The Fallen Angel: A Reinterpretation of the Afterlife

Chapter 2: Wingless Angel

She wrapped her claws tightly around his slender fingers, readying her muscles to separate him from the wings that were anchored so securely to the stone table. Abruptly, Seraphina let go of his hands, her keen hearing picking up the sound of heavy footsteps echoing from outside the door. She went still as a statue; months of learning to hide from bandits and thieves had trained her to hone her senses. The angel snapped his fingers, as if to try to pull her out of her frozen state.

"Are you okay? Don't tell me you are backing out of the plan now!" he called out, oblivious to the oncoming threat. Seraphina's impatience grew as he proceeded to clap his hands together like a child attempting to catch the attention of his mother.

"Can you be quiet! There's someone outside," she snapped, causing the not-so-angelic creature to finally cease his movements, though it earned her a particularly nasty eye roll. He did have the sense to rapidly retie the ropes around his hands and ankles, tightly enough that it seemed they were never tampered with, all while cursing fiercely under his breath. Seraphina surveyed her surroundings, counting the seconds until the door would swing open.

Ten, nine, eight...

The room had a dim light in the center, casting a dreary shadow over the entirety of it. It was mostly barren like any other prison cell, except for the stone slab where the angel lay and a shabby work table tucked away in the ominous folds of the far-right corner.

Seven, six, five...

She ran for it, diving headfirst into the tiny space between the legs of the table. The door swung open right on cue, just as she had predicted. Seraphina pressed her back into the wall, wanting to become nothing more than a nameless shadow.

"You alright there pretty boy?" The Keeper ran his fingers hungrily over the intricately feathered wings, as if pondering how he could sell their beauty. This one was particularly ugly, with his bulging belly and stubby fingers that revealed dull claws, each contrasting drastically from Seraphina's pointed ones that were sharpened to kill. His jagged grin did nothing to mask his malicious intent as he returned his gaze back to his prisoner. He wrapped his chubby fingers around the angel's throat, digging his claws in so hard they drew blood. The angel simply stared up at the ceiling, only the slightest twitch of his eye revealing his loathing for the demon. Unexpectedly, the Keeper howled as the blood came into contact with his skin, like it had scorched him. Is their blood harmful to creatures of the underworld?

"Whatever. You're gonna die in a few days. I finally found a broker willing to pay good aura for those wings of yours. And no one will ever know what became of you." The Keeper left the room chuckling heartily to himself, probably envisioning gluttony and wealth those wings would undoubtedly bring. The angel's snarl was feral as his clenched fists trembled with restrained strength. Seraphina's own knuckles were white, yearning to give the Keeper what he deserved.

"One of these days, I am going to tear out the limbs from that demon piece by piece," the creature spat, bristling intensely, his fury causing his feathers to flare up like waves in a white ocean. The anger on his face could almost pass as demonic if it weren't for the undeniable grace written everywhere else. She crawled out from under the table, the muscles in her lean legs beginning to cramp.

"If you want to pass as a demon, we are going to have to do more than get rid of those wings," she stated as they linked hands once again. The physical contact was a new concept for Seraphina, who was only used to keeping at least five feet away from other individuals. He seemed to sense her discomfort, the sudden tensing when their fingers touched.

"Have you never shaken hands with anyone?" She shook her head.

"Only an idiot would do that here. We aren't trying to befriend each other in Hell. We are constantly forsaking our morals to survive." She didn't know trust or friendship. It always came to bite her in the back sooner or later. It was his turn to shake his head in disdain, muttering something about "the poor she-demon."