What the Halo? I ONC2020 I

Chapter 4: Cain

I hadn't much time to mentally prepare myself for the impending torture of dealing with Michaela before Eli was shoving me toward the gates of hell. He'd flung my brown messenger bag over my head and shoved a sealed envelope into my hand just as blue flames swallowed me and then spit me out onto a busy city street.

I whirled around, losing my balance as a man in a suit collided with my shoulder sending me sprawling on to my stomach. My head popped up in his direction and my fingers snapped, spiraling the man into a chorus of frenzied shrieks as he scratched at his torso. I grinned. Just an illusion, but he'd be trying to rid himself of the sting of invisible fire ants for the rest of the day.

I collected myself and ripped open the letter, leaning against a tinted shop window.

Cain—Though I normally revel in the stories of your malevolent interactions with the humans, this is no occasion for nefarious dealings. Do not, I repeat, do not toy with the people of earth. Let the red-headed gargoyle do her job. Have fun, and do whatever you must to see the task complete. -Pop

I glared at my father's words until the letter ignited and disintegrated between my fingers. Don't toy with the people of earth? Have fun? How could I do one without the other, especially with that creature stuck to my side? I twisted my bag behind my back and turned to look at myself in the reflection of the window. A coffee shop, Starbucks. I groaned. So many millennials I could mess with. The sight of my reflection pulled me from my reverie. My hair was a mess thanks to the suit wearer, and I was appalled to find my green polo wrinkled. I shook my head and snapped my fingers, watching as my clothes exchanged rumpled cotton for a red sweater over a white button-up, navy blue fitted slacks and white sneakers. My hair was next. I combed my finger through until unruly became stylish—no overpriced city barber needed. I slid my ray bans out of my bag and placed them on my face to complete the look. Much better.

Now...where was that red-headed gargoyle? What was I even doing here? Why had I been dumped onto a city street? I preferred the quiet suburbs. I was about to turn away from the window when I spotted her.

Standing at the counter of Starbucks, Michaela's red curls spiraled down her back, which was absent of wings—as it would always be if I had any say. Her head wobbled back and forth as she chatted up the young male barista who was ogling her with obvious sexual intent. I wondered what she was saying, but realized quickly she was flirting with the poor sod, and how cute, he thought he had a chance. Of course, he was serenely unaware that she was an angel—and not just any angel—the absolute worst angel ever created.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and strolled inside.

"There you are!" I slung my arm around her shoulders and pulled her into me. Her coffee—iced and piled high with whipped cream—sloshed and spilled on to her hands. The barista leaped for a pile of napkins but I spun her away, "No need," I called over my shoulder, "She's a nasty little thing, aren't you honey? Always begging me to lick those sticky little fingers." I smirked down at her, pleased with myself for embarrassing the harlot... that was until her hand painted the front of my sweater in coffee and whipped cream.