Hellfire ✞ a.f.i.

7: angel numbers

Tell it to me slowly
Tell you what
I really wanna know
It's the time of the season for loving

Time of the Season; The Zombies

Michael felt incompetent. The feeling makes his skin crawl. It reminds him of how he used to be: the version of himself that he hoped to never revisit, nor reincarnate. He decided early that morning, well before the lurker danced with his best friend at that damned rooftop bar, that he was going to attempt to ease this feeling back into a deep hibernation.

         Eden never asked many questions—and if she truly knew herself, she never would have to ask again—and it wasn't a total lie. He would return with groceries at some point, but he had a few different errands to run first.

         He had to see if it was still there, where they had told him it was so many years ago.

         Of course, there are many entrances to hell—the wide path and whatnot—but the one outside Vegas was known to all Heavenly Host and Fallen alike. Most members of the Host stayed clear of all entrances, protecting their charges without ever needing to expose their wings, their true natures to those they protect. However, it was starting to become clear to Michael that this scenario may not be completely reliable. The prickling heat on the back of his neck hasn't acted up since he was purified; it could not be a coincidence that it has been a bother to him for almost two weeks.

         The feeling is, however, less intense this particular morning. He has written Eden a note, which explains his absence concisely, accompanying a grocery list for believability, providing him plenty of time for his mission. While his precious Genesis remains asleep, Michael, silent as a desert mouse, creeps up the stairs to the roof of their apartment. He opens the door (with only an insignificant creak in response) and steps out onto the open space.

         The lavender sky tinted with the tiniest bit of sun welcomes him. Las Vegas has yet to wake up. The neon and the lights and the fluorescence remain, but the people lay dormant. He notes how still the air is, how quiet the city of sin is, and how eerily this makes his stomach twist into a knot.

         There's not much to make note of on the roof, to Michael's relief. However, does that confirm that someone or something has been up here on the days where the feeling had been worse? The knot tightens and he decides not to dwell on the question any longer as he watches the sun slowly rise above the Las Vegas skyline.

         The morning breeze picks up, ever so slightly, and in response, a small dark object floats slowly across the concrete roof into his peripheral view. Michael's pale green eyes flick in the direction of the shape in order to fully register what the object could be.

         The object drifts to a stop at the toes of his thick white boots.

         It's a shadowy gray feather.