now. Don't go boiling me."

The watered settled again. "Oh, gomen. Just riling me up, that's all."

"It's all right, my spirit friend. And yes, it clearly states it in the last line. You can read it here," I said, placing the book just above the water, pointing my index finger to the precise passage."

"Wow. It's official now. I hate your god. I might go back to Japan after all."

I laughed, slapping my knee a few times. "Why don't you try Africa? I hear Gabriel is there. People call him Anansi or something. Heard he's a blast with the ethnic groups."

"Africa, huh? Maybe. Maybe," he continued. "Well, I would love to chat all night, you know, but the missus is calling. You know how she is."

I closed the book and placed it behind me. "Of course. Go ahead, my friend. Our little conversations are nothing short of wonderful as always. I look forward to the next."

"Domo, Susanoo-san. And don't be afraid to call me whenever you need something, okay? I still owe you for helping me out with those damn foxes."

"Yes. The fox henge are indeed a troublesome race," I nodded as I flushed. "Oh, and do send my regards to your wife for me, will you?"

"Not a chance. Best to keep her away from you. The damn woman fancies you, you know."

I laughed at his silly remark. "Until the next time, then."

The pail produced its last bubble, and in that moment forth, I was alone again.

****

"I believe in God, NOT in a Catholic God."

—Pope Francis

## CHAPTER XV

## THE LANDLADY'S REQUEST

After my friendly chat with the spirit from the east, not to mention a jolly good Bible reading, I paced back to the living room, only to find Ritcher already snoring on the couch. The man slumped like a fresh corpse, his lower torso suspended like a bridge between the two seats. The lights were off, but the girl proved more resilient, skimming through the channels, the room blinking with flashes of light.

"Who were you talking to?" she asked, her eyes on the screen.

"Just a friend," I answered, looking for a midnight snack inside the waist-high fridge. "Just an old friend."

"Really? But you left your phone on the table."

"Where's the Crunch?" I ignored her question, displeased to find the last piece of my favorite chocolate missing. "You know I was saving that for after my triglyceride checkup."

"Uhm... Ritcher ate it."

I squinted at her. "Really? I see a smudge on your left cheek."

"Uhmm... Ritcher offered me a bite."

I squatted, searching for anything to nibble at, but there was nothing of comparable interest, except perhaps for the five pieces of Hershey's (three yellows and two reds) left inside the plastic. I never really did like the yellow ones. I was always the red Hershey's kind of guy, but I guess there was no point on being picky at the time. I lifted the bag, poured the contents on my cupped hand, and swiftly slid the bunch down my pocket.

As I stood up, Dani stared at me with scornful eyes. "Hey! Those are mine!"

"An eye for an eye, right?" I smiled with the smugness of satisfaction. "We're even now."

"Hmp! Whatever."

I was about to add another jest, when someone, or rather, something, knocked on the door. Soon the noise shot to irksome staccato banging, a growing temper not to be trifled with. If you had guessed it was my dear brother, sorry, but you were wrong. It was someone worse, someone terribly ancient and vile.

"Penis!" the woman shouted behind the door. "I know you're in there! Penis!"

"Who the fuck is that?" Dani turned her eyes to the door. "And did she just say penis?"

One problem I had with Mrs. Emerson, the landlady, was that she would always pronounce my surname similar to a man's private part, instead of pronouncing it like in pineapple. It was, and I do believe you can relate, very unsettling. One time when she spotted me by the supermarket, I ignored her and she kept calling me over and over again, until the people started to look at her as if she was some sex-crazed, senile grandmother who was chasing some poor young gentleman. Just imagine an old lady chasing you right in the middle of the street, shouting, "Penis! Penis! You owe me! Penis!"

Really, it was that embarrassing, not to mention disturbing. I think it had something to do with the fact that the seventy-year old widow was purely, a Chinese.

"You owe me last month's rent!" the woman said in her hard Chinese accent. It was simply jarring to hear her voice in the middle of the night.

"Oh, about that . . ." Unfortunately, attending the faith healing sham had cost me quite a bit, and Dani snatching my debit card from time to time didn't help either. How she learned my pin I would never know. "You see . . . Mrs. Emerson. If you let me explain the situation—"

"No explain. Just rent."

"But Mrs. Emerson . . ."

"Open the door or I call police! I know you have kid there!"

I sighed. She could really be annoying sometimes. Right then I had no choice. I closed the door, released the chain lock, and opened it again. "Please do come in, Mrs. Emerson." Sometimes I wonder if there really was a Mr. Emerson, or if she just paid someone to fix her paperwork for her migration.

The old woman entered, brushing her white slippers on the rug. She came in with her usual green facial mask, a battalion of curlers, and her pink bathroom robe.

"Would you fancy a cup of tea, Mrs. Emerson?" I said, smiling, the best fake smile I could.

"No tea. I don't like your tea. It's cheap." Soon she began scanning the pad for any crack or dent she could charge me. "Hmm . . ."

"Then would you prefer—"

"I prefer payment, Mr. Penis. Now."

Dani snorted, but the old lady simply ignored her.

"How about I loan you something? My Rolex perhaps?" I offered, handing her the wristwatch. Like my smile it was fake. "It's original."

Her hand was quick for an old lady. fast. "Hmm..." She raised it, angling the light around it, and said, "Okay. But this not enough."

"How about the flat screen, Mrs. Emerson?"

Suddenly the naked bulb above as exploded. Dani was not amused.

Mrs. Emerson looked up, not amused as well. "Flat screen? No. I have TV. Bigger."

"Then perhaps you need aide in some sort? Like printing some documents? Or if you have a package to deliver. I can surely make that happen."

Mrs. Emerson scratched her chin. Her facial mask was slowly melting, dripping, and it did nothing to make her younger. In fact, it served the ghastly opposite. "Hmm . . . There is something."

"Yes?"

"I read your ad outside of door. You are part-time paranormal investigator? Like ghostbusters, huh?"

"Yes, ma'am. Just a sideline for the moment," I answered. "Are you in need of any paranormal services?"

"Actually, I do. I heard from Sandra last week. She said she saw ghost."

I raised an eyebrow. "Uhm... Pardon, ma'am, but who is Sandra?"

"She does my hair and nails."

"Oh... Okay, please continue."

"Anyway, she moved to second floor. Everyone left the fifth because of ghost. If you can help me get rid of ghost, you can pay me later, okay?"

I grinned. Dani could use the exercise, and the job would get the landlady off my back for a few days. "Sure. We shall begin tomorrow."

Mrs. Emerson shook her head. "No, no. Couple coming to see room tomorrow," she continued in her annoying Chinese pitch. "I need it clean tonight."

It was midnight, and we were about to go ghost hunting. What a perfect way to spend a Friday night. "Sure, Mrs. Emerson," I answered, hesitantly, an answer with no choice. "Leave it to us."

****

From the third floor, Dani and I took the elevator straight to the fifth. The door opened to a dark, empty hallway, the only light source coming from the elevator shaft itself. The elevator closed behind us as soon as we stepped out, and the world was swallowed by darkness.

Dani yawned. "Jeez... That landlady wasn't kidding when she said she was saving energy."

"What do you expect?" I pulled a flashlight out of my pocket. "Nobody lives here anymore."

I turned the flashlight on, but as I shook it, I realized the batteries were already drained. "Damn woman. She gave me the torch knowing the batteries were already out."

Dani snorted. "She must really hate you."

I smiled. "The feeling is mutual."

"Let me take a look." Dani grabbed the torch and shook the handle. Then a sudden streak of light pierced the gloom. "There! It's working now."

"You never fail to surprise me, kid."

"I know, right?" Little Jesus placed the light below her face, imitating what people perceive ghosts to be. "Vincent . . . Vincent . . . Why did you leave me here? Why?"

I grabbed the light from her. "We have no time for your dry humor, Dani. Let's just get this over with."

She sighed. "Fine. Whatever, killjoy."

We walked toward the left part of the corridor, our senses alert to whatever lurked beyond plain sight. Along the way the beam would carve obscure shadows that seemed to take the form of ominous things: a black hand, a claw, or sometimes, a silhouette of a head, a hair—all traces of a presence creeping just behind us. And as we turned to look back, they would vanish instantly, though it did not meant they were no longer there. Soon a creaking sound began to emerge, the screaming hinges of a door opening ever so slightly. As we stopped, our footsteps ceased, but those treading behind us did not. They were like the steps of a creeping child, afraid to be caught by her mother, though this child seemed to be crawling above the ventilation shafts and even inside the walls.

Dani grabbed my arm.

As we reached the last room, we realized the door was indeed open, slightly ajar. We went in. The first thing I saw as I aimed the light forward was my reflection in the mirror, and behind me a woman suspended in the air, with long black hair and a white dress. I squinted, turned around, and realized it was only a dress hanging behind the door, with a black shoal on top of it.

We soldiered on.

With my torch we searched the rest of the room. It was clearly a complete mess, with drawers left open, bedsheets pulled down and pillows scattered on the floor, as if someone was in an unmistakable hurry to evacuate the unit. On the table was a plate, a pair of eating utensils, a glass of water, and what appeared to be an edition of a fairly popular men's magazine.

Suddenly a voice echoed from the bathroom.

A girl was crying, sobbing, uttering words that were difficult to make out. Dani's grip was strong. Even if she did have an experience talking to her dead friend Sarah, this one, on the other hand, was not in any way, her friend. I turned the knob but it was locked. I kicked on the door but it didn't budge either. The girl in the bathroom began to cry again, this time much louder. After my second kick, a girl appeared sitting on the bed, about nine years old, her face covered by her hands and unkempt hair. She cried, and the voice behind the bathroom room cried with her. I kicked again, and as I turned to my left hand, the hand which Dani was not holding, I saw the same girl, grabbing my hand, pleading, and she kept saying, "Please. No. Don't come in."

When I finally managed to open the door, the apparitions vanished, and the only one left was the one girl sitting on the toilet. "Please... No... Please..."

Like the rest, she had her hands covering her face. I knelt down to talk to her.

"What is it, my dear?"

"Please... No... Don't hurt me..."

"I'm not here to hurt you," I said convincingly. "I'm here to help you."

She ceased her sobbing. "Really?"

"What is your name, child?"

The ghost kept her head down. "Jihad."

"That's a beautiful name." I held out my hand. "Take my hand, Jihad. It's going to be okay."

The apparition grabbed my hand, the coldness of death crawling against my skin. As she slowly raised her head, I saw an empty face. No eyes, no nose, no mouth—nothing except a face without a face. "No! That's what he said! You're a liar! A liar!"

The girl screamed at my face, a piercing shriek of sorrow and hate, shoving me out of the bathroom door all the way back to the bottom of the bed. Dani pulled me up. Quickly I aimed the light toward the bathroom, but the faceless girl was nowhere to be found.

After a few minutes of silence, I spoke. "Dani."

We sat by the bed, waiting for the ghost to return. "What?"

"The variables may vary, but I think you already know what happened here, am I right?"

She looked worried to what I was about to say next. "More or less."

"Then you know what you have to do," I said as I stood up. "I'll wait outside, okay?"

Dani stood up as well. "Hey! Are you crazy?! You can't leave me here!"

"I shook my head. "I'm sorry, my dear, but I have to. You know this girl is afraid of me, of men. She will only talk to you."

"But... But—"

"You can do this, kid." I patted her head. "I know you can."

Finally she sighed, and made an effort to smile. "Fine, fine."

I smiled in return. "Good."

"Will you just get out?" she said, raising an arm toward the door, pointing a finger. "Get out before I change my mind!"

As much as I didn't want to leave her, all alone in that ghastly room, I simply had to. If she couldn't deal with a single poltergeist, how else could she possibly stand her own ground against a legion of demons and angels? It was simply for her own good, I kept saying to myself. It was her test, and hers alone. Finally I was able to leave her alone, closing the door behind me. I began to walk away until my hands no longer shook, not because I was afraid of the ghost, but because I was worried for my little girl. As I reached the elevator, I sat down, with my back against the cold, dry metal. In that moment, I held my hands together, as if praying.

It was no good. They were still shaking.

****

An hour later, Dani emerged from the room and took a seat beside me on the floor. Her hands were trembling and her skin was cold as ice.

"What happened?"

"Jihad."

"Yes?"

Dani began sobbing. "She was so young. She was just nine, goddamn it!"

I kept silent.

"But why would he do that? Didn't he love her? He married her for Christ's sake!"

So my suspicions were confirmed. "In Islam, the men can marry girls below ten years old."

"Fuck!" she burst in tears, slamming her fist on the floor. "But why did she have to die?! Why did he have to kill her?!"

"Among the Muslims and in countries with similar cultures, there is a terrible act called Honor Killing where one can kill a family member in the pretense that he or she had in some way brought upon shame or dishonor to the family."

"Fuck! Are you serious?! Can religion actually make people kill each other?"

I shook my head. "That is the sad truth, kid. The Crusades, the Holy War, the Burning of the Witches, sacrificing of tributes, religious terrorism, suicide bombers—all these people dying in the name of their appointed god, a deity who seems to neither care nor notice any measure of effort, or life for that matter. And in the end of it all, the irony here is, despite all their exertions and outlandish endeavors, God does not give a shit about them."

Her tears fell, damping the floor. "I just hate it."

I patted her back, and soon she followed with hiccups.

After a while, she managed to speak again. "Tell me, Vincent."

"Yes? Tell you what, my dear?"

She stared at me with weary eyes. "I set her free. But will Jihad go to Heaven? Is there even a Heaven in the first place?"

I smiled, and answered. "Yes, there is a Heaven. But that is not her destination. Only self-righteous pricks reside there."

Dani looked puzzled, her hiccups persisting. "So where is she going?"

"Where all the dead go. Angel, demon or mortal—all freed souls have one destination."

"Huh? So where is that?"

I looked up, imagining a sea of stars above me. "She will return from whence she came. She will rejoin the others. She will become one with them once again. And soon, she will be all, and all will be her. She will become everyone, and she will become everything. She will return to the Over-Soul, the Anima Mundi—the life of this world and those beyond."

She wiped her tears. "Really? I hope she'll be happy there."

"But she will," I ruffled her hair. "And perhaps, someday in the future, when she is ready, she will be born anew, and the cycle of life will continue."

"That sounds really good." She shoved my hand away. "So if I die or you die, we'll go to this Over-Soul place? And someday we'll get reincarnated? Like Sarah and Jihad and all the others?"

"Well, it's not actually a place." I chuckled. "But yes, you are correct."

In a slow descend, Dani leaned against me, her arms around my arm. "Thanks, Dad."

I was startled. "W-What did you say?"

"N-Nothing," she said, her voice weak and cracking. "I-I said thank you, dumb-dumb."

I smiled and landed a kiss her on the forehead. "Look, I have something for you." I then produced a small box from my pocket. "Here."

Her hand was quick. "Cool! A rubber bracelet!" Dani ogled at the purple trinket. "Quick, help me put it on."

I clasped it around her wrist. "Promise me you'll wear this at all times, okay?"

Little Jesus smiled, wiping her tears. "You bet, I will."

****

"The Prophet Muhammad had married Aisha when she was six years old and he consummated his marriage when she was nine years old, and then she remained with him for nine years (i.e., till his death)."

—Sahih al-Bukhari, 7:62:64 (Islam Law)

## CHAPTER XVI

## UNEXPECTED VISITORS

It was three in the early morning when we returned, and Ritcher, my ever so well-mannered colleague, was still snoring like a pig on the couch. He had left the TV on, and it showed nothing but a vertical array of assorted colors slatted on the droning screen. Clearly it was a tad annoying, sending a steady, unrelenting pitch across the room.

Somehow it made me anxious.

Dani pulled on my sleeve. "I'm going down to the store."

I narrowed my eyes at her. "Too late. Go down tomorrow."

"Look, there's a convenience store on the first floor. It's not like I'm going anywhere else."

I took a seat on the couch. "It's not you I'm worried about. It's—"

Her gaze pierced through me. "I know, I know. I just need . . . I just need some time to think, okay?"

I began surfing the channels. "Then think in the bedroom."

Little Jesus stood her ground. "Look, Vincent. I've been doing fine by myself long before you came, okay? I can pretty much handle myself, okay? Okay?!"

They grow up so fast. "Fine. Five minutes."

Dani shot straight to the door with a bang. Children, like women, can be so complicated. Looking to pass the time, I continued to search for an available show, hoping to catch an MTV, or if lucky, a late night Asian soft porn. Sadly, it was neither, for I was greeted by a late night commercial convincing people to dial a phone number to purchase an overpriced cooking stove, some odd-looking vacuum cleaner, and even a machine with the promising assurance of reducing one's belly fat. Honestly, the idea itself amused me, for I realized if one were to be exposed to a particular mistruth for a certain amount of prolonged duration, with the given facts of credibility, of course, then one would come to the inevitable conclusion that that particular mistruth must somehow be, regardless of doubt—the truth.

This is how easy it is to swindle people. This is good sales talk. This is business. Just like with political dogma and the tyranny of those in power to shove it down our throats.

In a while, Ritcher stretched, yawned, and sat up again, casting a beastly shadow behind him that stretched the room. "Did I miss anything?"

"Oh, nothing much," I said, staring at the lady endorser who had the vacuum tube close to her face. For some reason, despite promoting such a device, she was wearing a two-piece swimsuit. Sales talk, I kept saying to myself. Sales talk.

"I see. How about the girl?" Ritcher continued. "Where is she?"

I didn't answer.

"Where is she anyway?"

I yawned, long and satisfying. "At the store below."

"Okay... I'm just worried, you know." He sighed. "This mess you're getting into."

I mustered a smirk. "Worry not, my friend. I have my matters at hand. I have everything under control."

In a while though, I noticed something rather odd. Ritcher was a bit tense, evident by his constant finger tapping and restless eye movement, though strangely enough, it wasn't even the first thing I noticed. What stroke me as peculiar, and this has never happened before, was when he took the bottle of Heineken, and drank from it. It wouldn't have bothered me in any normal day, but the thing was, Ritcher picked up the bottle with his right hand.

Ritcher was left-handed.

I decided to test him, or her, whatever it was. "So, I saw Nancy the other day at a wake. Can you believe the chances?"

"Nancy?"

He doesn't know her. "Yes, Nancy, my cleaning lady. Don't you remember?"

"Oh, yes. Nancy, I remember," he said, dry and calm.

That was all I needed. I took out a pack of Post-It from my pocket, and began jotting down a few lines.

"What are you writing?" the impostor said, growing more anxious.

I kept writing. "Nothing. Just remembered something."

"W-What is it?" the unknown creature continued.

After a minute or two, I finished my scribbling. I then tore the sheet from the spine, rather neatly, and handed it over to him. "Take a look."

"What is that?" He leaned over, grabbed the single sheet, and stared at it, stared for longer than I could remember, and began reading. "Shampoo, toothpaste, cereal, bread, milk, garlic... Crunch?"

"My grocery list for tomorrow. Care to add anything?"

He was about to add something stupid when he finally noticed it. "What the—"

The demon, angel, or whatever it was kept his seat on the couch, and for the next hour or so, he would remain there, exactly as he was.

"You! What did you do to me?!"

I slid the sticky notes down my pocket. "What a moron."

His face looked anguished. As he made his best effort to move, to raise an arm, or even lift a finger, he simply couldn't. For the moment he held that sheet of yellow paper in his hands, the moment his curiosity got the better of him, his body was indefinitely suspended, frozen in that precise position of susceptible surrender. "W-Why can't I move?!"

I coughed. "The Seal of Solomon. A hexagram inside a circle. That sheet of paper you're holding has the signet printed and engraved on the back of it, as well as every other page on the pack I was holding. I had it personally made, actually, quite recently. I'm glad I did."

"No! It can't be!"

I nodded. "But yes, it is. And the beauty of this emblem is it only works on newly-bound entities, spirits whose bond to their host is still considerably weak."

"Damn you, Lucifer!"

I stood up, fixed my suit, and produced a wide, teeth-bearing grin. "Oh, we already both know who I am, do we? The question," I said as I strolled playfully towards him, "is who are you?"

"W-What? Of course, it's me! Beelzebub, your friend!"

I poked his forehead. "Really now? You should have done your research, my friend, if you were to pass as someone so familiar to me. First of all, lefty. Second, Nancy is perhaps the only woman he keeps asking about besides Michelle. And lastly, more than anything else in the world, Ritcher genuinely hates his real name."

The creature said nothing, his eyes glaring with snake-like pupils.

"So for my first impression, your lack of experience, not to mention your dreadful anxiety, would suggest that you're a foot soldier straight from the camps, am I right?"

He stared blankly.

"So the next question is simple: Are you from Heaven or Hell?"

Still no answer.

The entity was giving me a hard time. I decided to fish out the answer. "Well, don't speak, then. But do believe me that if this war takes place, Heaven will surely come out the victor."

"No! We will win! Lord Mammon will never lose!"

That was easy. Emotions are indeed the best weapon against their masters. "So it was Mammon who sent you, demon."

"N-No! I mean—"

I bent over, pulled the sticky note from his grasp, and placed it right above his mouth. "Hush, now. I have all I need from you."

I then pulled my phone out, surprised to see a Hello Kitty accessory dangling on it. "Kids these days, eh?" I said, showing it to him. I then hit for speed dial. The answer was fast.

"Good day, my child. You have reached Father Henry Lim. I am on the Lord's mission as of the moment. I will get back to you as soon as I can. For now, I can offer you a prayer. Bow your head and repeat after me: Holy God, Holy Mighty One, Holy Immortal One, have mercy on us and on the whole world. Holy Go—"

"God damn it."

"...God, Holy Mighty One, Holy Immortal One, have mercy on us and on the whole world."

I waited for the prayer to finish. It was one of Father Henry's dry attempts at humor at best. He knew I had no choice but to finish it. That's why I always hated calling him. Such a prick. The impostor's eyes veered about, hoping for an escape, I suppose. Unfortunately for him, his eyes were the only thing he could move.

"...Holy God, Holy Mighty One, Holy Immortal One, have mercy on us and on the whole world."

I paced around the carpet, getting impatient, whispering to myself. "Three times. Three times. Does he have to do it three times?"

"Jesus, King of Mercy, I trust in You! Amen."

"Amen!"

And finally, "God bless you and please leave your message after the beep. *BEEP*"

"Henry! Meatsack at my flat. Bring what you need. Hurry."

After leaving the voice message, I was about to get a drink when a knock came from the door, accompanied by the inappropriate pronunciation once again. Yes, it was Mrs. Emerson, the living fossil, the bane of my existence.

"Penis! Penis!"

I approached the door. "Yes, yes, Mrs. Emerson. I'm coming."

"Penis! Did you finish the job!? Penis!" she said irritably. "Is ghost still there?!"

"I did, I did," I kept whispering to myself. "Please lower your voice. The neighbors—"

And then, as the door slowly opened, a grin of yellow teeth sliced through the darkness. I saw her, Mrs. Emerson, with her green facial mask, a battalion of curlers, and her pink robe wrapped around her hefty bulk. And as she stepped into the light, I realized I had made a grave mistake. For in my loathing of the thing called Mrs. Emerson, I had allowed my emotions to overcome my reasoning, and in the process led me inadvertently to dismiss the probable as unlikely, or as I hate to admit it, the possibility escaped me entirely. I had lost the queen, I admit, lost it so early in the game. And for that I had to pay the price, the highest price for a mortal man.

"Trick or treat!"

The old woman held her arm up, a forty-five caliber revolver in her grasp, a trigger against her finger. Before I could react, a shot was fired. Flares sparked from the barrel, the searing gunpowder mixing with the cold, dense air. The lead met with the flesh; warm blood welcomed it.

As I lay bleeding on the floor, the monster inside the woman kneeled on one knee and grinned, cackling like the monster he was. "It's been a long, long time, hasn't it . . . Dad?"

****

"The scribes who came down from Jerusalem were saying, "He is possessed by Beelzebul," and "He casts out the demons by the ruler of the demons."

—Mark 3:22

## CHAPTER XVII

## MAMMON

Senseless laughter plagued the room, hideous and suffocating. It was mad. It was greedy. It was my son, the Lord of Hell, the Demon of Greed.

"Nice shot," the demon said, blowing the smoke off the muzzle. "I just love guns, don't you? It makes things so simple. And who would have known the old lady was keeping something like this under her bathrobe! What a kink, huh?"

I held the pressure on the wound somewhere around my waist. The white shirt underneath had bled to red, the blood leaking like a loose faucet. "Mammon!"

"Sorry 'bout that, Daddy-O," the monster said as he poked my wound with the gun. "Does it hurt? Huh? Does it hurt?"

"Mammon . . . You . . . You bastard!"

The demon snorted, smudging the green facial mask as he scratched his cheek. "Why, of course, I am! I'm your bastard, remember?"

"W-What are you up to?!"

Mammon widened his eyes, wrinkles all stacked up, and pouted. In that precise moment, with only an inch between our faces, Mrs. Emerson's expression was so revolting that I may have shot her dead on the spot, possessed or not. "Oh? Why? Can't a son visit his father?"

"I am not your father," I said firmly.

"Oh? Really, now. Tell that to Mum," Mammon said. "I know you're dying to see her again. Get it?" He laughed again, like a hyena or some sort of sick animal moments before its demise.

"How dare you—"

In a sudden move using the handle of the gun, the old woman swung a blow at me, sending a shattering echo right through my jaw. Blood splattered on the floor. "Don't you get it? You've spent too much time as a human. And if you do die now, like any other human, you won't go back to Hell, or even that Promise Land all those hippies talk about. No, no, no. You are simply meant to vanish, disappear, and as you most fear—to be forgotten."

I chuckled, wiping the blood off my face.

Mammon raised an eyebrow. "Hmm . . . What's so funny?"

"You think you know everything, don't you?"

"Do enlighten me, Dad."

"All things come from one, and all things shall return to one once again."

The Demon of Greed bowed, and a smirk fell on him. "What? Are you talking about the Over-Soul? The Aurora Borealis? That World Soul shit?" he snickered. "Do you honestly believe in that superstitious wives' tale?"

I smiled. "I believe in what I can."

The possessed Mrs. Emerson stood up, and began to kick me, landing successive blows to my ribs. "You think you know it all, huh? Wise-ass!" The blows landed painfully, connecting, unrelenting. "You think you're above us all, huh?! You think you're so high and mighty?!"

I coughed more blood. The floor was now pooling red.

The demon stopped in mid-kick, resumed his stand, and looked down on a piece of paper protruding from the pocket of the pink bathroom robe. "Hmm? What is this?"

"Got you."

"W-Why can't I move!?" he burst. "What is this?!"

I smiled. "You were too close."

"What did you do to me?!"

"The Seal of Solomon. You—"

And then, the Demon of Greed began to whisper to himself, giggling, cracking out a sharp laugh. "Did you really think I was that stupid? It was I who sealed your powers and overthrew you from your throne! It was I who banished you from Hell and imprisoned you in your mortal shell! It was I and I alone!" he spouted, utterly proud of himself. "And now that I am here, I shall finally put an end to Lucifer Morningstar, the Devil they call Satan, the Enemy of all!"

I chuckled, amused. "Yes, you have bested me. At least, in a way, I can be proud of that."

Mammon paused, and perhaps for such a long, long time, he longed for the approval of the father that was never there for him. "Hmp . . . Laugh all you want. You'll be dead soon, anyway." Taking a gander, the demon found his agent sitting on the couch. "Well, well, well. What do we have here?"

The henchman mustered all his strength, but still he couldn't move. The Seal of Solomon carved on the paper hung on his mouth. Mammon approached him, pulled Ritcher's hair, and smelled it, sniffed it like an animal would, and stripped the paper from his face. "Worthless piece of crap. I released you from prison and this is how you repay me?!"

"I-I'm so-sorry, Your Grace! Please forgive me!"

Mammon turned his gaze. "So where is the girl?"

"S-She is coming back, Your Grace! She just went down to the store!"

Mrs. Emerson stared at him, inhumanly. "Fine, then. I'll wait." He then inhaled again, this time much longer. "And what's this? I smell another entity inside him . . . another demon."

The spy kept shaking his head, or at least he tried to.

"You should have chosen your spies more carefully, Mammon," I said, mockingly. "And not just some poor bastard you pulled from the joint. Besides, the lad might have controlled Beelzebub's host, but sooner or later, my friend would win and take the body back. He's fighting right now as we speak."

Mammon smiled a devilish smile. "Oh, come on? I remember sending the Lord of Flies to a different vessel. No wonder I didn't recognize him. His host was as fat as a panda back then."

Then the Demon of Greed pointed the gun straight at Ritcher's forehead. The spy begged for his life. "P-Please, Your Grace! Don't kill me!"

"W-What are you doing!?" I shouted. "Mammon!"

"Tell me, Father Genius. What would happen if I kill this meatsack while your friend is still inside him?"

I tried to move, to crawl, resting my weight on my elbows. "No! Mammon! Don't do this!"

"Why not? Since your demon friend has spent a certain amount of time in the mortal realm just like you, then if you're correct, and he dies, then he won't simply vanish, but become one with the Over-Soul, eh?"

"Don't do this! Please!"

The monster grinned, wrinkling Mrs. Emerson's already wrinkled face. "Trick or treat?"

"No!"

"Wrong answer."

I held out a hand, reaching for my friend Beelzebub, the man called Ritcher, my most loyal friend and companion. In that final, desperate moment, my friend managed to gain control over his body, or at least a part of himself, for he looked at me straight in the eye, and winked at me like the playboy he was. Then the gunpowder ignited, the gunshot piercing the silence once more. Ritcher, my friend, lay on the couch—a bullet between his eyes.

"Ritcher!"

Mrs. Emerson began prancing around the floor, giggling, snorting—a monster I had brought into this world. "Hell, yeah! Don't you just love it? That cocking sensation! The thrill! That smell . . . The blood! The—"

"Mammon!" I shouted. "Why did you?! Why did you, damn it!"

The demon inside Mrs. Emerson began sniffing the neck of the gun as he rolled the cylinder. "Oh, my. I didn't notice it before, but it's a Colt Single Action Army. The greatest handgun ever made, or so said by some dead cowboy."

"Why . . . Why . . ." I said, weeping in my blood. "You . . . You should've just killed me!"

While still facing his gun, admiring it like some sick psychopath who was getting a hard on, his yellow eyes veered towards me. "Actually, I was just thinking about it, since you have a death wish and all. And once I'm finished with you, old man, I'll just wait for the girl. Then I'll take her, fuck her, grind her, strangle her until she screams in pain and ecstasy, over and over again until she gets pregnant and bears me the most powerful Antichrist this world or any other has ever seen!"

"No!"

"Yes!" Mammon screamed in delight, mimicking an inappropriate gesture as if he was—and do forgive me for the lack of a better word—fucking someone, slapping an imaginary ass as he moved his hips back and forth, all the while inside the body of a seventy year old woman. "You like that, girl? Huh? You like the—"

Suddenly a voice emerged from the doorway. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Oh! Speak of the devil" He winked at her. "Thought you lost your way home, honey!"

And then, Dani saw Ritcher, her newfound friend, dead on the couch.

"Ritcher?" she muttered. "R-Ritcher?"

"Hmm . . . You're like, what—eleven? I thought you'd be . . . younger! But oh well, we can't be too picky, right?"

Dani's eyes widened in a sudden flash of anger, her hand squeezing a fistful of rage. The earth trembled, the floor broke apart into two. As the Reincarnated Christ stepped one foot forward, Mammon the mad killer was tackled by an invisible force so strong that the wall behind him shattered completely in a single blast, creating a hole as large as the whole room. The chilling wind of the early dawn swept down, the room now open to the outside world. But Mammon was strong, much stronger than I had anticipated, and he suffered only minor cuts on Mrs. Emerson's arm.

"Dani!" I shouted. "Mrs. Emerson! You might kill her!"

The Chosen One marched forward, a powerful gust swirling around her. The tables and the chairs took to the air, tumbling around in a circular haze. She wasn't listening. Not anymore. For what semblance remaining of the kind girl I once knew was now possessed by this demon of rage, engulfed by the flames of hatred and revenge. As she stepped forward, Mammon pointed the gun at her and released four shots, only for the bullets to slow down and burn to ash before reaching her face. With another swift and forceful wave of her arm, Mammon's hand moved to the side of Mrs. Emerson's head, the hot muzzle poking deep against her temple.

Mammon laughed again like the madman he was. "You like this, huh? This turns you on, huh?"

"Dani! No! Don't do this!"

Mrs. Emerson's finger slipped into the trigger guard, her thumb pulling the hammer.

"That's it!" The demon continued. "You know what they say! Squeeze, don't pull, eh?"

I was helpless. "Dani!"

Suddenly Mrs. Emerson lost all consciousness, but Dani still had the gun to her head.

"Dani! No!" I did my best to stop her, my voice crackling beyond pitch. My vision was a blur. I had lost too much blood. "He's gone! Don't kill Mrs. Emer—"

And then, I fell again, hitting my head on the cement. Catching her attention, the glare of the demon behind her eyes vanished as the girl I knew returned to her normal self. "No! Vincent! I'm sorry . . ."

I smiled at her to the best I could. It was the only thing left I could do.

The little girl bolted towards me, almost tipping over the cracks, and embraced me with the warmth and love of a daughter. "I'm sorry . . . I'm so sorry . . ." She cried, tears cleaning her smudged cheeks. "I almost killed her . . . I was so angry . . ."

I pulled her to me, and whispered, "It's okay. It's okay." I snapped my fingers, trying to escape. It was no good. There was no magic left in me. "Damn it! It's not working!"

"Don't do it," she said. "You've lost too much blood—"

A shadow emerged from behind, its eyes and teeth piercing the cold, hissing gloom. "Awe . . . Jesus and the Devil sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g."

Another shot was fired, the last I heard that night.

Emotions are indeed the best weapon used against their masters. It surely was.

****

"No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and Mammon."

—Matthew 6:24

## CHAPTER XVIII

## FRIENDS

I woke up to the sound of searing water, whistling away inside a kettle. A wooden cross hung sentinel on the wall across the bed, the room reeking of sick people and sanitizing alcohol.

"Sorry, Dad. Your girl's mine now," Mammon had said before I lost all consciousness that night. The memory blazed as clear as day, the night circling in my head over and over again. "She's mine! All mine!"

I hate hospitals. I always did. The high pitch persisted as the door creaked and swung open. "Henry! Your water's boiling," the visitor said in his raspy voice. I couldn't see the man clearly, for my vision was still in quite a haze, but what I could make out was a large man with a corresponding large stomach.

"Yes, yes," the priest said. "Been a long time, my friend."

"Sure," the man said, placing the fruit basket on the table. "You look good, Henry."

Father Lim shook his hand. "So how's business? Heard your club's doing well."

The outline of the visitor began rubbing his round tummy. As I made out a gold bow tie, it suddenly came back to me. It was Old Sam, my friend, the Grigori. "Oh it is, my friend. You should definitely come visit sometime. Just don't wear the collar. Most of the regulars don't like drinking with the clergy, if you know what I mean."

I tried to speak but I was still too weak, and the racket only increased as the door burst open once more.

"Oh, Rom-Rom, you're such a gentlemen!" said a teenage girl in a gothic ensemble, wrapping her arms around him. Her companion was a very tall lad. I recognized him as Romulus, one of Samyaza's brood.

"Oh, besty," Romulus pinched her on the cheek. "Sorry but you're just not my type."

"Ehem!" Old Sam cleared his throat. "Romy, m'boy. Can you go down and buy us some dinner? And some whiskey, perhaps. That is if Father Henry can still handle a bottle."

"I'm not as old as you, you old goat." Henry jested.

They laughed together and Henry went down with the Nephilm.

Still recovering from my injuries, I simply closed my eyes, feeling safe in the company of dear friends, a feeling I have not felt in a very long time. Then, as the girl sat down on the chair beside me, Old Sam proceeded to make use of his charms, whatever was left of it anyway. "So. . . How are you related to dear old Lucifer?"

"Vincent," she said. "He doesn't want people calling him that."

The fallen angel coughed. "Oh, forgive me, my dear. I didn't know you were that close."

"It's okay. I don't think he thinks too much of me," she said, "especially when that other girl arrived. I mean, he said he was gonna kill her, y'know? Like really kill her. But. . . But somehow. . . I knew he wasn't going to. Master is really a nice person, Sir. People are so afraid of him, but really, he's just trying to help everyone."

The teenager held my left hand, caressing it. I could feel her hair dangling over my face.

Lilith. . .

In a while, Samyaza spoke. "As we have ample time to chatter, would you like to hear a good old story, my dear?"

"What story?" the succubus asked.

"The truth, my dear. Nothing but the truth."

"Well, go on then, Sir."

"Oh, just call me Sam, for goodness sake." The Grigori coughed. "No need to make me feel older than I am, eh?"

She giggled. "Okay, Sam."

"Good!" the angel said, rubbing his hands together. "Our story began long ago, perhaps billions or eons ago, but sadly, I think I lost count already," he paused for a bit, then resumed. "Anyhow, so there we were, the early days of Creation, with Heaven populated by these majestic creatures whose old names I have long since forgotten. Most were worshipped as gods, myself not excluded, though these days I think people simply call us as angels, eh?"

"Yes, Sir. I-I mean Sam."

The fallen angel chuckled. "But before the Romans came, or the Greeks, or the Norse, or any culture or religion before that, there were simply the dwellers of Heaven and the humble creatures of the physical realm who people claim as their ancestors. Unfortunately, the angels, or a majority of them, were in a way, disgusted by these primitive creatures, seeing them as nothing but inferior containers to the superior collective of souls that they were. And although some of the angels wanted to visit the physical realm and study these fascinating critters, none of them had the courage, or rather, pardon me for the French—the balls to do it."

It was good to hear Lilith's voice. "None?"

"Yes. None of them except for one," continued Old Sam in his raspy speech. "The angel's name was Samael, considered the brightest and wisest of them all. None was his equal. Even amongst the archangels Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, Jegudiel, Raguel, and Selaphiel, your master Samael was considered far more superior. Only his twin brother may have been considered his match, though they would seem to complement each other rather than to be seen as two of the same flock. If his twin brother, Michael, was the Sword of Heaven, then Samael the Wise was perhaps the Seer of Heaven. In a way, they were very much the polar opposite of each other. Sort of the brawn and the brains, actually."

Lilith began stroking my hand. "Yes. Vincent truly despises his brother."

"And for good measure!" Old Sam bickered. "But we'll get to that later on. As for Samael's tale, he decided to go down and live with these early humans. As time passed, he realized these creatures had the capacity to grow, to gain the same level of consciousness that we entities have. But alas, he also understood they were still missing something. A gift, Vincent would say—the catalyst for civilization. Mind to take a guess?"

"Power?" the succubus answered hesitantly.

"In a way, yes. Some call it that, though I would say power is just one of the fruits it bore."

"Then what was it?"

"What was it?" The old fart laughed. "Are you familiar with the tale of Prometheus, the trickster and eventual benefactor of the human race?"

"Of course! Prometheus was the one who gave fire to mankind and—Oh! I see. . ."

"Precisely," Old Sam confirmed. "It was fire, my dear. The gift of the First Flame."

Lilith pondered, and said, "So you're saying Prometheus's story was actually based on Master Vincent's actions?"

"Correction, my dear. Prometheus is Vincent. Just one of his dozen or more aliases he had in every religion. You see, Samael, or Vincent as you call him, saw that with fire, the creatures would be able to survive the night and the winter, learn to defend themselves from stronger creatures, would learn to cook stored food, to master the craft of making tools for creation, and sadly, to make weapons of war from steel and stone. In time, the primitive humans transformed, evolving to what we have today—the dominant species of this world."

"So you're telling me. . ."

The fallen angel snickered. "Yes! It was all thanks to Samael that humans grew to such beautiful creatures. But of course, his crime was not to go unpunished, as he broke the Law of Heaven by sharing fire with the early apes. No, it wasn't sharing an apple from the Tree of Knowledge that resulted in his banishment. That tale with Adam and Eve was just a metaphor. Samael's true crime was sharing real knowledge through fire that led to his punishment. And as the news of his amazing feat spread throughout the kingdom, more angels started to ask more questions that neither Michael nor Metatron nor the rest of the Host of Heaven allowed to be asked. In time, his followers rallied to his cause, including me, and we fell from Heaven, fell from grace, to join him in his fight for freedom, knowledge and the truth."

"So it was really him, huh? He started everything?"

Old Sam's belly rumbled. It was so loud. "Yes. I and plenty of other angels owe him a great debt for what he has done to shed light into our eyes. And for a time, the humans were the same, worshipping him and giving Samael the title of Lucifer, which in Latin simply meant Light Bearer, the angel who gave fire to men. From this several tales were passed to each generation, the most prominent was the aforementioned tale of Prometheus during the age of the Greeks.

Lilith gripped my hand firmly. "B-But. . . But why did the people begin to hate him? If Master was the benefactor of the human race, why was he considered the Adversary? The Enemy?"

Old Sam began clapping his hands. "Simple. Because Heaven wanted it! The Light Bearer was getting more praise than Michael, even more than the one they call God, so they had to intervene with the councils and religions of the human world, crafting boundless tales of the single Enemy plotting at bay. Heaven gave Vincent several names, from prominent tricksters to underworld gods, until of course, a cult called Christianity entered the picture. When at first the Hebrew Satan meant any rival or enemy, the word soon grew to become Lucifer's most feared and famous name, along with other titles such as the Devil, the Dragon and the Prince of Darkness. Heaven won by transforming the hero of men into their worst adversary, and until this day, even I hold a grudge against Michael for betraying his brother. Vincent trusted him once. But Michael betrayed him, envious of praise and power. And Vincent never came back to Heaven ever since."

Lilith sighed, her breath warm to my skin. "It sucks to be the Devil, huh?"

Samyaza's stomach growled again. "It surely is." After a moment of pause, Old Sam stood and opened the door. "Now what's keeping those two?"

In a while, I felt Lilith's hair over my face. Before I could react, her warm lips touched my forehead. "Master? I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you . . . I-I hope you get better soon. . . I. . ."

"You what?" I opened my eyes, staring at her face to face. Her eyes widened with shock; her cheeks glowing red as roses.

"M-Master!" she stumbled backwards, falling to the floor.

"Are you all right, my dear?"

"Don't worry, Master. I'm fine." She stood up fast. "How 'bout you? How's your wound? Does it still hurt?"

"Every minute, my dear." I smiled. "But seeing you here has somehow relieved me of the pain. And quite frankly, that all is all a man like me would ever ask for."

Lilith played with her black hair, blushing as her emotions continued to betray her. "Oh. . . O-Okay, Master. Whatever you say."

"Ehem!" Old Sam burst through the door with a horde of paper bags. I could hear the bottles clanking. "Are we interrupting something?"

"Oh! I'm just—" Lilith turned away and shot straight to the bathroom.

I laughed. "No need to surprise the girl, Henry."

Romulus followed with a few bags. "Hope you guys like Thai food." The young lad prepared a table beside the bed where the rest of the lot gathered to take a seat. "It's been a long time, Mr. Pines."

"Too long indeed, my friend," I tapped his shoulder. "How's your siblings doing?"

The Nephilim winked at me. "Don't worry about them. And I have a boyfriend now. I would very much like to introduce him to you."

I smiled at him. "I would very much like that indeed."

Finally Henry brought the rest of the food. "Glad to see you still kicking, you old snake."

"And thank you for arriving just in time to save me, my friend."

The priest wiped his sweat. "Oh, shaddup, will ya? We're not here for a bloody retreat."

I laughed and he sat down. Lilith then came out of the bathroom and the circle was complete. A demon, an angel, a Nephilim and a human—these are my friends, and I am ever grateful to have them.

I closed my eyes, and sighed. "If only Ritcher were here. . ."

There was a momentary silence, a fleeting moment of sorrow and grief, until Father Henry broke the calm. "Bless his soul," the priest said, keeping his tears at bay. "He was a good lad, a good friend. He will be missed."

"Aye!" the rest of the circle answered.

I raised my cup to a toast. "To my friend Ritcher, Beelzebub the Lord of Flies. May he finally find rest and peace, to live again another day."

The circle answered once more. "To Ritcher!"

****

"Why should the thirst for knowledge be aroused, only to be disappointed and punished? My volition shrinks from the painful task of recalling my humiliation; yet, like a second Prometheus, I will endure this and worse, if by any means I may arouse in the interiors of Plane and Solid Humanity a spirit of rebellion against the Conceit which would limit our Dimensions to Two or Three or any number short of Infinity."

—Edwin Abbott Abbott, in Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions

## CHAPTER XIX

## THE ALL-FATHER

After a merry meal with friends old and new, everyone said their thanks and goodbyes, setting out to accomplish their individual tasks at hand. Romulus the Nephilim left to inform all the other half-breeds and so called demi-gods of the capture of the Son of God by the Son of the Devil, beaconing the prophesied Final War coming no shorter than a few moons left, or so one of Samyaza's brood tells him. On the other hand, the succubus, Lilith, was given orders to share the same knowledge with the exiles, the unwanted, and the rest of the accursed, for them to prepare for the worst and protect all those they hold dear. Lastly, Samyaza the Great Grigori once worshipped as Zeus of the Greeks, promised his best to convince our neutral brethren, the Fallen who chose no sides, to use all their strength and influence to prevent the Armageddon, or at the very least, to remain neutral as they were to avoid further blood spilled.

As for the human, Father Henry Lim was requested by the Grigori to inform the Vatican of the impending crisis. In response, the priest merely laughed at him. Henry argued that since the mortals have such a fascination with the end of the world, with the sham of both the Christian prediction of 2000 and the recent Mayan apocalypse of 2012, he mocks that nobody will believe him anymore. The Grigori then mocked him in return, saying that, "All you need to say is that God had told you, and the people will believe anything."

I couldn't have agreed more.

But before he planned to set for port, one more request had to be fulfilled, one that necessitated the most paramount concern of them all—the rescue of the Son of God by the Devil himself.

****

With only Father Henry left, another guest soon arrived, a creature I had long assumed to be no longer among the living, or at least figuratively. A squat man in his eighties, Bishop Rusty the All-Father lurched forward, scrawny to the bone. Long white hair flanked his bald top, a single gold tooth showing with every smile. And just like the priest, the bishop wore a black suit and a white collar, a walking stick on hand to support his ever receding back. He came in slow, and possibly aching. "Looks like you've grown a belly, eh, Luci?" Rusty said, poking Henry's engorged stomach with his stick. "Never saw you for throwing the towel, though."

Father Henry pushed the cane aside. "I'm not him, you old dog."

"Over here, All-Father!" I raised an arm, waving at him.

"Hm?" Rusty turned to me, then back to Henry. "Are you sure you're not him?"

Henry rolled his eyes and closed the door. Meanwhile, Rusty walked for what seemed to be an eternity towards the bed. He took a seat beside me, dumping his cane on the covers. He leaned closer. "You look . . . different, old chap."

"Of course, it's me," I said firmly.

"Hm?" The All-Father kept shaking his head, raising his spectacles to get a better look. The vision from his left eye was taken long ago, showing all misty and gray. For all I knew, it could have been a prosthetic. "Oh . . . Yes. It is you."

"It is me," I answered. "So how fares the All-Father? You seem rather . . . spritely for your age," I jested with a smile. "Or perhaps I should call you Raphael?"

The bishop smiled back with his golden tooth. "Spritely my arse. Could barely climb the stairs these days." He coughed, wheezing. "And Rusty will do. I'm no more angel than you are."

"So Bishop Rusty, eh?" I chuckled. "Never saw you for a holy man."

The All-Father scratched his equally white beard. "Well, being in the clergy has its perks, too. People still listen to me, you know? Gives me a sense of purpose, even if they're only forced to do so. These days, it's either this or the educational route, you know what I mean?"

I nodded. "Yes. An educator's income is quite low. I heard Balthazar's barely keeping to feed his brood."

Bishop Rusty nodded like the old man he was. "Yes. And we got none of them taxes, too. Just have to watch out for those goddamn lifestyle investigators, though. The bloody bastards."

"Yes. I'd wager Father Henry over here would no doubt share your sentiment." I took the can of soda on top of the mini-fridge beside the bed. "Coke?"

The old man gazed with appalling wonder. "I happened to chance upon a curious article about this fascinating refreshment. Did you know that car companies use it to clean their engines? And I heard some even use it to clean their toilets."

I popped the can open. "Yes. I use the leftovers in such a manner."

"Really, now? It's such a strong, acidic compound," the geezer continued to blabber. "I don't even want to know what it does to the stomach."

"I don't think anybody does. Ignorance is bliss, after all." I handed him a can of his own. "Anyway, do you want one?"

"What? Of course, I do. It's Coke." Rusty clumsily popped the lid, trying to contain the spilling bubbles. He took a sip. "Ah. . . Nothing like a good drink for a rough day. Reminds me of the day I stole the Poetic Mead from that damn jotunn Suttungr."

I raised a toast. "Those were the days, eh? The Northerners worshipped you as Odin the All-Father, the Wanderer who shared knowledge of healing, poetry, sorcery and even death."

Rusty coughed again, hard, like an old engine trying to start. "True, true. Now that you mention it, it seems only yesterday when I traded an eye for a sip of Mimir's Well."

"Really? Always thought that was just a myth."

"Myth?" the All-Father snickered. "Aren't we all are? They even had a name for you . . . what was it again? The trickster?"

"Loki." I took a sip and burped. "The Northerners called me Loki. On the other hand, my brother Michael was the God of Thunder, Thor."

Bishop Rusty coughed again, almost choking on his drink. "Oh, yes, yes. I remember now. Michael was always the barbarian, no matter what religion they worshipped him in."

I grinned. "And yet it is he who always comes out as the hero."

The All-Father stared at me with his remaining eye, patting me on the back. "Heroes are a bore, Loki. I always found the villains more . . . interesting." The old man took a long drink, released a loud burp, then cleared his throat. "Ahem! So before I fall asleep anytime soon, and do forgive me if I do, let us begin, shall we?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Sleeping disorder?"

"Something like that."

"Then please, go ahead."

****

Rusty the All-Father began drafting an intricate arrangement of sigils across my flesh. Rune after rune he marked my skin, until almost my whole body was made a canvas of modern runic art. Back in the day, Odin would have used tattoos or carved the runes with my own blood. Fortunately he used washable paint this time around, saving me all that trouble.

"When was the last time you did this?" I asked candidly as Henry watched from the couch.

"Three months ago." Bishop Rusty said, keeping his concentration. "Or was it five . . ."

I swallowed. Was it the right decision to call him? "That's reassuring."

"Don't you worry, Vincent," Henry reassured me. "If there's one priest who can heal you, it's Bishop Rusty over here."

I stared at the runes on my arm. "Can you break the seal blocking my powers?"

Rusty, in return, stared up the ceiling. "Sorry, chap. I'm a healer, not a miracle worker."

I cracked a laugh. "All right, all right. Just do what you can."

The All-Father started to chant in Old Norse, and soon the runes began to glow one after another, emanating a cold, soothing radiance across my body. Rusty leaned close to my ear, and whispered. "Now this part is going to hurt, Loki." Before I could even ask, the bastard shoved a piece of cloth into my mouth, gagging me. "You may relive some memories related to your injuries, so just think of puppy eyes," he said, winking. "Really cute puppy eyes."

My eyes then opened wide as the bishop produced a dagger from his suit. I would have resisted if I had the strength, but the magic of the runes had chained me into place. There was no escape. The blade lanced me right on the chest, jerking me, sending a running jolt all over my limp body. "Dani!" I shouted as Mammon hammered the girl with the grip of the gun. With a single blow to the head, Dani fell to the floor, instantly unconscious.

"Stay down, old man." Mammon cocked the hammer of the gun once more, the cylinder revolving, and aimed the muzzle right between my eyes. "Now don't move. I got one bullet left, so make it count."

Is this the end? How pathetic. What a way to go. I grabbed the barrel of the gun, locking it against my brow. "Do it, you fool!" I shouted. "Look me in the eye and do it!"

Startled, Mammon twitched his mouth and raised an eyebrow. "What?"

My grip was firm. "Do it!"

"Oh, really? And why should I?"

I shouted with all my voice. "Just do it, you coward!"

Mammon was playing with me. "Really? And what would I get in return?" Suddenly he turned his gaze away, as if something more important had captured his attention. "Go on, then."

Has the mad demon gone truly mad? Or simply perhaps . . . "Mammon! What's going on?!"

"You'll what?" Mrs. Emerson looked delirious talking to herself. "You'll give me a thousand souls?" The demon pondered for a while as he fiddled with the cylinder.

"Who are you talking to?!" I demanded.

"Fine. But make it two." Just like that, the possessed woman yanked the gun from my grip. "Well, will you look at that?" Flipping it over, the demon gripped the barrel and raised the gun over my face. "Looks like somebody wants you alive, old man." Like a mallet, he swung the grip of the revolver against my temple, knocking me out with a single blow.

"Loki!" Rusty slapped me hard on the cheek. "Can you hear me?!"

I was back in the hospital, lying on the bed with a splitting hangover.

Henry stood on the other side, shaking the bed. "Vincent! Are you all, right?!"

I lifted my back, grasping for my chest. "What happened? Didn't you stab me?" I could still feel the cold steel inside my chest, yet there was not even a single scratch to be found.

"You're healed," said the All-Father. "That's all that matters." He eased up on the chair, drinking whatever was left of his soda. "Check your wounds."

As I removed my bandages, even the bullet wound on my stomach and shoulder had magically disappeared, as if they were never there to begin with. "Good job."

Father Henry slapped me hard on the back. "You're as good as new, you bastard."

I grinned. "I guess I am." I pulled the dextrose off my wrist. "Go get me a suit from my flat, Henry. Seems we'll be checking out in advance."

"What am I, your butler?"

I turned to the bishop. "And thank you, All-Father. I am truly in your debt."

Rusty burped like a giant croaking frog. "I prefer debts in cash, Loki. You have my account number, I assume?" He smiled again with his golden-tooth. "We wouldn't want any returns for my services, wouldn't we?"

I scratched my head. Another debt to the pile. Oh, well. "Of course, of course. Business is business. You have my word."

"Good."

Father Henry was about to collect my clothes from the flat when I called him. "And Henry."

The door swung ajar, creaking. "What?! What now? You want some ice cream with that?!"

"Don't forget the soap," I added, scrubbing the painted runes off my arm. "Don't want to go out looking like a goddamn mosaic."

****

Hail All-Father

Wise Warrior

One Eyed Wanderer

Come Sit At My Fire

Tell Me Your Wisdom Stories

The Scenes Your Missing Eyes See's

You Who Chooses The Slain

Look On My Deeds And When My Time Comes

To Run The Sky With You

Let My End Be Worthy Of Song

In The Meantime, Let Me Feel

Excitement And Poetry And Fury And Joy

Let Me Understand Sacrifice

Think Long

Remember Well

And Journey Far..

Odin,

Witness This.

—A Poem for Odin the All-Father, Norse Mythology

## CHAPTER XX

## INTO THE WOODS

The engine roared to the twist of the key, coughing hard for water, then dying out once more. Henry came back in the evening, driving his 1979 Volkswagen Microbus—a stubborn, aging, smoke-belching machine refusing to resign to the twenty-first century. A nauseating smell of stock diesel and thriving molds lingered within, a spicy whiff of leftover pizza and sweaty socks shoving down my nostrils like a hellish aftertaste. Henry tried to balance it out with a pair of Little Trees, but even then the smell of garbage and old age could not be matched.

"Did you have to bring this old beast?" I asked, fixing my necktie.

Henry twisted the key once more. It was no good. "You wanted a ride, right?"

"I meant an actual, breathable ride." I turned to the side-mirror to check my teeth. "Not this age-old hippie van from your lost days."

"Bear with it," he said. "My sister borrowed the Sedan for the weekend."

Damn relatives. I sighed. "Fine. So can you get it to start?"

Henry spun the key once more. "Veronica needs a bit of love to start," he added. "You can't rush her." After a few more attempts, Veronica belched and farted, quaking with the libido of a horny young wench. The priest smiled as he kissed the steering wheel. "See?"

I rolled my eyes. "Great." I popped the glove compartment open. "Got a map of the city?"

Henry pulled down his visor and the folded paper fell on his lap. "Here."

"Now let's see . . ." I unfolded the map, reading the street names and symbols.

"Magic? Divination?" he asked. "Got her hair or something to point her in the map?"

"Yes. Magic." I took out my phone. "But more like twenty-first century magic."

A line formed on Henry's brow. "What?"

The present I had given Dani right before Mammon entered the scene proved quite useful, if not for the impeccable timing. A GPS bracelet, the merchant had called it, and it took only one press of the button to locate her. "Found you."

Mortals may not be innate with magic, but they can certainly make their own.

****

A wolf howled in the distance. Close to midnight, the pale amber moon loomed large and heavy on the pitch black sky, like the eye of a colossus watching eternal over the world. The air felt cold and our breath colder, the stony road flanked by obsidian trees reaching out like a net of sharp claws. For hours Henry had been driving the van in darkness, lost in this damn maze of a trail. Soon the headlights found a fork in the road, no different from the first or the second or the third we had passed before. Beyond the thrumming engine and the rolling of tires on stone, a wolf howled again, now much closer, while yellow eyes flashed between the branches, the forest ringing to the song of owls and bats and other creatures of the night.

"I think we should've turned left," muttered Henry under his breath. "Yes, yes. Left."

"I think we should stop," I answered, looking over the side mirror. "See that tree with the big hole? We passed by this road four times now."

Henry kept his foot on the gas. "A lot of trees here, Vincent. Close your eyes for a while. Take a nap. You must be getting tired."

"Tired? I'm not the one driving, Henry." I tossed an unlit cig out the window.

"Look, it's the fork again!" the stubborn oaf said as he shoved his foot on the break. "So this time we take the left. Yes. The left it is."

This was going nowhere. All the map showed of the coordinates was a private residence in the center of a massive patch of woodland to the north of the city, but beyond that there was nothing else; no road, no fork, not even a mention of a street name. "Whoever lives here must either be a hermit or some really famous celebrity."

"I do hope it's the latter."

"Either way, we got to get there fast." After half an hour, I spied the unlit cigarette I tossed out earlier, sticking out of the ground like a white finger on a black hand. "Get off." I nudged the rusty door open. "We'll walk from here."

Henry was forced to stop, pushing down on the breaks. "Have you gone mad?!"

I picked up the cig and flicked it at the ogling priest. "Unless someone else has a habit of wasting good cigarette, then be my guest and drive all night until you run out of gas."

Muttering as he scratched his balding head, Henry turned the key as the engine roared before dying. "So what now, huh? We're in the middle of the night in the middle of this god forsaken forest. What could go wrong, eh?"

"There's a hex in this forest. That's why we keep going in circles." I lifted my head and sniffed the air. "We need to find the source."

An hour into the darkness, shadows began to tail us. The creatures followed closely, foul entities who had been in the dark for far too long, corrupting them, leaving them scarred, deformed and as part of the forest itself. A trunk would produce a face, while a large branch would suddenly untangle itself from the rest of the tree and morph into something vile, something terrible, something hungry.

Father Henry's voice trembled in the dark. "Uh . . . Vincent?"

"What?"

"You do know we're being followed, don't you?" The priest treaded nervously. "Ever since we crossed that stream a while ago."

I didn't stop. So did he. "I know."

"Uh . . . Should we do something about it, like, you know, run or something?"

"Definitely, not. Pay them no mind."

Henry began to panic, grabbing my arm. "B-But Vincent . . . They're coming closer now!"

"These are the Shadow People, my friend. They are the dead folk who were lost here and have been forgotten, fading not even to memory, but to eternal oblivion. Not a soul knows them, and not a soul remembers them either. They dwell in the dark forest, for the shadows themselves are the dark forest. And because of their desire for attention, they hunger for one thing and one thing only—belief."

"B-Belief?"

I nodded, shaking his hand off my arm. "Yes. Belief. They crave for it. The creatures themselves no longer know if they themselves exist. So in essence, they prey on passing travelers, hungry for the acknowledgement that they are something more than a leaf or a branch or a tree. And when these passing travelers do take notice of them, the hungry creatures will do one thing that they think will make them whole once more."

Henry gulped. "And what is that?"

"They will eat you."

The poor priest blinked, paused for a moment, then resumed motion. "Okay . . . So I just ignore them. Ignore them all the way."

I decided to take his mind off it as we made our trek. "So, Henry . . ."

"What?"

"Why did you join the clergy?"

"W-What?"

A woman's face appeared on a trunk before me. I ignored it. "I mean, we've been friends for such a long time now, but you never really told me why you chose the vocation."

"Well . . . You never did ask."

I chuckled. "I am now."

"Hmm... If you must know, it was my father."

A dry leaf cracked under my foot. "Your father, huh?"

"Y-Yes..." Somehow Henry's anxiety was fading, or at least he was distracted enough to ignore it. "You see, my mother cheated on him with her boss from one of 'em big buildings in Manhattan. And so, she left us, you know, back when I was just five. And my father, well, he was in the Army. He was the ideal man to marry, you know, if he ever wanted to marry again. I mean, he was a church-going guy. Never missed a weekend. The neighbors loved him. Even in his fifties he was still in good shape. And of course, the pension. He was living the dream, the old man. But for some reason that I could never understand, he never married again."

"Interesting . . . Mind a guess?"

There was a momentary silence, and then he spoke. "I think . . . I think he still loved her, the stubborn guy that he was. Even when mom married and had another family and all, I think my father never forgot her."

An arm as black as coal emerged from the ground and took hold of my leg. I kicked it like it was just a twig. "Ah, love. Sweet love."

He shook his head. "Blind love, if you ask me."

"So what happened?"

"Hmm . . . Well what I remember was, as the years went by and as he grew older, the old man became obsessed about planning my future, or something like that, like he didn't want me to become like him. And since he was the stubborn bastard that he was, he gave me two choices."

I kept my eyes forward. "Oh? Pray tell."

There was silence again, and when I turned to check on him, I found an old, crooked woman clutching on to Henry's arm. The creature's hair was white and wispy, her face ashen and dry. Her eye sockets glared hallow, her mouth frozen in a screaming expression as if all the life was sucked from her. Soon she leaned on his shoulder, seeming to enjoy the company of Henry's chivalry. The creature released a loud, eerie moan that grew to a blood-chilling shriek.

"V-Vincent . . ." muttered the priest, sweat trickling down his brow.

I approached him. "Oh, Henry. A branch got tangled on your shoulder. Let me help you." I grabbed the ghastly creature's hand and slowly yanked it off him, much to the terrified priest's relief. "You should be careful now. This forest might just eat you up."

Henry swallowed, loosening his white collar. "That's not even funny."

I laughed. "Brighten up, will you? We don't need it to be darker than it already is."

He spat on the ground. "Fine."

The creature's arm in my hand morphed back to a branch. I tossed it. "Where were we?"

Henry raised an eyebrow. "Huh?"

I took him by the arm, deciding to keep an eye on my friend. "Oh, yes. Your story. Two choices. Do continue."

By this time we had entered a large open ground, a circle perfect for a fireplace, though only a fool would spend a night in these haunted woods. "Hmm . . . So yeah, there we were, the summer vacation before college. So my old man goes to my room one night and tells me, 'So son, it's almost time and I need you to make a decision that will affect the rest of your life.' Or something like that. Then he goes to say, 'But I don't want you to be like me, all right? You should know better. You should be better.' And right before I wanted to say I wanted to become a musician, or even a doctor, he goes on saying, 'I'll give you two choices: you can follow my path, serve your country. I have a lot of guys up there that'll take care of you. Don't you worry.'"

"And the second choice was . . ."

"You bet it was. He told me, 'Or you can serve the Lord God instead. Father Anthony's a good man, and a good friend. I've known him since you were but a boy. He's a good man, son. The Lord will guide you from temptation, and you won't have to suffer like me either.'"

I scratched my chin as we soldiered on. "Let me see here . . . Join the army and get married and become utterly miserable like me for the rest of your life, or better yet, join the clergy and save yourself all the trouble, right? Wasn't much of a question, was it?"

He slipped but I managed to grab his hand. "Yeah. Actually, I was about to say something like, 'I can make my own decisions, Dad.' Or something like, 'Hell, I don't want to be a priest. I just want to find my own way.'"

"So why didn't you?"

Henry picked the dirt of his knee. "Because . . . Well . . . After he said that, he just hugged me. Hugged me tight, and said, 'I love you, son. You're going to be just fine, okay?' After that, I just hugged him back and I said I loved him too. And since I was never cut out to be a soldier like him, I chose the second option, and I did my best to make him proud."

"That's such a . . ." A tear fell from my eye, and I brushed it off. "That's such a wonderful story. So how is your father doing?"

Sadness fell on Henry. I could see it on his face. "He . . . He died of an aneurism on my second year. He never saw me at the altar."

I tapped his shoulder. "I'm . . . I'm sorry, Henry."

He brushed his tear off and smiled. "Oh, shaddup, will ya?"

I laughed. "Fine. Fine. Let's keep the pace up, shall we?"

"Whatev—"

Suddenly Henry tripped, perhaps over a branch or a vine, and he fell stumbling onto the cold earth. As he struggled to stand, a face formed on the soil beneath him: a face of a man, old but handsome, and to Father Henry's reaction—strikingly familiar. "Hullo . . . Henry, m'boy."

The priest was shocked with widened eyes.

"It's me, Son. . . How've you been all these years? I'm. . . I'm so sorry for leaving you so soon. . ."

I ran to him, clutching his arm. It wasn't good. All this time I was trying to distract him, I unknowingly gave these sick creatures all the information they needed. Stupid, Vincent. Stupid. "You're hearing nothing, okay, Henry?! It's just the wind. Stand up, Henry. Stand up!"

"I missed you. . . Henry. . . I love you. . . Your father loves you. . ." The voice of the man persisted to sway him. "But now. . . We can be together. . . You and me. . . Here. . . Together. . . I love you, Son. . . I'm so proud of you. . . "

Henry fell to tears, but he didn't say a word.

"For God's sake, Henry, stand up! For my sake be a man and stand up!"

"I'm s-sorry. . ." Henry said weakly, though it was unclear if he was talking to me or to the face on the ground. "I'm sorry. . ."

I kept yanking on his arm. "It's all right, Henry, let's—"

And then, he said a word, a word that meant he believed, and that he acknowledged their very existence. "I'm sorry too. . . Dad."

I was helpless. "No!"

The shadows swarmed around us, surrounding us in its deathly embrace. There was a woman dragging herself toward me, the lower half of her body missing. Then there was a man who grabbed my arm, a corpse of a child creeping out of his deformed mouth. Then another grabbed my other arm, an older woman of ash and dirt, where, in the place of her eyes crawled a legion of countless worms and maggots, pouring out of her, then back inside her nose, then back out of her mouth again. Meanwhile more branches began to rise up from the earth, and it was no sooner that my friend, Father Henry, was totally entangled in vines, trapped forever by the face he called his father.

In a breath the earth had swallowed him whole, with all the damned creatures fading back to the night, the dark forest returning to its eerie silence.

"Henry!" I plunged to my knees, hollowing out the earth like some mad dog. It was hopeless. All I found was dirt and the haunting sorrow that came with it. "Henry! Can you hear me?! Henry?!"

There was no answer, but still, in that desperate moment, I kept shouting, searching, hoping for any chance to save an innocent man from this horrifying death.

After half an hour or so, I fell down in my exhaustion, my back to the ground, all covered in dirt and sweat. I lay there heavily panting, wishing the shadows had taken me instead. First Ritcher, now Henry. I had lost another friend, and I was nowhere close to saving Dani.

****

"For we are only of yesterday and know nothing, because our days on earth are as a shadow."

—Job 8:9

## CHAPTER XXI

## THE MOTHER OF MONSTERS

Everything was aglow, swallowed by white light.

"Wake up, silly." There was a girl's voice, and everything felt warm.

"What?"

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm. . . I'm tired."

"You can't be," she persisted. "You can't."

"But I am. I am tired of it all."

"No, you're not."

"But—"

"No buts." She giggled. "You're such a pussy, aren't ya?"

"Still haven't given up on me?"

"Me? Never. You still owe me a box of chocolates, okay?"

A smirk fell on my smudged face. "Fine."

"Good. Wake up now." Bright hands brushed my face. "Wake up, dumb-dumb."

The white faded into black, and once again, I was sitting alone in the forest, surrounded by earth and wood and the shadows that lurked beyond them. I pulled myself to my feet, staring at the full moon above. I paced forward, wending through the narrow path, treading past the wild outgrowth and the tangling tendrils, the weeping faces and the grasping hands, toward salvation from the threat of the woodland and the peril of the unknown. I sprinted forth, the night growing darker as the shadows made their pursuit. The damned creatures were still hungry, their appetite for belief insatiable. A legion of deformities barked and screeched and howled behind me, closing in with every second. I ran as fast as I could, my heart galloping like a horse. Almost there, I said to myself. Almost there. Then I saw it, a faint light out of the damned forest. Almost there, I hoped. Almost there.

When I finally reached it, I found myself standing back on the very spot I had left Father Henry buried in the ground. The hex! I cursed to myself. I almost forgot about the bloody hex! In that moment, I knew what had to be done. The only question was if I could handle her, but then again I did love to improvise. I shouted a word, a name long forgotten even by the most ancient of creatures. "Echidna!"

And then it happened—something hard hurled at me from the back, the earth slamming me hard on the face. As I tried to raise my body, I felt a heavy beast pinning me down, its massive paw over my shoulder. I couldn't move. I was trapped. More creatures approached; some hissed, some rattled, some moaned—a pack of wolves growled, wolves with the head of a woman and the tail of a snake. Cocking my head, I found one of these monsters right in front of me, only a finger away from my face. It snarled and threatened, the woman's sharp yellow teeth biting at the little space between us. She was barely living, the poor creature, and in a second or two, so would I.

"What a bore," I uttered. "Letting your cronies do all the work for you, eh?"

Silence found the creatures. All shadows are born from something else, pale imitations cast by the original form. With a blink of an eye, the pack had vanished. I stood again, picking the dirt off my suit. "Good riddance."

A woman's voice boomed from above. She spoke in legion, a mass gathering of souls absorbed into this one being, trapped forever beneath the shadow of the spider. Men, women and children cried and moaned, all answering as one. "My, oh, my. If it isn't Lucifer Morningstar, the Devil himself."

"Former Devil." I looked around. She was nowhere to be found. "Mammon's the one in charge now, but I guess you already know that, serving as his guard dog and all."

"If you call me a dog, then what are you?" the eerie voices boomed again. "A mouse?"

"Call me anything but dinner, my dear, and you will have my gratitude."

"The mouse begs."

"And Mammon wants to play with the Son of God," I answered. "What do you think will happen when Michael decides to stroll about your little park?"

"Oh, Lucifer. We both know your brother would already be here if he wanted to." The voice hissed like a giant snake. "But the thing is, I'm more curious about you. What do you want? Where do you fit in the grand design of things?"

I took one step forward. "I am but a poor fly tangled in their web of deceit. Frankly, I am tired of it, so tired."

And then I saw it, sliding down on its web, landing softly on eight giant legs. A hideous black spider, larger than any man or beast, stood five paces before me. On the spider's head sprung three faces: a child on the right, a beautiful lady in the middle, and an aged woman on the left. Long tendril-like tongues lashed out from their mouths, brushing my face, their saliva as foul as a rotting corpse. "Is that so?"

I wiped the slobber off with a napkin. "You look ravishing as always."

"Oh, spare me the Silver Tongue."

I took out a cigarette. Ever since that fateful night I rescued the Reincarnated Christ from brother deary, some of my abilities have been slowly making their way back, one of which was the Dragon's Breath. I breathe in, calmly, and the cigarette sparked with life. "So, would you let me pass? Be a dear and lift the hex for old time's sake, would you?"

One of her tongues, the younger girl's, found its way to my neck, licking up to my cheek. "Hmm. . . And why should I waste such a delicious meal that so willingly sprung to my nest?"

Just as I've thought. Summoning the wench was too dicey, but then again I was out of options. I had to break the hex, and this fat bitch was sitting on it like a hen warming her eggs. Once more it was a gamble, and I, unlike God, do love to play with dice. "How about a game, my lady?"

The giant spider approached me, only a breath away from her face. "You are a smooth talker. I don't trust smooth talkers," she said, licking my cheek again. "And you are weak, your power long buried to the ground. What challenge can you possibly bring to the table?"

In return, I blew smoke onto her face, and she coughed. "I would assume, my lady, that in your isolation from the outside world, you would, by now, be bored to death."

"Hmm. . . True." She circled around me. "So what game do you offer, Prince of Lies?"

I grinned. "Your call."

"Really? The terms?"

"If I win, you free a friend of mine back there. Your . . . children have him. Afterwards you lift the hex and leave us to our business."

The monster finished her circle, going back to her spot. "And if I win?"

"Then you can do whatever you want with me, my dear."

The younger head on the right whispered to the one in the middle, and so did the older one on the left. They whispered to one another, until finally, a decision was made between the council, or so it seemed. "A riddle, clever one. I shall ask you a riddle." If you answer it correctly, I shall let you and your friend pass. But if you are wrong, you and your friend shall remain here, to dwell in eternal oblivion and misery."

"A riddle, eh?" I smiled. "So be it. Ask away, my dear."

The three heads murmured with each other, and then the middle one spoke. "What creature crawls on four in the morning, two in the noon, and three as the sun sets—"

"That's elementary, my dear. It's—"

"But is not Man."

She caught me off guard. To employ a very old riddle, and append it with the negation of the answer, was truly, a work of genius. I didn't saw it coming. "Hm. . . "

"Tick. Tock. Tick Tock."

"I . . . Wait . . ."

"Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock."

"Let me just—"

The legion of voices laughed. "Not so clever now, are you, clever one?"

My consciousness drifted away, recalling memories, people, places; anything that could suffice, or at least lead me to an answer.

"Last five seconds."

". . ."

"Four."

". . ."

"Three."

". . ."

"Two."

". . ."

"On—"

"Nothing."

The creature looked surprised. "What did you say?"

"I said nothing. That is my answer. Nothing. There is no such creature, living or extinct, fiction or fact, which meets your given description."

Echidna, the giant spider with three human faces began to snort, then snicker, until it grew to a full blown cackle. Her voice echoed across the forest, the trees themselves laughing with her, sharing her humor and amusement. "I have to thank you, Lucifer. I have not been entertained in this manner for a very long time."

"You're welcome, my lady." I cleared my throat. "So then, will you let us pass now?"

The creature called Echidna, the Mother of Monsters, paused and turned back to face me. "No, I will not."

I smirked, expecting as much. "But you gave your word, my dear. We had a deal."

"And you took my word for granted," she mocked. "Only a fool would think they would escape by answering a riddle. I like to play with my food, after all."

The cigarette reached its prime taste. I dropped it, killing the spark. I took another cig out, inhaled on it, a small flame bursting from the tip. "Such a shame. Now I'll have to kill you."

"Kill me?" The voices laughed again. "You are mortal, Lucifer, barely even a shadow of your former self. You have nothing. Nothing. Not even your wit and your lies can save you from me! You are mine and mine alone!"

I began to snicker.

The monster was taken aback. "Huh? W-What's so funny?"

"You see, my dear, I also like to play with my food."

"Hah! Your tricks won't work on me. You are weak, Lucifer! Weak!"

I stepped forward. "True, I have spent an ample amount of years as a mortal to render me feeble, so to speak. But frankly, there is one vital detail you seem to have . . . overlooked."

"Mm? And what is that?"

"I may be weak, my dear lady, but I am not impotent."

"What?"

I inhaled hard on the cigarette, the flames igniting once again. As I exhaled the smoke, I flicked the cig toward the monster, the smoke and flint rolling round and round, until gravity and force and projection brought it right to her face. The spark reflected in her eyes, all her eyes, until horror struck her, for she knew she had realized it too late, and there was nothing she could have done but to accept her fate.

The monster burst into flames, the fire swallowing her whole. Like a living beast, the fire roared as it devoured her, trapping her inside the vacuum of inferno. The abomination cried and screeched and yowled, her human voices weeping and begging until all that was left was the pitiful wailing of her children. The forest wept for her, the shadows and the Shadow People, until there was nothing heard and nothing left, of the once terrible creature called Echidna, the Mother of Monsters; nothing but smoke and ash and the choking stench that came with it.

And to dust all shall return. I picked the dirt off my hands. "Such a waste, but, oh well."

A man moaned close by. I strolled toward the figure lying on the ground, all covered in dirt and ash. He seemed disoriented so I kicked him a few times. "Henry! Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Wait—What the hell happened?"

"The lady got a taste of Dragon's Breath—concentrated Dragon's Breath."

The priest sighed. "That's a relief."

"True." I kicked him again. "Can you stand?"

Henry grabbed my leg. "Yeah . . . Stop kicking, you jerk."

I pulled out another cig. "You're welcome."

****

"And the great Dragon was thrown down, the serpent of old who is called the Devil and Satan, who deceives the whole world; he was thrown down to the earth, and his angels were thrown down with him."

—Revelation 12:9

## CHAPTER XXII

## PANDEMONIUM

Fingers of warm light glimmered through a tangle of trees. Beneath a blanket of stars and darkness, the cabin glowed ginger on the porch and through the windows, a beacon for travelers lost in the swallowing night. At the top a myriad of dead leaves blanketed the roof like an ugly wig, the chimney puffing smoke through its single nostril. Down the porch a suspended oil lamp swayed casually to the silent wind, its fire licking the cold midnight air. Like most cabins the house was built on stone and stacked timber, a modest bastion made to stand the test of time and solitude. If not for the hex this would have been a stroll to the privy, but then again houses in the middle of the forest weren't really my cup of tea. For all we knew a cannibalistic witch may have already taken residence here, waiting for fresh livestock to simply enter her domain.

"Henry." I locked my feet on the ground before the porch. "We have company."

The priest pressed a foot beside me. "I know."

A family of three emerged from the creaking door: a large balding man in his fifties, his scrawny freckled wife, and a young boy of five smiling with a kitchen knife in his hand. Slowly all three formed a line on the porch, the wood squeaking under the weight of their feet.

"You will not pass—" said the father.

"Leave now—" followed the mother.

"Or die," finished the small boy.

I turned to Henry with a nod. With just one look he knew what needed to be done. This wasn't our first exorcism after all, and hopefully it wouldn't be the last. My task was usually to distract the possessed while the exorcist chanted the words, but that usually worked with only one demon. And not only did we had three meatbags this time around, but the boy was also carrying a large knife, and I was in no mood to play with children and their kitchen sets. Improvise, Vincent. I whispered to myself. Just improvise. "Ready?"

Henry took a deep breath. "Now!"

It all happened so fast.

Before the priest could even start to chant, the little boy raised the kitchen knife, and plunged it straight to his mother's womb. Blood splattered on her skin and silk, her white apron staining red. With shock and terror in her eyes, the woman gasped for breath and life, staring down at the boy she called her son. I was a fool to think the weapon was meant for us. This was Mammon after all, utterly mad and despicable. The Demon of Greed would slay thousands simply out of boredom, and a small family like this was barely a fraction of his totaled atrocities.

"No!" I bolted for the porch, reaching for the boy and the blade. "No! Damn it!"

The child took three more sickening stabs at his mother's belly before I could reach him. By the time I managed to restrain him, the mother had already collapsed to the floor, the steel well under the flesh up to the bloodied handle. Coughing out blood, the frail woman turned her eyes at me as a single tear ran down her freckled cheek. "Please . . ." She coughed hard, her own blood drowning her as she spoke. "Please . . . Save . . . My son."

"Henry!" I shouted, my arms locked around the boy. "Anytime now!"

It was no good. With events quickly spiraling into chaos, I completely overlooked the husband, now choking the life out of my friend on the naked ground. Henry was struggling and grasping for air, his face reddening to a plump fresh tomato. Though they seemed of similar age, the possessed man was built of hard muscle and bone, a hulking lumberjack with knuckles made of stone. "I must kill you," the madman uttered as he strangled further, like a mindless drone following his master's command "I must kill you!"

Mindless. The word rang in my hand. Why does this feel so familiar? I searched for help and found it. "Henry!" I shouted. "To your left!"

The poor priest stretched out his arm, his face growing from red to purple, until finally he found it. With a lashing swing of his arm, a rock the size of his hand knocked the giant right in the head, sending him tumbling to the ground. Henry gasped for breath, coughing and wheezing, his hand around his loosened neck. He pushed a hand to the ground as he tried to stand, but even that proved too much as he lost strength and balance, his face smashing back to the dirt.

"What happened?" the husband muttered, his large hand on his bald, bleeding head. "Who are you people? What are you doing here?"

Then it hit me, like a hard slap on the cheek. A knock on the head, no matter how potent, could never exorcise a demon out of a body. It was never that easy or simple. Then I recalled how the three spoke unbroken just before, as if they were one person in . . .

Henry finally pushed himself to his feet when the husband eyed his wife, now dead beside me. "Anna?" the words came out as his eyes slowly widened. He pushed himself up, squinting, wiping the blood from his temple. "A-Anna?" The man rushed to his wife. He plunged to his knees, raising her face to his head, stroking her black hair, kissing her brow, her nose, her pale freckled cheek. "Jesus Christ! Anna! Why did you—my Anna . . . My poor wife . . ." he muttered between hiccups. "Please . . . Don't leave me. Oh God . . . Anna! Don't leave me . . . No, no, no . . ."

There was no answer of course, but then he raised his eyes, to his son struggling in my arms. His eyes lost in confusion and sadness slowly crept to anger and contempt. "You!" he shouted, his wife around his arms, his face drenched in tears. "Why?! Why did you do this?!" He shouted. "What do you want?! I'll give anything! Please! Just let my boy go!"

This wasn't looking good. The boy was still struggling, the last of the three to play Mammon's little game. "Papa!" said the boy. "He killed Mama! He killed Mama!"

The damn bastard is playing us like fools. I covered the boy's mouth with my hand before he could muster any more lies. "Look, mister. This isn't how it looks like."

"What do you want?" he pleaded. "Please . . . Just let my son go . . . Please!"

If I had release him, the little boy would have probably yanked the knife from his mother and butchered his father all the same. "No. I can't do that."

His voice was filled with sorrow and anger, only restrained by fear for the boy. "Then what do you want?! Tell me!"

I sighed. "I want this to all be over with."

A crack of wood on bone and flesh exploded behind him as the man dropped, falling unconscious over his dead wife. Father Henry stood overhead, wiping a sweat on his brow, the splintered wood on his other hand. "Now stay down."

"Took you long enough," I said. "Figured it out as well, huh?"

The priest tossed the broken wood aside. "Demons are one thing, mind control another. But for one demon to control three people?" He knelt beside me, staring at the struggling boy. "I didn't think Mammon was this strong."

No, he wasn't. He would need something else, something more powerful. "You can come out now, Mammon."

For a while there was nothing but the dead and the wind, until eventually a sickening laugh filled the air. "Bravo." A small girl emerged from the shadows, clapping, smiling, her short hair dyed in blue. She was wearing a white headband and a white dress, her long skirt billowing softly with the wind. On her hands were silver gloves and on her feet were shining heels, radiant as a young lass attending her first ball. "Bravo," Mammon said, still clapping. It was disturbing to hear him speak through her voice. "So how did you like my play, Father?"

So this was his endgame after all. "Never thought you fancied a dress, boy. You should have just told me, eh?"

Dani's pupils were a pair of yellow eye slits. "Oh, I fancied her, all right. I mean look at this, Father!" She spread her slender arms, and began to float a few feet from the ground. "Power!" the demon announced. "Unlimited power!" With a wave of her hand, Father Henry was tackled in the chest by an unseen force, sending him crashing inside the house through the window. Glass shattered and wood splintered, followed by a thud as the priest fell to the floor.

"Henry!"

The girl began to levitate higher, her arms spread out like the Messiah on the cross. "With her as my vessel, I can practically rule the mortal realm by my own! I wouldn't even need an army! I mean look at me! I can control minds! I can lift objects with a flick of a finger! And soon I'll be able to do much more! So much more!" The trees swayed to the sudden gust of wind, the oil lamp burning wildly to the flames of power. "Can't you see? I'm God on earth! The unholy union of the Son of God and the Bastard of the Devil! Who would have thought, huh, Father?"

"You cannot control her forever," I answered. "The Reincarnated Christ is but a child now, but in time she will grow stronger than you, and cast you out back to where you belong."

"Perhaps," Mammon grinned. "And perhaps not."

"Then you are a fool."

"Really?" The demon snickered. "From where we're standing, I'd say you are the fool!"

I was a fool no doubt, but a fool with a plan. On our way here I had devised a plan or two to take down the bloody demon, but now the bastard just handed himself on a silver platter. "Release the boy first," I demanded, standing with the child in my arms. "And we shall fight evenly as foes."

Mammon began to cackle in Dani's little voice. "You are a mere mortal standing before a god, Father. What petty tricks do you have left to take me down? You cannot possibly mean to burn your dear little Dani alive as you did with the spider, nor can you exorcise me with your foolish priest out of the party. What do you have left, huh? What?!"

I smiled. "That is for you to find out."

The demon pondered for a while, then answered, "So be it." With a flick of his fingers, the boy of five lost consciousness in my arms. I placed him down on the floor, now ready to face my enemy, my son, the bloody Demon of Greed.

Afterwards, I turned back to face him. "Let's play."

Mammon answered with a wicked smile and a swing of his hand, hauling me from the porch and across the grass, laughing as he slammed me back to the ground. With another wave he dragged me from the dirt and hurled me to a trunk of a tree, then back up and down and up and down, until I found myself in shambles of blood and ripped clothes, several cuts and bruises, a broken rib, and a piece of broken wood protruding from the side of my waist. My head rang with pain and nausea, the world spinning where earth and sky seemed all the same. My back ached and the wounds pricked like needles, and by then I wondered if the plan would ever work at all. The demon played me like a damn puppet, his invincible strings making me dance to his ballet of madness.

"Is that the best you can do?" I asked, coughing out blood, my back to the trunk of a tree.

The bastard hovered over me. "Oh, I have more. But I am curious though. You seem to be . . . immune to mind reading. I thought it would have been fun poking around that little brain of yours, but it seems you're more experienced than what I give you credit for."

I coughed again, recalling that night with the Nephilims. "Sorry to disappoint you, but this isn't my first rodeo with crazy telepaths."

"Well, be that as it may, I'll make sure this will be your last." Mammon raised his arm, grabbing me by the neck as he raised me to his level. "Our common friend saved you before, Father, but this time I don't really give a damn about him or his ancient prophecies. You will die now, and that will be the end of it." Dani smiled with those damn yellow eyes. "Any last words?"

I muttered a few, but with the invisible force strangling me, Mammon could barely hear it out. This was it, I told myself. To miss this chance would be the end of me.

"What?" the demon said, raising an eyebrow.

I spoke again, incoherent to a fault.

Below the black sky and the moon, Mammon pulled me closer to him, close enough for a whisper. "Can it truly be? Is the great Lucifer finally begging for his life?"

"Checkmate." With Dani's small face just beside mine, I leaned over with all my strength, and landed a quick kiss on her cheek. Before the demon could react, a blinding light exploded where the flesh met, swallowing the moon and the stars and the darkness that surrounded us. When the light finally faded, we found ourselves flat on the floor of a massive white hall, an immaculate golden door looming before us.

The possessed child rose to her feet. "Where are we?!"

"Mammon." I stood with the smugness of victory. "I welcome you to Heaven."

****

"And God said, 'Let there be light,' and there was light."

—Genesis 1:3

## CHAPTER XXIII

## THE PRODIGAL SON

The Great Hall of Heaven stretched far and wide with the girth of three massive churches, its white walls brimming with the fire of a thousand sconces. Toward the ceiling roared the flames of a countless bronze chandeliers, while down on the marbled floor columns of trestle tables flanked each other to no end, like a fleet of warships on a vast open sea. It was here where I fought the barbarian called the Archangel of God, and it was here where I was defeated not by strength nor sword, but by treachery. Michael must have been glad the hall was empty back then as it was today, saving him his pride and honor, or whatever was left of it. But looking back at it now, if I were given a chance to relive it all again, I would gladly do so—and never change a thing. The Fall, the rebellion, it was all worth it. It only seemed yesterday that I was an angel of God, but then again I was never suited to sing psalms with the cherubim.

I had my own song, and I had no plans of ending it anytime soon.

"So this was your little trick, huh?" Mammon said, turning his head as he admired the view. "Not bad. I didn't see that one coming."

I rose to my feet. "When I rescued the child from my brother back then, the first of my powers to return was my teleportation, the very same I used to escape the blundering fool. And for a time we have been using the boon to go about quite easily, though the catch was that the skill had one specific catalyst—physical contact with the girl."

Mammon snickered, then clapped. "Fine. I admit it. You outwitted me, old man. For now." He took a step forward. "So what now? What's next in your game of chess?"

I fixed my tie. "Oh, my boy. My turn is over. It's not me you have to worry about anymore."

"What?"

The great golden door creaked and opened behind me. White light slipped through, my body casting a giant shadow across the length of the hall. Slow footsteps treaded on the marble floor, and soon there were two shadows, the other one standing beside mine. "Demon," said the woman beside me. The delightful creature stood at a towering six inches, her face stunning yet stern, framed by golden locks tumbling down her bare shoulders. From top to toe her skin glowed immaculate, her long white gown flowing gently with the wind. "How dare you step on our lands?! And how dare you, Spawn of Hell, to defile the Body of Christ!"

Mammon didn't even flinch. "And you are?"

"I am an angel of God," said the woman sternly.

"Angel of God, huh?" The demon grinned naughtily. "Well, kneel down and bow before me, angel, for I am now your new God, the God on earth and Heaven and—"

With a snap of the angel's fingers, the Reincarnated Christ lost voice and consciousness, falling face flat to the floor. "Fool. You have no power here, hellspawn."

"Dani!" I said as I ran to her, placing her head on my lap. "Dani! Can you hear me?!" I brushed her blue hair aside. If the plan had worked, then the angel would have exorcised the demon right on the spot. "Dani!" I repeated, shaking her. "Wake up!"

The little girl squinted with weak eyes, and stared at me. For once her pupils were no longer a demonic yellow. "What you looking at, dumb-dumb?"

I sighed to my relief, and embraced her. "I'm looking at you, kid. I'm looking at you."

"Hey, hey," she struggled in my arms. "What's with the drama . . ."

After a while I finally let go. "You look good in that dress, kid."

Dani lowered her eyes to her revulsion. "What the fuck?! What is this?!" She ogled at her dress, her heels, the silver gloves on her hands. "What the fuck am I wearing?!"

I smiled, ruffling her hair. "Don't worry. It suits you just fine."

She pouted adorably. "Fuck you, Vincent."

"It's good to see you too." I scrubbed the dirt off her cheek. "Ready to go home now?"

"Yeah, yeah." Little Jesus scratched her nose. "Let's get out of here."

"Hold my hand," I whispered. "And count to three."

Finally she released a smile after a very long while. "One. Two. Three—"

I snapped my fingers, but to my surprise, there was no light. I snapped again. "This is odd."

"Vincent." Dani's voice grew suddenly weak.

I looked up at her face. "Yes?"

Dani smiled again, and before I knew it, she had coughed out blood, splattering me on the face and on the chest. She collapsed to my shoulder, a dagger buried deep onto her back. But the greater shock was the man holding the handle, the bloody angel with the bloody crooked nose. He leaned closer to me, and whispered, "You knew this was inevitable, Morningstar. I warned you you'll need more than cigarette fire to stop me." Wormwood then planted a soft kiss on my cheek. "Goodbye, Morningstar," he said before vanishing. "I wish you all the best, my friend."

All voices began to elude me, fading into oblivion. Nothing seemed to matter anymore, for in that world devoured by silence, all hope had been lost. She's dead! A voice rang inside my head. She's dead because of me! Me . . . Dani . . . No . . . Please . . .

After a while, I pushed myself to my feet, leaving the lifeless child on the floor. "Fine! I'll do it!" I shouted, my voice raised for all to hear. "If you want me, then fine! I'll join your bloody army, if that's what you want!"

The woman stood on the side, impassive.

"Come and get me, you bloody bastard!" I persisted, my voice echoing through the vast emptiness of the Great Hall of Heaven. "If everything is predestined, then all of this, all of this suffering is all in your scheme, eh?! Every little death and cock up is all your doing, huh?!" I shouted with all my voice. "Free will, my arse! Fuck it! Fuck everything! Fuck you, you omniscient, omnipotent bastard! Fuck—"

"Ehem!" exclaimed the woman. "For a renowned gentleman, you certainly do curse a lot, Light Bearer." She paced softly towards me. "If I were you, I would do my best to settle my emotions first before entering the throne room. It would be rather rude, not to mention perilous, if you were to proceed in your current state."

I sighed, cleared my throat, and my head. "Fine. But tell me. Who are you?"

"Your attachment to the mortal realm and its inhabitants has proven quite troublesome, it seems. More and more you grow as one of them, and I admit this baffles me even more."

I stared at the climax of her exposed cleavage. "I asked a question."

The angel turned to me, and bowed. "We have met many times before, Light Bearer. I am the Voice of God, the one with the title and authority of the one they call Metatron."

Well what do you know. "Metatron? I recall our last meeting in the parking lot where you delivered the message of the Son of God. But back then and even before that, you never showed your true form, nor your true voice."

"It is the message that matters. Always have. Always will."

And yet she lures me to sin with this atrocious figure. "So why choose a body now?"

Her expression remained the same throughout the conversation. "Unlike you or the other entities, my spiritual presence lacks any permanent embodiment. I shift from one form to another as God commands, Light Bearer, for His will is my voice and my voice is His command."

My eye browses formed a line. "Fine. Fine," I said, rubbing my forehead. "Shall we, then?"

"Are you ready to face your One True God, Light Bearer?"

"Ready for God?" I jested. "Hell, I've been waiting for this my whole life."

****

The grand carpet marching to the Throne of God glowed a luminescent golden flare, flanked by several pairs of angelic pillars bearing sword and shield at hand. As we paced forward, the torches alongside us sparked one by one, each one brimming with the heat and intensity of deep indigo flame. Once we had reached the foot of the stairs, the massive door behind us closed, and we were now finally alone—alone with God.

"Good day, My Almighty One," said Metatron, taking a bow toward the empty seat. "Here beside me was the once great Archangel of Light, Samael, also known as Hades and Prometheus of the Greeks, Loki of the Norse, Susanoo and Yama of the Rising Sun, Shiva the Destroyer of the Hindus, the Serpent and Adversary of the Hebrews, Pluto to the early Romans and the Devil to the latter—the Tempter, the Seducer, the Prince of Lies, feared by many as the Dragon of Armageddon, the Enemy of Heaven and Mortals alike—Satan, the Unclean, the Rebel, the Evil One, the one they call—"

"Ehem!" I cleared my throat, sardonically. "I can wait all day, you know."

Metatron was not pleased to being interrupted, I could tell—or rather, feel it—despite the angel's inherent lack of outward expression. "So be it."

Then, as the torches lost their flame and the hall darkened, a flare sparked from the throne itself, erupting into a blazing haze, spouting and spewing, growing larger and larger as if to consume us and everything in its path, until suddenly, the fire abated, vanishing in a sudden fierce and forceful implosion.

In place of the once great fire was now a figure shrouded in light, his voice booming through the heavens itself. "And so the prodigal son returns."

I stepped forward, bold and confident. "And so I have."

"Have you agreed to join us then?" the heavenly voice said. "Now that Hell has abandoned you and left you with neither power nor a throne?"

"Yes. I do," I said. "And I ask only one thing in return."

"Hmm. . ." the voice echoed. "And what is this boon you seek?"

"The girl." I answered firmly. "You must save the girl."

The voice laughed to my surprise. "The girl? The Reincarnated Christ, I suppose? You seek to bargain your life and service for the mere soul of one child?"

I nodded. "Yes. That is all I ask for."

There was a deafening silence that seemed to go on forever, until He spoke again. "No."

"Pardon?"

"No."

"But why?!" I persisted, fearless and unwavering. "Is not such a small feat child's play compared to your vast prowess?!"

Metatron intervened. "The Almighty One has made His decision, Light Bearer. We do not question His authority, only obey it. You will be wise to remember that moving forward. It is—"

"Shut your trap, angel," I said, frustrated. "I am not talking to you. I am talking to this arrogant bastard who did nothing to help the people of this world, whose sole means of gaining worship is by instilling fear by violence and death, and whose act is playing hero by blaming others for his evil deeds and misgivings."

"Blasphemy!" barked Metatron. "Watch your corrupt tongue, Evil One!"

I snickered. "Blasphemous? Oh, yes. That's what you call people who think for themselves and speak only the truth." I stepped forward. "Tell me, oh so Mighty One. Do you loathe the truth? Or do you simply wish to keep everyone blind so you can remain in the safety of your royal chambers, all the while scheming alone for the next flood, war, or massacre to conjure?!"

Metatron produced a sword out of sheer light, the cold blade provoking to slit my throat. "Do not test my patience, Satan. One more foul word from you, and I shall cut you down as your brother Michael has done before me."

"Lay down your sword, Metatron. Blood will not be spilled here. Not in my watch."

I chuckled at His remark. "Oh, yes. You would rather have blood spilled somewhere else, I suppose. I mean, blood at the hands of God? That would be rather awful for your image, wouldn't it?"

"You surely have a wicked tongue, Lucifer."

"Ah! Indeed I have, Almighty One, for a wicked tongue is no less an honest one driven to the point of bluntness. Everything else is simply a lie."

"You have your beliefs, Lucifer, as others have theirs."

God was getting on my nerves. "So why can't you?" I said. "If you have the power you claim to possess, why can't you do it? Why can't you save the life of this one little girl? Why?!"

His voice thundered once more. "Because she was meant to die! We all have our place in this world! The Christ was the catalyst for the Last War between Heaven and Hell, and she knew the great burden placed upon her shoulders. Ironically, you were aware of this as well, and yet you chose to prevent it, thinking you can challenge fate itself!"

"No!" I shouted back, refusing the idea. "We have free will! There is no fate! You do not control our lives!"

"Free will is but an illusion."

"What?! Then are you saying that even my Fall from Heaven was in your plan? That becoming the Devil for people to fear and scorn was all part of your grand machination? Huh?! Tell me!"

"Yes. You were the necessary evil that was required from the very beginning. You had lofty ambitions for an angel, even attempting to overthrow me as the One True God."

"Overthrow you?" I began to giggle, then chuckle, until it blasted to a full blown laughter. "It was I who had helped the mortals mature with the knowledge I shared with them. It was I, as Prometheus, who gave them fire which allowed them to rise from mere apes and grow into the most intelligent creatures in the mortal realm. It was I and I alone who gave them the Light! All you did was shun them in darkness, blinding them with fear and death!" I exclaimed. "And now you proclaim I sought to overthrow you? Ha! Every angel knew my aspirations lay elsewhere. You were simply jealous! And if there was one angel to covet your throne, it must and will always have been Michael, my brother!"

"Michael?" God said, for it was the only word he managed to hear. "How dare you! You charge the Archangel Michael, the Great Archangel Michael, of such vile accusations?!"

"Yes. Michael has always coveted the Throne of Heaven. For if my interest lay down with the curious mortals, Michael's ambition was always a little more divine than the average angel."

"Such blasphemy! One more word of that and I will—"

"And what? You'll kill me? Please." I chuckled. "You wouldn't have spent all this time courting me if you were just planning to hack my head off. Heck, I wouldn't even be standing in this very spot if you did. I would be long dead, and you know it."

"Michael is a great and noble follower. If I were to leave Heaven, then I would entrust my seat to no other angel but him."

"Really, now?" To my surprise and sudden curiosity, there was a sudden shift in tone the moment I mentioned my dear brother's name. A suspicion began to spark, and I decided to play it out. "But Michael is a fool, my Lord, a fool who only lusts for war and power. Surely you would know better than to trust such an imbecile?"

"A f-fool?! Imbecile?!" God was furious. "Ha! It is you who should know better than to mock your brother! Michael bested you in single combat, did he not?"

"Bested me?" I released another wicked laugh. "It was I who defeated Michael, to which he betrayed me by stabbing me in the back after I allowed him to live!"

The sky growled with His growing rage. "No! Lies! All lies!"

"But yes, it is! And I spread it amongst the earth dwellers, amongst the Fallen, and even in Hell. Everyone knows how despicable and dishonorable Michael is!"

"No! No! No!" the Creator roared in anger. "You are a liar!"

And with that, I decided to settle for the clincher. "Then come down here from your throne, and we'll settle it once and for all!"

In a sudden wisp of air, the figure of light sitting on the throne vanished, for the figure that was God was now standing before me, his face no longer glowing nor concealed, but was undoubtedly familiar, not to mention familial.

"You will pay for you insolence, Lucifer!" the angel said, his rage and stupidity unmatched.

I giggled first before answering. "Why, long time no see, Michael."

****

"But the father said to his servants, 'Bring quickly the best robe, and put it on him, and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet. And bring the fattened calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate. For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.' And they began to celebrate."

—Luke 15:22-24

## CHAPTER XXIV

## HOLY BE THY NAME

Michael looked dumbstruck, as if he'd made the greatest mistake of his life. Nothing could top it off. The impostor might have fooled me earlier with his amplified voice and all, but his arrogance and unmanageable temper got the better of him. "Damn you, Lucifer!" Michael roared in his rage. "Now that you know, I'm going to have to kill you!" Thunder growled from above, a deep rumble broken by a sharp and piercing crackle.

I approached him, slowly, challenging him face to face. "Rematch?"

Michael breathed to my face. The Archangel of God was a man made of scars and muscle, armored in plate and cloaked in gold. A winged helm covered his golden hair down to his thick jaw, and on his belt was the Sword of God, the damn blade he stabbed me with so long ago. "You know I can finish you with one blow, dear brother."

"And you know I can burn you to ashes before you even touch me," I said in return.

The tension rose as two of the most powerful entities prepared to clash: two auras, two forces—fire and thunder once again. Michael may have had his strength and power, but I myself still had a few tricks up my sleeve.

"Are you ready?" said Michael.

"Bring it."

As both of us aimed for the initial strike, and before it could even connect with the other, a sudden flash of light burst between us, creating a force so strong as to hurl and thrust us at opposite ends. We tumbled and rolled, like a pair of garbage bags thrown out of the back door.

"You shall cease this insolence," said Metatron, standing boldly between us, "for such petty quarrel does not belong in the House of the Lord."

I pushed myself to my feet, wiping the blood from my lips. "House of the Lord, eh?" I snickered. "So where is the damn fellow?!"

Michael stood as well, grunting. "Stand aside, woman! This is not your fight!"

"Silence, foolish one." Metatron raised her hand against him. "You have already proven yourself unworthy of the title. Now you should stand aside."

"No!" the brute roared, ripping out the Sword of God. "The throne is mine! Mine!" Losing his patience, his temper, and possibly, his mind, Michael bolted forward like a bull, charging rampantly, blinded by rage and consumed by pride. "The throne is mine! Mine! Mine! Mine—"

With those last words, Michael exploded, his blood raining all over the floor, like red paint splattered on a hollow canvas. There was nothing left of him, not even skin nor gut nor bone, nothing but the Sword of God as it flew and spun and pierced the ground beside me. Thrumming from the impact, the majestic steel brandished an immaculate golden haze, a blinding light of hallowed perfection. The Great Archangel of God was dead, and it was only in that instant that I realized I was not standing beside another mere angel, but a god herself.

I fell to my knees, shocked and shuddering. "Michael. . ."

The Voice of God sighed. "Finally. Silence."

"W-Who are you?" I muttered, a little tinge of fear in my tone.

Metatron turned to me with her rigid, blank expression. "Oh, I almost forgot about you, Light Bearer. Where were we?"

"Tell me," I said, staring at the pool of blood that was once my brother. "Are you God? Are you the Almighty One?"

She gazed at me, sternly, perhaps pondering on the proper words to say. "No, Light Bearer. I am not God."

I was confused. "Then where is He?"

"Pardon?"

"If you are not God, then where is the one you call Father and Creator?"

The Voice of God sauntered closer to me. "Perhaps you misunderstood me. I did not simply imply that I am not God. For in the transpiring events, I had assumed you would have already deduced the simple fact of your inquiry."

"So you mean?" I swallowed. "You mean. . ."

Metatron was now standing right in front of me, and I was still on my knees before her. "Yes, Light Bearer. For someone who seeks the truth, here is the truth of all truths—there is no God. For there never has, or never shall be, at least by your definition."

My hands dropped to the ground, doubtful and shaking, my sweat dripping on the ice-cold floor. "I-It can't be. I. . . I talked to him! Back then, before the mortals became men and before memory became myth! I was there, and He was there!"

"Don't be a fool like your brother," said Metatron. "God has been, and will always be—a voice. And I, Metatron, am the Voice of God, for His will is my voice and my voice is His command."

"So all this time, Heaven, Earth and even Hell had been living in fear under the rule of a false god? A false god who just happened to be the voice of an angel?"

The Voice of God smiled, for the very first time, and offered a hand. "Come, Light Bearer. There is much to show you."

****

With a flash of light, Metatron brought me to the peak of a mountain, a sea of emerald lights swaying across the sky, blanketing the silent, chilly night. It was the Aurora Borealis, the Life of the World, the Anima Mundi—the great spiritual collective known as the Over-Soul.

"Where are we?" I said. "Why did you take me here?"

"Shhh!" hushed Metatron, putting a finger on her lips. "Be silent."

As I was about to add another inquiry, a soul detached from the flow, emerging as a creature of pure light. Once it was free of the Over-Soul's hold, it began to descend, slowly but steadily, streaming like a falling star, only to crash at the foot of the mountain. From the crater it produced, a figure emerged, an entity of light—an angel of pure spirit.

"I have seen all the wonders of the world and beyond, Light Bearer, but nothing can compare to the awe and beauty of an angel born from the Anima Mundi."

"True," I answered. "But what purpose does this serve?"

"Well. . . I am not surprised if you are not familiar with this."

I raised an eyebrow. "Why? Where is this place?"

She pointed towards the angel crawling out of the ground, learning to stand for the very first time. "The question is, young one, is when this is."

"You mean. . . We are in the past?"

The angel nodded. "Yes. And that, which you see, is the very first angel."

"What is the angel's name?"

She pondered. "Sadly, the angel's name is lost to me, for I care not about names but titles. For now, we can simply address him as the Alpha."

"Fine. Go on then."

The Voice of God continued. "In time, more angels fell from the World Soul, gaining strength and awareness, though this early creatures lacked any will or ambition, simply content wandering about in the world. They did not know what to do, and because of this, the Alpha took pity on them, and in time he gathered them all, establishing the very first Kingdom of Heaven. Unfortunately, though the angels respected him as a fellow angel, these creatures did not consider him above them, and because of this, the Alpha was angered, for they did not obey him, nor even listen to him. With this, the Alpha sought out to become something more, something greater. He had learned that respect was not enough to rule them. The First Angel needed fear, and fear he soon brought to the world."

"I can see where you're going with this."

"And so one day, the Alpha, with his might and wit, introduced his so called 'God amongst Angels,' to which this God, though only a voice, proclaimed that he was the Maker of Creation, the Father of All. The angels, lacking the curiosity and doubtfulness of the later mortals, believed it almost instantly, for they themselves have been longing to meet their creator, yearning for the father to give them a reason for living."

"So where do you fit in all this?" I asked.

"Ah! A proper inquiry, Light Bearer. Long before I took the title of Metatron, the Voice of God, I was but a mere devoted follower of the First Angel's growing cult. Perhaps, somehow, he saw something in my soul, and it didn't take long before he invited me to his throne, a place where only the most devout are entitled to. There he revealed to me the very secrets I tell you now, for he was growing older, and weaker, and he needed a voice outside of the throne, a voice who could send his message and command across the various realms of the world. Though taken aback by the deception, I was swept away by his cause to unite all angels under one kingdom. It was, and still is, a necessary ploy—a sham that we have maintained even with the arrival of curious, devious Men."

I cleared my throat. "And since you have shared this significant information with me, I presume you only have one verdict?"

Metatron nodded. "You are quick to your feet as always."

With a wave of her hand, we moved from the summit of the mountain to the balcony of a large castle, though this time, it was already dawn. "Do you see that?" she said, pointing towards another falling star from the sky.

"Yes. . . Somehow, it looks. . . It feels familiar."

"There was once a prophecy in Heaven: an angel who was to be born in the light of day was supposed to someday bring upon a great change in Heaven. Of course, when the Alpha heard of this, he quickly ordered a search, only to find two angels of the Morningstar."

As Metatron continued with her tale, two angels crawled up from the crater where the star fell. There was a larger one, followed by a weaker one. Suddenly, I felt a spark of astonishment, witnessing my very own birth before my eyes.

"Threatened of these two angels and the prophecy surrounding them, the Alpha had first contemplated of killing them, only to change his mind later and decided to raise the two as his own, eventually planning to choose one as his successor to the Throne of God."

I grinned. "So he chose Michael, right?"

The angel shook her head. "Actually, he chose you, Light Bearer. You were his favorite. You were the brightest of the stars, the brightest of his angels. It was only due to your disobedience and mischief, along with your dealings with the early Neanderthals and your sin of giving them fire and knowledge, that Michael was able to convince the First Angel to choose him instead of you."

I remained silent.

"And once the Alpha learned that you had gathered an army against Heaven and built your own castle, he finally succumbed to old age and rejoined the Over-Soul, to which of course Michael began ruling as the One True God."

"Against Heaven?" I raised my voice. "After Heaven banished them, I gave all the Fallen a shelter to call home. Hell was always meant to be a sanctuary for the abandoned, never a fortress for the enemy."

"True. That is true. But nevertheless, while you established order in Hell, Michael ruled with an iron fist, creating an image of a Wrathful God amongst angels and mortals alike, founding a rule of tyranny, intolerance, and absolute authority."

I stared at them, the twin angels of the Morningstar. The large one was helping the weaker one, supporting him, carrying him. Who would have thought that this kind, innocent spirit would grow into the most arrogant and ruthless entity of them all? "So the Great Flood? The Slaughter of all the First Born in Egypt? The Executions for breaking the Ten Commandments? And so many other atrocities done in His name? These were not of God but by Michael's act alone?"

"You are correct," said Metatron, "for all the centuries you have loathed God, you simply have no one else to blame but your dear old brother."

I sighed at her uncanny revelation, and paused to contemplate. Seeing me distressed, and a bit bemused, Metatron brought me back to where it all began. With another blink of an eye, I found myself standing at the very bottom of the stairs, the Sword of God still wedged on the ground before me. Standing divine on the crown was Metatron, her hand offering a sit to the very Throne of God. "It is yours to take and yours alone. The child of the Morningstar was destined to rule from the very beginning. Take it, Light Bearer! Take it, and become the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, the All Powerful Lord and Divine Savior! Take it, and become the One True God!"

I gazed upon the coveted throne, shining in its magnificence, its power, its glory. I pulled the sword from the stone and marched one step forward, only to stop, and take it back at once. "That's a very intriguing offer you have there, angel, but I guess I'll have to pass. Becoming God isn't really in my bucket list. Just imagine all the prayers I'll be getting every night," I said, feigning a shudder. "At least being the Devil doesn't require all that trouble, eh?"

Metatron's face twitched, so subtle and unnoticeable that after spending a certain amount of time with her, I was beginning to learn she was not totally devoid of emotion. It just took a little more effort to figure her out. "This is no time to jest, Light Bearer. The fate of the world and all the others hang in your decision."

I smiled. "Well, that's the thing. I don't want the fate of this world, nor Heaven nor Hell nor any other goddamn world, to hang in my decision. Not anymore. Let them be. Let them have free will for once. For real. Let them live free from the strings of destiny."

After a moment of silence, the angel spoke. "Hmm. . . I did not expect this. The one who craves for the throne was a fool, while the one who deserves it does not seek to claim it," she followed, and sighed. "The world is such a strange place, isn't it?"

I chuckled. "You have no idea."

"So what is to come of this godless world of yours, Light Bearer? With Michael gone and without you to take his place, the Host of Heaven will not march towards Hell, and Armageddon shall not come to pass."

"Quite frankly, my dear, I have no more better ideas than you have," I said, winking at her. "But that just makes it more interesting, doesn't it?"

Her face twitched again, this time hinting a suppressed giggle. "Perhaps. And perhaps this was meant to be," she said, finally making her decision. "Then alas, I must bid you farewell, Light Bearer. This was and always have been, a pleasure."

"Wait, where are you going?"

"As I have mentioned before, my task is simply to deliver, not to interpret. That task falls on to you," she followed. "And now I return to whence I came, back to the World Soul, the flow of life itself. Farewell, Light Bearer. Farewell."

Metatron eyed me one last time, the impassive angel, the Voice of God. In her final moment, the angel raised her arms, spreading them like wings. As she closed her eyes, she began to glow, slowly consumed by a radiance of blinding white, spreading and swallowing everything in its path. I shielded my eyes with my hand, but even then it was not enough. When finally the light was no more, the angel called Metatron had vanished, never to be seen or heard ever again.

****

"I intend, therefore, to build a temple for the Name of the Lord my God, as the Lord told my father David, when he said, 'Your son whom I will put on the Throne in your place will build the temple for my Name."

—1 Kings 5:5

## CHAPTER XXV

## A BRAVE NEW WORLD

After Metatron's reunion with the Over-Soul, I stared at the sword in my hand, the legendary Sword of God, and planted it right at the center of Michael's pool of blood. I smiled, and said, "Here lies Michael, brother and God." Afterwards, I began to stroll casually across the grand carpet, whistling back to the door, until suddenly a sound emerged. There was a clapping of hands, terribly slow and steady, and as I turned to my left, a shadow unveiled—a man in a purple tuxedo, whose face had the most crooked nose I had ever seen.

"Bravo!" the traitor bellowed. "I have to hand it to you, Morningstar. And here I thought I was getting another Holy War. Tsk, tsk, tsk."

"Wormwood!" I uttered, my temper quickly getting the better of me. "What are you doing here now?!"

The angel sauntered playfully towards me. "But of course! I had to keep an eye on you, my dear friend, for I knew Heaven wanted you back in their ranks. It was only to my surprise that Metatron actually planned a much more . . . central role for you than what I had initially expected. Truly, I had imagined you would take the offer. I surely would've."

"Wait. . . You knew about this?! You knew about Michael and Heaven's deplorable act of deception?!"

Wormwood scratched his nose. "Yes. I was in the employ of Metatron, after all. The Voice of God needed me to keep tabs on Hell, as well as to keep you alive, all to ensure Armageddon would take place as planned. I even paid that sick bastard of yours two thousand souls just to spare you from the bullet that night."

"Oh, I was fairly certain that was you. The deal had your foul smell all over it."

"Did it now?" He giggled. "But the thing is, all Metatron told me was that she needed the Devil for her army. Who would have thought that she was actually planning to dispose your brother, bless his dear soul, and replace him with you, only for the noble Light Bearer to decline her sweet, sweet offer."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

"Yes. And now the girl died for nothing," Wormwood mocked. "Really, it's such a waste."

My right hand formed a fist. "What did you say?!"

"I said, the stupid little girl died for nothing."

With that, emotion finally consumed me. I darted towards him, my reserved strength and suppressed rage finally culminating into one shattering blow. Wormwood raised his welcoming arms, almost craving it, smiling as my knuckles hammered his wretched face. The sneering angel tumbled, crawling on the ground. I leapt for him, pulling his suit by the collar. "Did you plan it?!" I shouted at his face. "Did you plan it all along?!"

The bastard spat a blood-coated tooth out and grinned at me with a hole in his teeth. "Actually, yes. Back then at the wake of her friend, I told you, didn't I? You seem to have enjoyed your time with the Reincarnated Christ that you forgot she was meant to die in the first place. And when your spawn Mammon captured her, I thought he was going to do the job for me. Unfortunately, the mad little demon had more. . . devious plans for her, so when the time came that you decided to rescue her, I simply had to intervene, finishing the job that you should have done in the first place."

My fist met with his jaw, then again, and again, then his nose, his bloody crooked nose. Blood began to wet my knuckles. "Damn you, Wormwood! I trusted you! You were my friend!"

The angel smiled, blood pouring out of his mouth and nostrils. "Blame me if you will, Morningstar, for all I did was cling to fate, as you should have done as well."

I pulled him one last time, raising my arm for another blow, until it dawned to me that I was no longer any different from the monster my late brother had become. Finally, in the midst of my maddening fury, I managed to restrain myself, releasing my grip on the bloodied angel. "Haven't you been listening for the past hour now?" I said to him as he dropped to the floor. "There is no more fate!"

Wormwood managed a laugh, wiping the blood off his ugly face. "I suppose so, my friend. Without a god to follow, do you think the world will change for the better? Are we prepared for a world without fate or guidance?"

I sighed and rose to my feet. "Perhaps, Wormwood. Perhaps."

"So where are you heading now?"

Where indeed? That single question brought me to so many worlds, to so many conclusions, until finally, I had to make up my mind. I sighed, and mustered a confident smirk. "I have decided to atone for my sins."

"And how exactly are you going to do that?" the angel asked, pulling himself to his feet. "Don't tell me. . ."

"Exactly, my dear friend," I answered, facing the throne once again. "It is time for me to return to whence I came." With all my remaining strength, I shouted at the heavens. "Azrael, the Angel of Death! The Light Bearer summons you! Heed my call, now!"

And so, as sudden as their customary entrance, Death arrived, not in the form of an elderly man as I had presumed, but that of an eight-year-old boy. He approached me with his clean-cut hair, wearing a red shirt and an overall denim short. "Good day, Samael . . . Err. . . I mean Vincent. Did you call for me?"

"Azrael?" I raised an eyebrow. "Is that really you?"

The boy had an adorable smile. If death was always to look like this, then it wouldn't feel so bad to meet him. "Yes, it is I. It has been a long, long time since our meeting in your apartment."

"Y-Yes," I stuttered. "I mean. . . I didn't know you looked so . . . young."

"Death never dies, Vincent. It's the one constant thing in this world," the boy explained as he produced a pack of saturated bears. "Want some?"

"Ah! Still on the Gummy Bears, I see?"

"Oh, yes," Death answered. "I consume them now. They are truly delectable, but I still have the first batch you gave me, of course." He grabbed a handful from his pocket, and placed it on my hand. "Here."

I chuckled, for not only was it odd that Death had kept the bag that I gave him, but also the strange notion of a boy that young speaking so formal and fluent. "Thank you." I swallowed the bunch in one gulp. "But do tell me, why did you keep it?"

"It is a gift from you, Vincent, and gifts are meant to be kept."

I couldn't resist it. I kneeled on one leg and patted the boy's head. "Then you are very welcome."

Azrael bowed. "I owe you a debt of gratitude. If there is anything that you require, you have only but to ask."

Soon I remembered what I summoned him for. "Oh, Azrael. Actually, there is one little favor I hope you can grant."

"And what is that, Vincent?" the Angel of Death asked, munching away on his candies.

After finally deciding upon it, I answered. "I wish you to take my life. . ." I said, slowly, "in exchange for the life of a friend, a small girl called Dani."

Death began to ponder deeply on my unusual request. "Ah! I see. You speak of the Chosen One? The Reincarnated Christ? The one they call Faithful and True?"

I nodded. "Yes."

"Hmm. . . But a life for a life? It's not every day I get something like that."

"But is it possible?" I asked, hopeful. "Can you do it?"

The boy took another handful from his pocket. This batch was the sort shaped in worms, and so he munched away. "My task is to assist the lost souls back to the Over-Soul, and ironically, despite my grim title, I also assist the reincarnated souls back to the living world. Now for your queer request, it is possible, but I am not certain if I can bring her back completely as she was."

"What do you mean?"

"Memories may be purged, or something else may change. I cannot know until it is done."

There was no hesitation. "Do it."

The boy replied with a mouthful of colors. "Are you certain?"

I smiled. "This is the Reincarnated Christ we're talking about. She can handle it. I trust her."

Then, Azrael stared blankly, stared for almost an eternity to give the answer, until finally, he resumed. "It is done."

I furrowed my brow. "That quick?"

The boy raised an eyebrow. "Who do you think you're talking to?"

To my glee and the boy's surprise, I embraced him, so tight that he was about to run out of breath, for in all my existence, I have never felt such joy until that very moment. "Thank you, Azrael. Thank you."

"V-Vincent. . ." he muttered, patting me on the back. "I-I can't breathe!"

I released him, to his relief. "I'm sorry. It's just... You made me such a happy man, Azrael."

"You are very welcome," Death answered, smiling. "Truly it is rare to witness a man who welcomes his own death, but I do believe the happiest ones are those who do."

"So do I."

After cleaning himself up with his handkerchief, the boy called Death offered a hand. "Shall we then?" he said, cheerful and polite. "It's going to be a lengthy ride."

I took his hand. "Yes. I am."

"You sure are one of a kind, Lucifer," said Wormwood, sitting on the floor with his back to a pillar. "It's finally farewell, is it?"

"No, Wormwood," I answered, pulling a cigarette from my pocket. As I did countless times before, I inhaled all the breath in the world, and a spark formed at the tip of the cig, one last time. "It is not farewell, but rather, I'll see you in the next life, my friend. I'll see you in the next life."

A light engulfed the whole of Heaven, a majestic glow unlike any other, and from that moment on, nothing was ever to be the same again.

A brave new world awaits us.

EPILOGUE

Hey Dumb-Dumb!

How're you? It's been a year now since you and Ritcher left. Things are different now, I guess. Mom's finally moved on. She's seeing someone now. He's a good guy. Looks a lot like you actually. It kinda gets strange over dinner, but at least she's not calling me every freakin' hour anymore. And yeah, I have a cat now. Her name's Lilith. I know she's not a normal cat, but she's really fun to have around. Why? 'Coz she can talk, that's why, I mean really talk. We go ghost huntin' sometimes around the old building. Pretty neat to have someone like her around. Oh! Speaking of ghosts, this spirit called Aka Manto moved to our school. He lurks in the old toilet rooms. Scares the shit out of the brothers and the staff. Really funny guy.

And my new tutor's cool too. The name's Father Henry. He visits every week. My mom worships the guy. She probably thinks I'm possessed or something. If only she knew how a drunkard that guy is. But yeah, he's okay, if he's not falling asleep on the bed, that is. The snoring oaf. He teaches me a lot of stuff. Demon lore and all that shit. Sometimes he takes me to one of his exorcisms. Pretty rad.

Hmm . . . As for my powers, well, they're gone. Can't hear any voices anymore, or make anything move with my head. But heck, I think it's for the best. Fuck the migraines and all. But there is this one guy who can move things. His name's Romulus. Met him at the park. Yeah, it's an ugly name. Turns out Lilith also knew him. Brought me to this club for sissies. The Last Days or something like that. Good music though. As for the owner, he's a fat hairy guy. They call him Old Sam. He's kind of weird, but he gives me chocolates every time I visit.

Hey, now that I mention it, you still owe me, right? Ha!

So, yeah, that's it. Actually, this is homework for English Writ. Teacher told me to write a letter for someone. I told her nobody writes fucking letters anymore, but heck, school will be school.

Whatever. She's going to read this anyway.

PS: Almost forgot, I dyed my hair green now.

Until next time,

Dani

## CHARACTERS

(In order of appearance)

Vincent R. Pines

Software Engineer

Lucifer Morningstar

The Light Bearer

Former Ruler of Hell

Rebecca

Interviewer

Azrael

Angel of Death

Ritcher

Software Engineer

Beelzebub the Lord of Flies

Michelle

Waitress

Father Henry Lim

Priest and Exorcist

Drunkard

Lilith the XIV

Succubus

Servant of House Morningstar

Russel and Jess

Software Engineers

Colleagues

Metatron

The Voice of God

Samyaza

Old Sam

Father of First Nephilim

Kyoko/Romulus/Remus

Nephilims

Danielle "Dani" Williams

Student Outcast

The Reincarnated Christ

Mary Williams/Mary's Mother

Dani's Relatives

Michael

Archangel of God

Slayer of the Enemy

Peter Popoff

"Fake" Healer

Nancy

Project Manager

Gossip Hoarder

Wormwood

Neutral Angel

Collector of Souls

Aka Manto

Japanese Water Spirit

Mrs. Emerson

Chinese Landlady

Mammon

Demon of Greed

Current Ruler of Hell

Raphael

Odin the All-Father

Bishop and Healer

Echidna

The Mother of Monsters

Keeper of the Dark Forest

## AUTHOR'S NOTES

Thank you, readers. If you happen to like this book, please share with your friends. Spread the word. And if you have spare time, kindly rate/review at Goodreads. Link is below:

 https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/22673656-conversations-with-the-light-bearer

PS: I'm also looking for an artist for a graphic novel collaboration. Email me at villanjap@gmail.com if you're interested. Cheers! Til next time!

## ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Justin Villanueva is a Filipino writer of English novels and comics. He is the author of the political and corporate satire, Chaos Panzer, set in an alternate world Philippines, as well as the recently published religious satire, Conversations with the Light Bearer. He also acts as writer and colorist of Soupheads, a free comic strip at Deviantart dealing with corporate and pop culture humor. He lives with his loving wife, Joann, and his very handsome kid, Julian Drake.

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To wrap things up, here's Issue 5 from Soupheads. Enjoy!

Follow the motley crew at http://studiojap.deviantart.com/

