Mavobella: The Angel Of Death

Chapter 8

A steady torrent of shivers ran down my spine. Not because I was scared, but because I was… bemused. “There are no humans on this island,” I muttered. I had read that in books, heard it in rumors, and dismissed it as fact. Yet, here it was—a sign, clear as day, that fresh human blood had been spilled. How had any human survived the treacherous hands of demons or the wrath of malevolent angels?

I frowned, wondering how I hadn't sensed it earlier. No human aura could escape my radar. Demons had sharper senses than casual angels, and judging by the way every demon in Caketopia was staring at me, they could smell the blood too. The tiny droplet on the scrap of paper between my fingers might as well have been a beacon.

Whoever left this was smart. If this tiny drop of blood had attracted so much attention, how was the human still alive? This island held mysteries within mysteries, and I was ready to crack each one—especially if it led to answers I needed.

“What are you looking at?” I growled, my tattoos rippling and becoming visible, a silent warning. Some demons, who had taken human form, quickly averted their gazes, returning to their cakes. Others, who had been glaring at me from the window, quietly took their leave. Rumors about me had spread, exaggerated enough to buy me a little peace from prying eyes. The remaining gawkers were quickly scattered by Nicole’s timely entrance.

“What are you doing with human blood?” she demanded, pulling me out of the audience’s line of sight and into a side room I had barely noticed, its color blending with the gray walls.

I handed her the scrap. “Someone left me this. I think they want me to find them.”

Nicole didn’t even look at it. She could sense it from a distance. With a dismissive gesture, she crumpled the paper and flicked it into the nearby fire.

“There are no humans on this island,” she said flatly, confirming my suspicion. There were humans—one, maybe more—who had somehow managed to fly under the radar. “And by the way, you’re in the wrong uniform.”

I blinked. “What?”

Nicole pointed to a chef dressed in white, covered in flour. Only then did I take in my surroundings—the kitchen, steel tables lined with cakes, steaming cookies, and chefs bustling about.

For a moment, the surreal nature of it all hit me. Here I was, a being created to harvest souls and exact divine judgment, standing in the middle of a bakery kitchen where the air smelled of vanilla and sugar. The contrast between my purpose and the domestic scene around me was almost laughable.

But before I could push the thought further, I remembered the blood. “Wait, how do you explain the blood?” I demanded, my voice low but sharp.

Nicole’s face remained impassive, though I noticed a flicker of something in her eyes—discomfort, maybe. “That was a mistake you brought in from outside.”

I knew it wasn’t. I could sense she knew it too. She just didn’t have the stomach to admit it. Her usual confidence seemed slightly frayed at the edges, and I wondered what she was hiding. Was she afraid of the implications? Or was she protecting something—or someone?

I opened my mouth to push further, but she quickly interrupted, a large wooden bowl suddenly slammed in front of me. "Alright, time for some cookie therapy. Baking's all about precision, Mav."

I raised an eyebrow. "Therapy? Really?"

"Trust me," she said, sliding over a bowl of flour. "You’ll need it. Now, we start with two cups of flour."

I stared at the flour like it might explode. “Can’t I just eyeball it? Feel it out?”

Nicole chuckled, her mood shifting to lightness. “Sure, if you want rock-hard cookies. But if you want edible ones, measure. Baking is a science.”