Pursuit of truth led Azazel and his remaining friends to the town jail.

A wooden façade guarded the front entrance, but a mere look around the corner revealed most of the building was made of red bricks. The windows were barely large enough to peer through and were crisscrossed with steel bars.

Inside, a mix of aromas greeted them. First came the stinging stench of a room which had been cleaned recently with far too much bleach in a desperate attempt to remove an even worse smell. Behind that was the hint of strong alcohol and stomach fluid. Finally, the choking odor of tobacco smoke.

A woman clad in a white tunic, and a black leather bustier and pants sat cross-legged in a chair on the other side of a redwood desk. She held in her teeth a pipe, from which the offending smoke rose in gray plumes. With fingerless gloves upon her hands, she cleaned a rifle on her desk. Attached to the front of her bustier, where her chest met her shoulder, was a copper shield with the word “sheriff” etched into it.

When Azazel and his friends entered, the sheriff set down her rifle and removed the pipe from her teeth. She looked up at Azazel with dark eyes, which searched him as if looking upon the scene of a crime. “Whaddaya want?” she asked.

Azazel was a little taken aback at her rudeness, especially to an angel, but he decided it best to leave it alone. “We wish to speak to a prisoner. The one who drew a dagger in the temple earlier.” He caught his eyes drifting down to her cleavage, but immediately jerked his gaze back up to her eyes.

The sheriff stood from her chair and picked up her rifle again. “More questioning? The shit must have made quite an impression.” As the sheriff walked by, Azazel did the best he could to avoid allowing his eyes to linger on her round back-side, so well-flattered in her leather trousers. She led them over to a flight of stairs leading down into the dark cells. The sheriff lit a lantern hanging on the wall, casting flickering light and shadows down the short hallway.

Two cells stood on either side of the hall. In the first one on the right lay the priestess, asleep (or, possibly, unconscious) on her cot. In the cell furthest on the left sat the young man with white hair.

Azazel gestured for his friends to stay at the base of the stairs with the sheriff, then approached the last cell on the left. “Tell me your name,” he ordered.

The white-haired young man looked up at Azazel, his eyes sharp as razor-blades. “Why?”

Azazel frowned and crossed his arms. “Because I told you to. Do you really need more?”

He stared at Azazel for several moments before finally saying, “Venali.”

“Venali,” Azazel repeated. “Back at the temple, you mentioned—”

“I know for a fact she’s consorted with demons!” Venali interrupted. “And I’ve already given my testimony.”

“That’s not what I was about to ask,” said Azazel. “Though, I am curious how you can be so sure.”

Venali groaned and leaned his head against the wall behind him. “I saw it. Saw an incubus leave her house late at night. He was wearing a black cloak to hide, but I saw his tail.”

Azazel grunted. “Are you sure of what you saw? You said it was late at night… And you say it was an incubus? You really think the priestess would risk everything for a roll in the hay with a demon?”

Venali scoffed. “I don’t know what kind of deal they made. Maybe it was just shagging. Or maybe he offered her money and power too. All I know is, some folks from the village knew a stranger had been coming and going from her house late at night, and I went to investigate. Sure enough, found out her visitor was a demon.”

“Were there tracks on the ground?” Azazel asked. “Cloven hoofprints?”

Venali rolled his eyes. “Incubi have feet like humans. They don’t leave hoofprints.”

“Right…” Azazel wrung his hands. “Why didn’t you go after the demon?”

“What?”

“You said you saw the demon leaving her house. Why didn’t you go after him?”

“Oh… Metorael sent an angel to deal with him.”

That made sense. Few humans could handle a fight with a demon one on one. “That leads me to my next question; is Metorael here?”

Venali shrugged. “Not in town, but also not far.”

“Where?” Azazel pressed.

Venali looked up at him with a skeptical brow. “I don’t know you, so I’m not tellin’.”

“Why is he here?” Azazel asked. “I can’t imagine he came down from the heavenly cities because a priestess took a lover.”

Venali folded his arms. “Like I said, I don’t know you.”

Azazel banged his fist on Venali’s bars. “Damn you, sir! I am Azazel, an angel of Seth, and King of Tir Shazelle. In the name of the god of justice you will answer my questions!”

“Anyone can invoke the gods’ names.” Venali spat.

Azazel beat the bars again. “Tell me! Why is Metorael here?”

“Go sod yourself!”

Upstairs, the door burst open, and the floorboards creaked under heavy footsteps. Beams splintered, and all parties turned as an armored boot crunched down on the first stair.

Ember fled from the sheriff’s side to Azazel’s. The Knight of Thorns and Neji both backed away from the staircase but kept their hands on their weapons.

On the toes of the armored boots were short, curved blades, one with dried blood upon it. The figure’s legs were covered in gold-colored armor, and a blood red kilt draped over them. The stranger’s torso was bare, and more densely muscled than nigh any man Azazel had ever seen. His jaw was square, shaven, and stern. His eyes glowed bright gold, and his shoulder-length hair shone white. From his back spread six red-feathered wings, each with a blue, blinking eye above the joint.

Azazel gently pulled Ember behind him. The Knight of Thorns and Neji backed away from the seraphim as he approached. The six-winged angel towered over all of them, his head nearly touching the ceiling.

Breathless, Azazel muttered, “Metorael…”

The looming seraphim turned his burning eyes to the sheriff. “Release the zealot,” he commanded in a deep voice. “Now.”

The sheriff scrambled over to Venali’s cell and fumbled for her keys. The keyring fell from her hand and crashed on the stone floor. Her whole body still trembling, she bent down, picked up the keys again, and struggled to get them to the lock on the cell door.

The door slid open, and Venali emerged with a triumphant smile on his face. He brushed past the sheriff and took a knee before Metorael. “My master.”

“My faithful servant,” Metorael responded. He gestured with one hand for the zealot to rise, and Venali did as he was bid. Metorael pointed to the priestess in her cell. “Is she the traitor?”

“Yes, master,” said Venali. “I saw her demon lover with my own eyes.”

Metorael turned his attention to the sheriff. “Wake her.”

“Y-yes, master.” The sheriff stumbled over to the cell and scrabbled with the keys again until she got the door open. She produced a small vial from her pocket, uncorked it, and held the opening underneath the priestess’ nose.

The priestess awoke with a startled, sharp, inward breath, and sat up on her cot.

Metorael brushed the sheriff aside and ducked his head to enter the cell. The priestess stared up at him with wide eyes and a pale face. Her whole body trembled as if she were naked in a blizzard. Sweat glistened on her forehead.

“Mother Malina,” Metorael began, “I, the Archangel of Montu, sentence you to die.”

The priestess dashed for the door, but Metorael’s great hand seized her by the face and forced her back, against the wall. His fingers wrapped around her head, and his palm crushed her nose.

“Wait!” Azazel cried out. “You’re just going to take Venali’s word for it?” He ran to the cell and stood at Metorael’s side. “What if it wasn’t a demon he saw that night?”

Metorael’s nostrils flared and he turned his burning eyes to Azazel. The younger angel felt his legs go weak from under him, and he fell to his knees. “Do not interfere.” Metorael growled.

“Please! Mercy!” the priestess begged.

Metorael said nothing as white flames surrounded his hand. The priestess’ hair caught fire, and the scream that escaped her throat would haunt Azazel’s nightmares for years to come. The smell of burning hair and melting flesh filled the young angel’s nostrils, and he forced himself to look away. Sweat dripped down from Azazel’s nose and fingertips as the priestess’ blazing body proved a fantastic fuel.

Finally, the screams stopped, and Azazel heard the clatter of bones collapsing onto the ground.

“Dear gods…” he heard the Knight of Thorns utter.

Neji made a retching sound.

Ember wept and sobbed.

When Azazel dared to look at Metorael again he saw that the seraphim still held the priestess’ jawless skull in his enormous hand. At his feet lay the priestess’ cremated remains. Metorael turned his fiery eyes to Azazel and the skull slipped from his fingers into the remains below. “Never,” Metorael’s voice boomed, “stand between me and my enemies again.”