The Angel of Death

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Before I really knew what had woken me up, I was already braced in a fighting stance, pointing my dagger at whatever threat had woken me.

It was a person. They were taller than me by a good six or seven inches, and dressed in a dark charcoal grey suit with a brown leather jacket open over top. He had a belt wrapped around his waist and gun holsters at his hips. There was a red emblem on his chest that looked like a cross between a bat and bird, all sharp angles and straight lines. It matched the red helmet he wore. It covered his whole head, with narrow slits for eyes.

"What the Ha- hell are you supposed to be?" I asked, heart pounding. I had caught myself at the last moment, barely remembering to use regular mortal lingo rather than the Gods' names.

The man held out his gloved hands in a gesture of placating submission. "I'm not gonna hurt you," he rumbled in a low voice, not muffled in the slightest through his helmet.

I narrowed my eyes. "Then why the hell are you dressed like that? Don't think I can't see your guns." And I could see them, shiny silver handguns nestled in the holsters half covered by his jacket.

He sighed and dropped his hands. He took a half-step closer, but backed away again when I raised my dagger. "Don't think I won't stick this thing into your rib cage so hard your heart'll pop like a freaking balloon," I spat.

The man chuckled. "I imagine you could," he said. "What are you doing out here? Your home must be missing you." I noticed how he carefully worded his sentence to leave out terms like 'family' or 'parents'.

I rolled my eyes. "I don't have a home. Happy? Now can I go back to sleep? I'm tired." Despite my words, I didn't make any effort to lower my blade or relax my stance.

The man tilted his head. I mirrored the action. I had been so hyped up on adrenaline-fuelled autopilot that I hadn't noticed at first, but this person's soul was... off.

Every living thing's soul is different, but they all share a primary element. The closest thing I can describe it as is being a blank piece of paper. Everyone's paper is a different colour, which I think of as their 'essence', their sense of self, personality, whatever you call it. As the person gets closer to their death, the paper crumples, for lack of better metaphor, little by little until they die.

But this man's soul was like a paper that had been crumpled and smoothed out, so that it was flat but still creased all over. I only felt that kind of soul in one person before. Hazel. Hazel, who had died and came back to life.

I quirked an eyebrow up. "Ever died before?" I asked. The man stiffened. His fingers spasmed, like they wanted to curl into a fist.

"If I had, I wouldn't be alive, would I?" He asked. I hummed.

"That's arguable," I said. "Not everyone who dies stays dead, right?" I grinned. "Now if you'll excuse me, there are still a few hours of darkness left, and I'd like to make the most of them. Asleep." I retreated back to my little cove of dryness, now dripping from the rain that was still pattering gently from the sky. I sat down, wincing a little at the dull throbbing in my ankle.

"If you need somewhere to stay, there are shelters, or–"

"If I needed somewhere to stay, wouldn't I be there already?" I retorted, annoyed at his persistence. "Just leave me alone. I'm perfectly content right here for now, and not in the mood to be accosted by dressed-up anti-heroes." I layed back down, using my bag as a pillow again. I turned my back to the man, hand still clutched to my dagger just in case.

He sighed. I heard a 'whoosh' and the distant sound of feet hitting the next building's roof, then the next, until he was gone.

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