Bless the Wicked (on pause)

Don Row sat them down. The three glared up at his enormous figure slouched on his grand onyx chair with the golden Angels as the legs; all they wanted were their questions answered, every single one of them. Their mother had just been cremated alive along side other gruesome creatures, and everyone who they came across seemed to want to hurt them; how could they not be curious as to why this man had taken them in?

"Where do dead people go?"

"Will the demons come back?"

"Why didn't angels save our mama?"

"Who are you?"

Don closed his eyes, these brats were going to give him the biggest headache he'd had in decades.

"Children," he breathed into his fists, trying not to cave in their skulls. They are only children, he reminded himself, calm down, "do you know what a bedtime story is for?"

"Oh, yes." Frida beamed, then crossed her legs, "to make you fall asleep."

"Ah, and do you know what the greatest bedtime story is?" Don watched them take a moment among themselves to try and figure it out. Once they shook their heads, he replied.

"God."