Wings, Flings, and Demon Kings || COMPLETE

Chapter 15: Teach me

6:34 P.M.

Archangel Ramiel's residence

I still can't believe I did it, Diary.

Stabbed Belzifer in the neck, I mean.

It's a violation of one of the most basic rules of angel-kind:

Do no harm.

But oh, just you wait.

The story gets immeasurably worse.

6:40 P.M.

In retrospect, I'm shocked my plan worked. Belzifer was a full demon, his mana intact. I got lucky—probably because Belzifer had assumed I didn't believe in violence—and because I took him so thoroughly by surprise.

I hadn't killed him, of course. Just destroyed his human body and sent his spirit back to Hell.

But for the moment, that was enough.

Because the demon who'd just burst into the room was the exact person I wanted to see.

Azerath didn't seem to share my relief at Belzifer's defeat. He stared with horror at Belzifer's jugular—still spurting blood all over everything in range—and then, with even more horror, at me. Belatedly, I realized I was drenched in blood—both from my stab wounds and from Belzifer's now-spasming corpse. The supply closet looked like an Agatha Christie novel gone horribly wrong.

"Are you all right?" Azerath demanded.

I considered his question far longer than was necessary. As the minutes ticked by, my brain managed to arrive at one thought, which outshone all the other thoughts fluttering through my skull.

"I think," I said brightly, "I might be in shock."

Azerath did not seem impressed by my masterful skills at deduction. If anything, he looked more worried than ever. "Let's get you cleaned up."

Before I could protest, he scooped me up, not even sparing a parting glance for Belzifer's slowly cooling form. He frowned as he felt my soaked clothes. "Is any of this blood yours?"

I thought carefully. "Perhaps three sixteenths," I said, still pleased at how calm I sounded. "Or... hmm. Actually, maybe more like five twelfths?"

"Five twelfths?" Azerath picked up his pace, until he was almost jogging toward the elevator.

My head settled against his breastbone, and I inhaled his familiar scent of cedarwood and smoke. "Maybe not. Maybe it was one twenty-fifth—"

"Those numbers aren't even within the same order of magnitude!" Azerath's weight shifted to give his hands better access to the elevator button, and I whimpered as his wrist brushed my injured side. He removed his arm hurriedly.

Once inside his apartment, Azerath peeled away my sodden shirt and pants, his jaw tightening when he saw my injuries. Even naked, I was a mess, my front smeared with blood from Belizifer's body, my arms and right side peppered with slashes. Azerath lowered me into the bathtub and fiddled with the tap.

"Sanmu is coming to patch you up," he said. "He knows you were attacked; he sensed it with his mana while we were meeting with some legal consultants about my case. I kind of... bolted over here in a rush while he finished up the meeting. He should be here soon."

"Oh," I said. Then:

"Oh!"

I surged out of the bathtub so fast, I almost collided with Azerath. "Wait!" I gasped. "No, I don't need Sanmu here. I need to talk to you. I—"