My first thought upon meeting Ophiel was that he was very out of place.

I was hanging out in Storm, the cheapest club downtown, leaning against the bar and wishing that I was a girl.  Man, girls had it easy.  They just smile and guys are lining up to buy them drinks, and all they have to do to flirt is to look pretty.  How hard could that be?

But for guys like me, we’re expected to act like we’re made of money, buying drinks, breaking into conversations with strangers, and risking those same drinks coming back in our face when we suggest adjourning to someplace more private.

Yep, guys have it so much harder.

And given that the current balance of my bank account was somewhere between fifteen and twenty-five dollars, I had it much harder than most.

This thought kept on intruding into my thoughts as I stared at the pretty girls and better-equipped guys that surrounded me.  I had to be careful here.  I could only afford a couple of the insanely overpriced drinks, and I had to pick my targets carefully.

My thoughts were interrupted, however, when I spotted the young man pushing his way through the crowed, attempting and failing to head towards the bar.  He was dressed in what looked like some sort of frat guy toga getup, and was wearing an expression suggesting he’d just suckled a lemon.  He appeared to be muttering something under his breath as he was buffeted back and forth between people in the crowd.

He looked to be heading right towards me, and I wondered whether I should be concerned.  He had clean-cut blonde hair and a face that looked classically handsome, a bit like he’d stepped out of an old oil painting.  Despite this, however, the muttering was making me doubt his sanity.  Crazy came in all shapes and sizes, I knew.

He was still determined to get to the bar, however, and as he drew closer, I began to catch snippets of what he was saying.  “Demote me down to guardian?” he was saying to himself, and also unintentionally to everyone within a three foot radius.  “How dare they!  There must have been some mix up with my papers.  I belong in an office!  Not in the field!”

Finally, the blonde man managed to reach the bar, pushing in next to me.  I half expected some of the other fellows next to me to complain about his shoving, but they seemed strangely unbothered by this newcomer, wrapped in what looked suspiciously like a white bed sheet, intruding on their space.  The golden-haired man flopped his arms down on the bar, sighed – and then turned to me.

He didn’t speak at first, but his eyes ran up and down me, blatantly checking me out.  I tried to ignore it for the first couple seconds, but that glance was incredibly obvious.  I had to say something.

“I’m sorry,” I said, deciding to take a less aggressive tack at first.  “I’m flattered, but I don’t go that way.”

The other man blinked at me.  “Listen, I’m not happy about this either,” he said back to me.  His voice was strangely melodious, as if there was a flute playing behind each of his words.  “But I can’t do anything about it – or I’d already be out of here.”

This was getting weirder.  I began to consider leaving the club, just trying to get away.  But I had already paid the very steep cover choice, and I wasn’t forfeiting those seven dollars just because some crazy decided that he was attracted to me.  “Why not go for that guy, then?” I asked, pointing off haphazardly down the bar.  “I’m sure he’s a much better option.”

The golden-haired man glanced down the bar in the direction I had indicated, and then sighed loudly.  “Wish I could,” he said, sounding genuinely regretful.  “But I’m stuck with you.”

I was already doing my best to tune him out.  A girl in the middle of the dance floor had just caught my eye – she was smiling, looked very cute, and from the half-full beer she was sloshing around, was definitely already fairly drunk.  And when I made eye contact with her, her grin widened.  I was in.

“Whoa, I wouldn’t do that!” the golden-haired man beside me cried out as I started to head into the dance floor.

I didn’t stop, but tried to ignore him and keep walking.  Screw this guy!  What did he know?

Author’s note: this is a small section of a novel I’m considering writing.  More to come!

Blake stared at the man sitting across from him.  As if attempting to provide the right ambiance, the light bulbs in the restaurant flickered.  It was, he had to admit, very menacing.

“So you’re the devil,” he said, not sure whether he was awed or horrified.  It really was a mixture of both.  “Lucifer.”

He had to admit, the man didn’t look that intimidating.  Like most of the devils he had met, he was sprouting a small pair of horns from his forehead, but they were quite petite, barely noticeable beneath his bangs.  He had blonde hair, trimmed loosely, and he wore a white robe.  He definitely wasn’t nearly as menacing as Hastur had appeared.

Lucifer shook his head as he reached for his glass of wine.  “I still can’t get used to that name,” he remarked in a mild tone.  “I know it’s been changed from Lucern for a few million years, but it still sounds odd to me.”  He took a sip of the wine, grimaced, and then spat it back into the glass.

“You know, you don’t seem that intimidating,” Blake remarked.  He wasn’t quite sure what to say.  What in the world does one say to Satan himself?

Lucifer glanced down at himself, and then shrugged again.  He really did seem quite calm.  “I’ve basically given up on the whole thing,” he admitted.  “Sure, Hastur loves the whole ‘stomping around with spiky boots and yelling’ bit, but what does it really matter, in the end?  I’m not going to get promoted out of this bit.  There’s really no reason for me to try any more.”

As Blake processed this, trying to figure out what to say next, Lucifer raised up a hand, waving at one of the waitresses as she passed by.  “Do you think I could get a vegetable platter?” he asked politely.  The woman nodded, her eyes going wide as she took in the robe and horns, and then went scurrying off towards the kitchens with a fake “meep.”

Blake tried to reclaim control of the conversation.  “So you really don’t want to invade Heaven,” he pressed.

“Invade?”  Lucifer looked totally surprised.  “Why in the world would I want to do that?  Sure, they’ve got a better view than my current place, but I would totally be downgrading in terms of size.”  He leaned across the table, waving the wine glass at Blake in a conspiratorial manner.  “You should see the size of my pad,” he confided.  “It’s literally twice the size of Gabriel’s.  I know, I was invited over for a house-warming party once, before the whole, you know, Fall thing.  And I’ve got one of those, er, those things.”  Lucifer looked confused for a moment, gesturing with the glass.  “With the jets, and the bubbles.”

“A Jacuzzi?”

“That’s the one!  Man, you humans are really creative that way.  Jets of hot water, never would have thought of that.  Really, you owe me a favor for that meteor strike.”

This seemed like a total non sequitor, but Blake tried to stay on topic.  “So no plans to invade Heaven,” he repeated.

Lucifer took another sip of the wine, and then promptly spat it out again.  “Why do I keep on doing that?” he asked, more to himself than towards Blake.  “No, no plans of the sort.  Listen, we’re basically just a holding tank.  Souls come in, the demons play with them a bit, and then they go away.  It’s a pretty standard operation.  Works well, turns a decent profit, they keep telling me, no need for growth.”  He glanced around the restaurant, perhaps wondering where his vegetables were.

A minute later, before Blake could speak again, the waitress returned, her trembling hands bearing a plate of grilled vegetables.  Lucifer’s eyes lit up, and he immediately picked up a spear of grilled asparagus with one hand.  “Oh, this is the stuff,” he said enthusiastically as he took a bite.  “Really top-notch, you guys.”

The human sitting across the table from Lucifer felt that he could probably ask more questions, but his intuition was telling him that it was going to be a waste of time.  The leader of Hell wasn’t behind this.

Of course, he was known as the Father of Lies, but somehow, Blake couldn’t see anyone being this good of a liar.  Currently, the fallen angel was attempting to cram Brussels sprouts into his mouth with every sign of enjoyment.  That was not the move of a master manipulator.

“Listen, thank you for taking the time to have dinner with me, really,”  Blake said, rising up to his feet.  When he glanced towards the restaurant’s nearest window, he briefly caught a glimpse of Ophiel’s face – his guardian angel was sticking close, checking in on him.  “But I think I’m going to take off.”

Lucifer looked up at him, his mouth full but his eyes questioning.  “I hope I didn’t offend,” he managed to choke out through the vegetables.

“No, no,” Blake hurried to reassure him.  “I just think you’re innocent, and we need to figure out who’s planning an attack, and what it might be.  Remember, stolen astral devices and all?”

“Oh yeah,” Satan nodded.  “I didn’t realize we had mortals working on that, but yes, nose to the grindstone.  Not literally, of course.  Hastur tried that once and it was very messy.  But keep at it.  That’s a good fellow.”

Blake rolled his eyes as he headed out of the restaurant.  The more he learned about Heaven and Hell, he thought to himself, the more certain he grew that God was just playing some sort of big joke on everyone.  “How many layers of bureaucracy can you make before nothing at all gets done?” he asked himself out loud.

“Sorry, what?”  Ophiel had appeared next to him, looking worried.  “So, any leads?  Is Lucifer behind this?”

The young mortal man shook his head.  “Don’t think so,” he replied.  “We’ll have to keep looking…”

Author’s note: So, I’ve been considering the idea of taking all of my Angels stories and compiling them into a collection or book of some sort.  They are my favorite to write.  Unfortunately, I’d need a central theme to tell, even with little asides or stand-alone stories.  Hmm.

As Sariel drifted slowly along, he wondered if he would get in trouble if he did the next lap with his eyes closed.

He probably would, he eventually decided.  But, just like on the last seven million laps, the idea was tempting.  If he could walk this route with his eyes closed, he could give that whole sleeping thing a try.  Of course, no angel had ever managed to fall asleep, but that didn’t stop Sariel from wanting to attempt it.  And what if he did manage to fall asleep?  He’d be famous!

Still with his eyes open, Sariel turned around the next corner, passing by the Salt Pillar of Heavenly Wrath.  To his eyes, it looked like any other pillar of salt.  Apparently it had once been some woman of vague importance.  In Sariel’s eyes, that fact would be a lot more apparent if someone went at the pillar with a chisel for a few hours.

In truth, Sariel just wanted an escape from this job.  Initially, a few thousand years ago, the job had sounded perfect.  Guard the Vaults of Heaven!  Protect the most powerful treasures in existence!  Repel the hordes of demon invaders!

In the entire time that Sariel had been employed as a guard for the Vaults of Heaven, he hadn’t even seen an imp, much less an invading demon horde.  That had really been false advertising, he grumbled to himself.

Sariel was now approaching the Astral Wing of the Vaults, where the gadgets tended to be smaller and covered with lots of spikes.  These devices were designed for bridging the gap between the astral planes, allowing the bearer access to the different realms.  They were also very, very illegal, and thus were promptly confiscated from any being who came to possess one(1).

Of course, like any angel, Sariel did a good job at his job.  It went against every fibre of his being to do otherwise.  He was assigned to this job, and he was going to do it well.  He still kept up the vague hope that he’d get a promotion.  Unfortunately, that avenue didn’t seem to be panning out either.

At his last performance review (that had been what, eight hundred years ago?), he had shifted uncomfortably in the seat across the desk from his superior, Razakael.  His superior was scrutinizing him over a pair of silver half-moon glasses.

Razakael didn’t need glasses, of course.  All the angels had perfect vision.  But he had seen humans use them to project an air of dominance, and he thought they made him look more like a proper supervisor.

“So, Sariel,” he finally spoke up.  “How long has it been since your last review?”

“One thousand years,” the other angel replied.  Angels were designed to respond well to authority, and Razakael was definitely the superior.  The fourth syllable in his name showed that.  “Give or take a few months.”

“Well, I’m a very busy angel,” Razakael replied, trying to brush away the second half of that comment.  He really wasn’t.  He spent most of his time sitting with his feet up on his desk, attempting to throw his halo over various objects in his office.  But he couldn’t let Sariel know that.

“Looking over your report,” he went on, “I don’t see a single report of a demon being repelled from the Vaults, much less a horde.”

Sariel shrugged uncomfortably.  Angels weren’t really built to shrug, but it was such a useful expression, they’d adapted it almost immediately.  “There haven’t been any demons attacking the Vaults, though!” he protested.  “I can’t repel demon attackers if there aren’t any!”

Razakael wasn’t going to give in to mere logic.  “The conditions are clear, Sariel,” he insisted.  “I can’t give you a promotion unless you repel demons.  And you haven’t repelled any demon attackers, so I can’t promote you.  Those are the rules.”

In his seat, Sariel slumped slightly.  The rules.  They didn’t always work out, but he couldn’t disobey the rules – to do so would be anathema to everything he was.  “I understand,” he said in a glum tone.

His boss rose up from his seat behind the desk to walk him out of the office.  “Perk up, Sariel,” Razakael said, not unkindly, giving the lesser angel a pat on the shoulder.  “You never know when a demon horde might be around the corner.  Maybe next time.”

Sariel nodded as he stepped out through the doorway, but he didn’t have high hopes.  And now, with only two hundred years until his next review, he still hadn’t seen a single hint of a demon.  Just aisles and aisles of dusty artifacts.

As he’d considered this, Sariel had been making his way through the plinths and shelves in the Astral Wing, past row after row of little devices that hadn’t been touched in thousands of years.  Perhaps if another angel was demoted low enough, he’d be sent down here to dust, and Sariel would have some company.

But something wasn’t quite right.  Sariel paused, his nose rising up in the air a little like a bloodhound(2).  He had patrolled this way millions of times, and he had long since memorized every single aspect of the route.  But this time, something wasn’t right.  Something was out of place.

Sariel’s eyes scrolled over the shelves, across the little gizmos and gadgets.  As he searched for whatever was different, he had to sigh.  No wonder this wing didn’t draw any visitors – the layout was appalling!  Most of the objects were piled on the shelves with no real sense of order.  And while the Salt Pillar of Heavenly Wrath at least had a small little placard at its base to tell inquisitive admirers about when and where it had been created through Divine Providence.  These objects weren’t even in labeled.

Finally, Sariel’s questing eyes settled on what was wrong.  On one of the shelves, there was a small circle lacking dust, a single little clean spot in the midst of the other discarded objects.  And that little circle hadn’t been there before.

The angel squatted down, bending over until his thin nose was only an inch or so from the little circle of cleanliness.  He took a long sniff, inhaling in through his nostrils until his lungs were full – again, not unlike a bloodhound.

There was definitely a hint of sulfur in the air.  And that meant demons.

Standing back up, Sariel reached down to his belt and grasped the handle of his flaming sword.  As a guard angel, he had been issued the standard angel sidearm.  Of course, it hadn’t left its scabbard a single time before this in the course of his job, and he had to grunt and yank at it a bit before it finally slid free.  But it still sprang into flaming life as he drew it out, blazing up in a plethora of red and orange.

Sariel grinned.  This was his chance to prove himself.  He was finally going to get to go after a demon!

But as he dashed up and down the aisles, he saw no sign of any demonic presence.  His nose told him that there had definitely been a demon at the site of the missing artifact.  But it must have simply popped in, snatched the device, and immediately leapt back out.  Sariel had missed his chance to finally try out his smiting skills.

As quickly as his good mood had set in, the pleasant feelings vanished.  The tip of Sariel’s flaming sword dropped back down to the ground, leaving a small char mark on the floor of the Vault.  This meant that Sariel had failed in his guard duties.  And now he would have to report to Razakael that a demon had managed to make off with an artifact.

What had the demon felt was worth stealing, anyway?  Sariel turned his attention back to the little circle, trying to recall what had sat there.  Slowly, his mind filled in a picture of a little disc, deeply tarnished and covered with small, ornate carvings.  It seemed harmless enough.  There weren’t even any spikes(3).

When Sariel made his report to Razakael, however, his supervisor turned pale, and those silver half-moon glasses slipped all the way off his face face to clatter onto the desk.  “Are you certain?” he gasped, his fingers tightening on the scroll with Sariel’s description of the artifact.  “Are you completely sure that this is what’s missing?”

Sariel nodded, not sure what all the fuss was about.  “It’s just an astral shifting device, isn’t it?” he asked.  “And I’m sure we’ve tagged its signature.  Can’t we just trace it and get it back?”

Razakael was already clambering up out of his seat.  “No.  Yes.  Maybe.  Look, it’s very important that we recover this immediately!  Do you understand?”

Sariel also stood up, although he wasn’t quite sure why.  He’d never seen his boss so agitated.  “So I should head down and see if I can get this traced?” he asked, unable to keep a note of hope out of his voice.  This would be his first time out of the Vault in millennia, and he was quite looking forward to it.  He had a demon to hunt down, an artifact to retrieve, and a chance for some fresh air!  He should have let a demon come in and snatch something centuries ago.

Before he could move towards the exit, however, Razakael shook his head.  “This is bigger than you, now,” he said.  “You’re going to follow me.  We have to call in a strike team.  This is way beyond what either of us can handle.”

This sounded serious.  “This artifact,” Sariel asked, as he followed his boss out of his office and along the white corridors of Heaven.  “It’s important?  Dangerous?”

Razakael nodded.  “Oh yes,” he replied.  “More than you can imagine.”

(1) Given that these devices were illegal, Sariel was never quite sure why they were being displayed in the Vaults of Heaven, and not simply destroyed.  He supposed that perhaps they were intended to impart some sort of lesson.  They were not a popular exhibit.

(2) Having been stuck on guard duty in the Vaults of Heaven for the last few millenia, Sariel didn’t know what a bloodhound was.  Even if he did, he would have been very offended by this comparison.  Despite his objections, however, it was an apt comparison.

(3) Most of these artifacts had been created by demons, attempting to find a way to break into Heaven for some underhanded scheme.  In the mind of a demon, everything was made more ferocious through the addition of spikes.  The sight of a demonic toilet was enough to give anyone nightmares.