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Chapter 4

- One Last Hope -

Sticking to the roofs, while trying to come up with a decent plan of action, Daimon managed to somehow avoid the Kingdom's armed forces, that stubbornly patrolled the streets below, searching for him. There was at least three times more of them today. After his previous sightings in this area, Michael and Gabriel had obviously deployed more troops to this location, hoping to score a swift capture. Frey wondered with morbid humour, if the entire Hosts would come down from the Heavens and break camp in this city if he had a whim to stay here for longer.

Either way, it got too risky to stay down on the streets. From time to time a shape of a soldier would fly up several streets away, to take a look at the area below, but on each of those occasions Daimon made sure to get out of their line of sight.

His wounds kept bleeding under the bandages his enemy had been forced to provide and right now Daimon felt like the blood that escaped them was freezing instead of coagulating. He was sitting with his back to a smoking brick chimney, hiding from the gusts of the biting winter wind.

The weather had gone from nippy to downright arctic overnight, making Daimon conclude once more that it was high time to move to some other city on Earth. To another country. Somewhere warmer for a change. But his injured wings wouldn't carry him over such a long distance and going down to search for a trader that would sell him a flying carpet would not be a smart move right now. The streets were too crowded and probably already buzzing with rumours. He considered different options.

Getting on a human plane was pretty much out of the question; with the crowds of guardian angels on every step, getting to the airport would be impossible, not to even mention having to stay on a plane with a hundred guardian angels, Depth-dwellers and Lord know who else who could recognize and report him. Perhaps taking some mortal’s car and getting out of town like that was some kind of idea. But the last time Kamael was showing him how to drive a car, was years ago, so Frey left that to consider later if nothing else worked out.

Sadly, a motorbike was also not an option due to the driver’s visibility. He could hide his face under a helmet, but he couldn’t hide the color and unusual hooked shape of his wings, even when they remained immaterial. Pity, because he knew his way around those human vehicles much better than around cars.

What really made most sense and what he needed the most, was that bloody piece of carpet. Everything would be so easy if only he had one. All his problems solved. Or at least that part of his problems that was related to logistics.

He had to obtain a piece but he couldn’t just go and buy it. He bet that by now all the djinnis and other local vendors selling magical items and trinkets in this area had been instructed not to sell anything to him and to report any sighting of him to the patrolling troops.

Daimon didn’t think the soldiers told anybody who exactly they were looking for. That would mean divulging the Kingdom’s most recent secret and sowing unnecessary panic among the civilians. Most of the common angels, Depth-dwellers and other non-human inhabitants of the Earth have probably heard of Daimon Frey and what he did for a living. But he saw the soldiers stopping random traders and guardian angels, and talking to them briefly, and that most likely meant that the supernatural population of this city already knew that they were supposed to look for a big black-winged angel and report him to the patrols. They might have also been warned that helping this dangerous fugitive would have dire consequences.

That’s how his friends thanked him for being honest with them. Instead of evacuating the planet, like Gabriel had promised they would, they were trying to hush the whole matter and put him down without even spelling out his name to the masses. Pretending that everything was in perfect order. That there was just some really minor wrongdoer on the run but everything was already being taken care of.

Since Daimon couldn’t afford roaming the streets and nicely asking to buy a carpet, he needed to apply a more efficient, less civilised approach. He had to wait for an opportunity to arise. Some djinni trader wrapping their stand with magical items up for the night would be just perfect. But sellers of genuine magic carpets weren’t that easy to come by. Over the course of the day, Daimon carefully moved from roof to roof, searching for such a chance but the presence of the soldiers kept forcing him to abandon some promising places.

Frey sighed. He wished he could move away from this particular roof and chimney already. This location had seemed to be one of those promising ones at first, but then the trader who was selling his goods right under the building Daimon perched on top of, proved to be just a genie trading in cheap, fake magical jewelry and smelly incense. No hope for a genuine piece of carpet there.

Meanwhile, Daimon got stuck here for a while. Without a disguise he was unfortunately quite hard to miss, especially against the snowy background and steel-colored winter sky. That significantly limited his movement during the day.

It wasn’t all that bad, just sitting here on the roof. So far he had been doing fine, surviving the afternoon and evening without getting shot at or captured, but the truth was that his overall mission came to a heavy standstill.

One'd think the chimney would provide him with some extra heat, but the bricks could as well be brick-shaped ice-cubes right now, while the biting frost and snow lying around on the neighboring roofs somehow made Daimon think of the North Pole, even though he had never as of yet ventured to that far-flung corner of the Earth. Coming to hide on the Lord's once favorite planet, Frey hadn’t suspected that instead of the famous global warming they might be having a new Ice Age in the making down here.

The angel wrapped himself with his black feathery wings and sat there, as stubborn as Michael’s squads, ignoring the sting of bullets still stuck in his wings, that came back as soon as he materialized them.

The sun was setting. Half an hour longer and it would be dark. Perhaps then he would finally be able to properly set out to search for an owner of flying carpet and expropriate it. But instead of an opportunity to finally move from place, the nightfall brought yet another group of soldiers, searching for him with flashlights this time. Not to mention, it got even colder.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

And so the night fell and Daimon Frey still sat there like an idiot. Yet, before the temperature around dropped down to the absolute zero, the calm of the night city was broken by the sound of flapping angel wings and someone, who hardly looked like a soldier, landed softly on the edge of the roof a dozen meters away from Daimon, de-materializing his silver wings that glittered faintly in the dim light of the street-lamps coming from the street below.

Oh for fuck’s sake, again.

Jaldabaot approached Daimon, his new light coat unbuttoned. Strands of long straight silver hair swayed in the piercing glacial wind that seemed to have risen with his arrival, adding to the already bitter cold. The ex-Archon wasn't even wearing gloves. “Is this your plan, Frey? To sit on this roof until the winter ends?” asked the frost-hardy fallen Archon, letting out, as he spoke, a cloud of steam. It rose in the air, seeming so thick that it looked like cigarette smoke at first.

Frey folded his own wings back into a half-transparent, immaterial state and glared at the silver visitor. He didn't feel like standing up to him. He had run Jaldabaot through a test of power before, and it was not over 9000. So why bother. "Stop stalking me. Are you suicidal? If you really want to be plucked, shoved down the chimney and smoked until you’re crispy, then please do go on and take another step.”

Jaldabaot crossed his arms on his chest and glared down at Frey. “Stop flattering yourself, I’m not stalking you, and I hadn’t been before. It’s just a really interesting coincidence, that I found you.” His expression cleared somewhat at the same time growing resigned. “Do you really have orders to destroy the Earth?”

So he had figured it out. Congratulations for being unable to keep a secret even from your arch-nemesis, Daimon praised himself. He looked up at Jaldabaot, also beginning to feel resigned. It was so damn cold on this godsforsaken rooftop that he didn’t even see the point of fighting the angel who had ruined his life anymore. And that in itself was all kinds of wrong and unnatural.

“For fuck’s sake. Maybe. What if I do?”

“Then I am ready to put our past hostilities aside for a while and offer my help,” the demiurge arched a brow, offering Frey a hand, extending it towards the Destroyer, just like he had done when asking for a light. Only this time the hand was empty. “Shelter, disguises, weapons, spells - anything you might need to succeed. I’m serious, Frey. I really want this planet gone.”

"I don’t need help. Not from you, asshole. I work alone. Besides, I can’t afford to use spells. There are mages after me too," Abaddon shook his head. As much as he would love a disguise, it was out of question, Raziel would track him down within an hour if not sooner, “Plus, the cherry on top is; I don't trust your motives, demiurge, they're bullshit. If you hate the Earth so much, then why would you be living down here, all this time, why do you surround yourself with man-made things?"

“Because I’m an Angel of Creation, I’m not good at just blasting things into oblivion, that’s what you do. I’ve tried destroying the Earth my own way for a long long time, and it’s still here,” Jalabdaot waved a hand towards the city below them, somewhat frustrated. “As much as I hate to admit that, you’re my last hope, Frey,” the silver angel said reluctantly. “As for my flat it’s not man-made, I made it myself. I can make anything, and it can’t be traced. I am a demiurge for a reason.”

“Can’t be traced? Even the disguises you use?”

“Yes.”

“How?” Daimon arched an eyebrow, suspiciously.

“They aren’t illusions. It’s applied physics. Optics to seem shorter. Pigments for different colors,” the demiurge tried to be patient, “I can do some advanced mirages with just colorful dust and light.”

Hell, if that was true then no wonder the demiurge managed to stay off Raziel’s hook. A magical disguise without magic? Has the Prince of Mages even heard of such a thing? And even if he had, would anybody expect Daimon to gain an access to it?

Frey’s head was full of fuck right now. Nothing that he had ever been through could have prepared him for the situation where he would be actually considering teaming up with Jaldabaot, the Eon of Eons, Prince of Heavenly Princes, the Lord’s ex-Prosthetic, to destroy the Earth on the Lord’s very orders. And he hated himself for the fact that he was actually considering it, even as he felt like spitting at the Eon’s feet at the same time.

He hated having to admit it even to himself that he was really out of options and ideas how to get into Sixth Heaven, pick up the Star of Doom and then return, without being caught or having his head shot off. He was good, but perhaps not this good. He was also wounded and needed a good night’s sleep and a day of rest without having to look over his back all the time. Yet he was still unable to reconcile with the thought that he could say ‘yes’, and probably benefit from it.

So instead of giving an answer, he sighed, rubbing his forehead with his hands.

Jaldabaot apparently saw his hesitation, because spoke softer and seriously, trying to convince him. “Listen, I had to swallow my pride and animosity to come here and offer help. You don’t like me and I don’t like you, Frey. We both like to bear grudges. But the cold facts are, that you defeated the Sower, after I royally fucked up and let him into the Kingdom. You saved the Kingdom. And while you were busy doing it, I managed to free myself and flee. For both of those... I am in your debt,” a note of unprecedented humbleness snuck into Jaldabaot’s words. “So now, please, get over yourself and accept my help,” the demiurge said, calm and a little resigned.

Daimon actually listened.

He was suspicious to start with, and grew even more so when Jaldabaot admitted to owing him, and to being guilty of something, for once. But all that aside,the truth was that he could really use a hand in this enterprise.

Of course, he could go on trying to delude himself that he could pull it off - that he could face the soldiers, the mages and all his friends sent his way all alone and still prevail. He could even jokingly hope that since so many units were dispatched on Earth, busy searching for him here, there was just nobody left to guard Heaven from a batshit crazy Destroyer coming back home.

But the Angelic Hosts under Michael's command were countless. For all Frey knew Michael had probably set up his new barracks in Daimon’s home, digging trenches in his library, all around the Star of Doom, and eagerly awaiting his return. Gabriel and Raziel were against him too. Especially Raziel would be a problem. Frey could use the help of somebody with half-decent magic, especially untraceable one. And Jaldabaot, whatever his twisted motives really were, sounded like he was willing to help him free of charge.

The idea was somewhat tempting for yet another reason. No one, literally no one would ever expect him to work with the demiurge. To start with, if what Jaldabaot had said was true, Sophia and the Archangels, just like Frey until very recently, still thought that they had the demiurge under lock and key and that he was just a drooling madman.

They all turned against him, betrayed him. Wouldn’t this be a great joke to pull?

There was also one last aspect to this. A very important one. Daimon might have called the demiurge ‘Mastema’ and taunted him with his betrayal and alliance with the Anticreator, but in fact, there was not a trace of Shadow left inside the fallen Archon. Frey, out of all people, was able to clearly sense that. He had always been able to sense even the slightest emanations of Darkness.

Of course, Jaldabaot was still a traitor, he was responsible for horrible things. He was still the same hated Eon who had once ruled the Kingdom as a vain, overly proud tyrant. And to Frey, he was still the same Great Archon who tortured him, who had him sentenced and executed, even if now he was mostly acting odd and infuriating.

But he was also free from the Shadow’s mark. If it had been any other way, Daimon would have never agreed. He would have killed the demiurge as soon as he had the chance, instead of sparing him, even though all in all, Jaldabaot was still an angel and killing another angel was a heavy crime and a blasphemy.

A moment passed.

“Alright.” Frey breathed out, heavily, like it physically hurt him to say it. “You win.”

He comforted himself that he could always back out of this later. For now his chances really seemed better with help than without it and even though Jaldabaot had ruined his life more than once, killing the demiurge wouldn’t make it any better.

Daimon got up, waving a threatening finger in front of Jaldabaot’s face, his gloomy features livening in an intimidating, wolfish way, “But I make the rules and you fucking listen to me and do what I say. You try to backstab me, I shove your wings up your ass. Are we clear?”

“Yes, but I have some conditions too,” Jaldabaot tilted his head forward in a business-like manner. “One, you don’t ignore my input just because you hate me. I’ve been at this whole ‘laying low’ business a few millennia longer, I know my thing.”

Frey was still in a state of shock that he had just agreed to this at all. But agreeing to Jaldabaot setting some terms was a whole new layer of surreal. But so far the terms didn’t sound overly unreasonable. “ And that’s all?”

“No,” the Eon shook his head, “I also don’t want you acting without consulting me. If we want to achieve anything - communication is key. Don’t keep me in the dark about things,” Jaldabaot said. He, for one, seemed to be completely alright with the idea of them working together. Then again, he was the one who came offering help.

Daimon hesitated. Co-operating with a former enemy was one thing, sharing information about the Kingdom with him was quite another. But he guessed, the demiurge knew everything anyway. From what he said earlier, it looked like he had even known that the Lord was gone, and still kept it to himself instead of sowing panic in the entire Kingdom and Depths. That was something in his favour, at least.

“Alright. But I also have one more condition.” Frey looked up into the cold, silver eyes seriously, “Even though we will hide from them and fight back against them, the Archangels remain my friends and you are not going to take this opportunity to get back at them. I’ll kill you, if you try.”

“Very well,” the demiurge lifted his open palms placatingly. “I agree to this with one correction, I won’t harm them, but I couldn’t possibly stop myself from embarrassing them should a chance present itself. I hope you don’t really mind that, all things considered?” he smirked and waved a hand towards the direction of yet another patrol, combing the streets in search for Daimon, on the orders from Michael and surely, the Regent.

Frey looked at him with pursed lips. He should mind it. He should be angry right now. He should firmly take his friends’ side against the Lord’s Prosthetic and never think twice. But somehow he felt like they rightfully deserved at least some shit to happen to them as of late for so easily discarding all trust and faith they ever had in him practically overnight.

“Alright but only long as it does not threaten the integrity of the Kingdom, and Gabriel’s position.” He stated, not entirely disagreeing.

“Ok, I can work with that,” Jaldabaot agreed.

Frey looked at him suspiciously. “‘Ok’ is not enough. I’m watching you, asshole. You are not going to try and get restored as the Kingdom’s Regent on the way. Not on my watch.”

“Pff, please, I wouldn’t agree to be the Regent even if Gabriel begged me to take the ring from him on his knees. That is so behind me now,” the silver angel made a discarding gesture with his hand. “Let him have the headache of being a proxy for the Lord. I want none of that. But I’m guessing, you are still 'the Lord's loyal servant’," Jaldabaot arched a brow at Frey, stating rather than asking.

Frey's expression cleared up, as he reciprocated Jaldabaot's look with absolute confidence this time. Whatever happened, wherever he went, the answer to this one question would always remain the same. "Yes. I am." He said calmly. He just hoped the Lord was not going to strike him down with a lightning for agreeing to forge this strange, temporary alliance.

“Fine! Now, let’s make sure we don’t get shot at on the way to my apartment,” Jaldabaot touched a hand to his chin, regarding the destroyer thoughtfully. “Pow,” he said, pointing the index finger of his other hand at Frey. Daimon’s clothes turned to shades of beige. “I’m going to hide the hooks on your wings, it might feel weird, don’t freak out,” the demiurge warned.

Bewildered by the instantaneousness of the changes, Daimon took a moment to gape at his new clothes before he obliged. “Go ahead…”

He felt something soft touch the top of his folded wings and as he turned to look, he discovered rounded feathery arches, with no indication of his trademark hooks ever being there. The cover felt a bit uncomfortable, but did not obstruct his movement and most importantly blended with the rest of his wing seamlessly. “Don’t worry that will come off no problem when the time comes,” the demiurge assured him. Frey’s black wings and the fake feathers started growing lighter, until they were chalky white. Soon after, Daimon’s hair also changed, turning blond. Jaldabaot smirked and nodded in approval. “Good. Now if all is set and clear - what are we still waiting for? Let's go, destroyer," the silver angel unfolded his wings and flew up.

Frey looked up at the Eon of Eons, hesitating. Nothing was clear to him as for the current moment. Nothing except for the fact he really needed a long, hot bath and a few hours of decent sleep.

And so despite his better judgment, in the end he too, lept into the air, following the demiurge into the night.

* * *

"By Darkness, why didn't he escape straight to the North Pole?" Litiel growled through the scarf, that was wrapped around the lower part of his face. His hat was pulled down so low, that only his eyes were visible, narrowed even more than usually because of the amount of bright white snow all around. The demon walked with his hand hidden deep in the pocket of his coat. He was still wearing the cape over it.

Drago, who looked much less like an Eskimo on a tourist trip into civilization, cocked his head, his lips crooked in slight amusement as he glanced the demon's way. Litiel was very obviously used to a warmer climate. "Do you live by the Lake of Flames or what?"

The demon reciprocated the glance, amused. "Only somebody who's never even seen the Lake could ask such a question." Litiel looked funny wrapped in his scarf, frowning constantly because of the cold. He didn't care to answer Gamerin's new questioning look, instead continuing about the temperature. "Anyway, it is much warmer in the Depths, than in Limbo, and this... this is just ridiculous. I hope he'll move to some warmer place soon, 'cause if he doesn't, that would surely mean he's insane and dangerous," the Depth-dweller half-joked. After all, Frey was supposed to be both of those now. It’s why they were on this mission, in the first place.

Gamerin looked around. They had just arrived to this town, travelling with the means of Litiel’s carpet, and for now were mostly in search for a place to stay. According to all sources Frey was somewhere here. There have been multiple sightings of him for the last few days. It seemed the Destroyer of Worlds was really stubborn and didn’t give a shit about his pursuers. But that was no news. It was Daimon Frey they were talking about. The angel who faced the Sower. The angel who died so many times already, that he was entitled not to give a fuck about a few squads of angels with guns chasing him.

Litiel proposed opening up an astral apartment in one of the hotels here and setting up their base of operating there, emphasizing that it should be one of the best hotels available. Drago agreed; as long as it did not endanger the mission, he did not mind high standards.

The angel looked back at the Raven. "If we or the competition don't find him soon, it will get pretty hot in here too." As to how insane and dangerous Frey really was, Drago wasn't so sure himself. When Alimon was passing him the orders, he didn't look or sound entirely convinced and that was rather unusual for the Woundmaster. And that could mean that not even the Regent was certain of the situation. But who could be certain of anything right now?

"I prefer heat over cold," the demon muttered, looking around and then stopping in front of a grand entrance to what looked like an expensive hotel. "That'll do, might be quite crowded, but we're not the ones hiding," Litiel marched towards the doors confidently. "Follow me and just don't bother with the humans," the Depth-dweller told Drago and opened the door with a push of his one hand, holding it a bit for Drago, before walking in. The hall looked very respectable, well-lit, warm, perfectly clean and even a bit glamorous with those few marble-lined columns.

The personnel and other mortals didn't seem to notice them, as the demon and angel walked through the big room towards the elevator. Litiel rested his hand on the shoulder of a porter, who was about to walk into an elevator with a trolley full of luggage and the young man stopped in place, frowning, but not looking at the demon, looking down with a frown instead, like he realized he just forgot something, leaving the whole spacious elevator at Drago and Litiel's disposal. "Come on in, blondie," Litiel pulled his scarf down to leer at Drago as he walked into the elevator and stood by the control panel.

The Sheolite, who had pulled back the hood of his jacket, followed the demon in with a skeptic look and then glanced at himself in the mirror that took up most of the space on one of the elevator's walls, checking if his honey colored hair had paled so much for him to deserve that nickname. He guessed the hue was rather light and could pass for blond, though. Drago refrained from loudly noticing how hilarious Litiel looked compared with the winter hat drawn over his eyes as payback. "Are you drunk, after all, demon?" He asked instead, with a smirk.

They'd both drunk quite a lot in the last several hours, first at the "Burning Bush" and then in the summoner's flat in the first town they arrived in. Of course, both of them claimed to be perfectly sober; and of all people the Ravens of Death and the Sons of Gehenna really did have a high alcohol tolerance. But for his part, Drago had to admit to himself, that he did feel kind of merrier than usual.

"I might be, this whole mission we're on sounds like some sort of alcohol infused delirium," Litiel snorted, pressing a button, after Drago entered. "Let’s try third floor," the demon proposed. "I bet we'll have neighbors on any floor here anyway," he added more quietly, not sounding like he cared much for those. The Depth-dweller pulled his hat off, when he saw Gamerin looking at it with intense unspoken ridicule.

The elevator stopped and they walked out into a fancily decorated corridor. Exiting the elevator, they passed a surprised blond demon, who gave them a long puzzled stare, studying Drago with disbelief, before he walked into the elevator they freed.

Drago mostly ignored the passer-by, instead staring in disbelief at the corridor that lay ahead of them. What he saw, was perhaps one of the most peculiar sights since the time master Alimon was caught dancing on a table after one night the whole commando Sheol got piss drunk with best sorts of alcohol in celebration of a spectacular success with one of their assignments.

"13 A, 13 B, 13 C, 13 Demonic -now this is too good to be true, must be a trap-," Litiel muttered under his nose, amused, as they passed at least half a dozen magically created rooms, that started after they passed the real number twelve.

Gamerin still looked at those surprised. He had heard that living in astral apartments, in hotels was a popular thing among Chasmies, but seeing it for himself, was a different experience altogether. He found it hard to believe that mortals somehow didn't notice the hotel corridor was so much longer than it should be. Gamerin shook his head amazed then, and caught up with Litiel. "You Depth-dwellers are outrageous."

"We are," the demon agreed, smirking. "Alright, enough walking," he stopped after 13.6 and surprisingly there appeared to be a gap between it and the next door. Or may be the gap appeared just then. "Give me a moment," Litiel said browsing through his bag, that was hidden under the cape, then he pulled out a piece of chalk and started drawing a frame of a door.

When the frame was done, Litiel drew some symbols at the corners, an ornate shape instead of a door handle and finally added ‘13.666’ where the number should be. Then he put the chalk away, dusted his hand against the silly hat that he stuck into the pocket of his coat and did a number of sophisticated gestures, muttering words of magic. The door materialized in front of them, looking like it emerged from the wall, with a key sticking out of the keyhole conveniently. Even more conveniently, it was attached to a keychain upon which hung a few more identical keys. Litiel unlocked the door and opened it for Drago. "After you."

Drago was rather impressed by the show he'd just witnessed. The Sheolites possessed theoretical knowledge sufficient to conjure such apartments. And they even had some practice in doing so. But the astrals they learnt to summon were as far as could be from luxurious. They were after all commando. Being the ‘elite forces’ of the Kingdom meant only that they were used to harsher, more spartan conditions than any other soldier.

Once, they had a few members trained in really powerful magic and glyphs but the last of those perished in the trap in Teratel’s forest. Nowadays most of the Sheolites that were left, were just professional fighters with very basic and scrappy magical education. And a simple spell could call forth only a simple flat.

Litiel's spells and glyphs weren't anywhere close to simple.

"You know," Drago said with good humor, as he walked in and looked around the cozy, rather stylish apartment, "I'm starting to think that letting you tag along wasn't such a bad idea."

Litiel snorted, locking the door behind them and taking off the scarf, cape, coat and boots. Then he put on a pair of slippers that came to existence together with the astral flat, and walked through the room to put the keys on the table. They were in a medium-sized living room, not really all that luxurious, but definitely fancier than an average angel's dwelling. The moderate room was devoid of decorations, the furniture looked comfortable and practical. There were two doors in the room except for the one they came from, one leading to the bathroom and the other to the bedroom.

"I don't know how about you, Son of Gehenna, but I'd rather start on this mission with getting some even warmer clothes and boots," the demon sat down into one of the two armchairs by the table, resting his bag in his lap. Litiel was clad in a wine-colored shirt, the mostly empty right sleeve was pinned at the shoulder not to hang loose and get in the way. Over the shirt he was wearing a gun holster, a number of other belts with throwing knives and a couple of daggers attached to them alongwith some other minor equipment on his belt and his bag. The Depth-dweller started browsing through the bag.

"I'm fine. Get whatever you need to begin. After all you’re the one who didn't know you'll be on Earth, even though you sounded like you considered coming down here either way." Drago and other Sheolites had been told about the mission in advance, and had a day or two to prepare. Gamerin's new boots, bought especially for this mission, kept him warm enough so far, and either way, he had always been rather pleased with his cold-endurance.

The one-winged angel eyed the small arsenal attached to Litiel's clothes, glad that so far nothing indicated that the Harap Serapel would have to use it against him. Gamerin himself also had similar assembly of weapons on him, two big guns, one holstered on his thigh, the other in a sling holster on his chest. There was also a third, smaller one, in an ankle holster over one of his boots, while another boot hid a dagger inside it. Further weapons, holster configurations for different occasions and cartridges full of ammo were along with other equipment still packed in the rucksack that he now dropped next to the empty armchair.

Except for the weapons, Drago also clinked with magical amulets, that he got used to wearing around his neck and belt even when not on a mission. Even when he had not been active as a commando at all. There was never enough protection, even if most of the time he could rely only on himself anyway.

Litiel snorted. His expression brightened as he pulled out an Eye of the Night from the bag. It was the hellish equivalent of the crystal communicator known in the Kingdom as Eye of the Day. Gamerin frowned at the Raven suspiciously.

"Hold on a sec, pal. I don't recall our deal including you telling everyone and their dog about the mission.”

"Relax, I'm not going to tell anyone about the mission," Litiel replied calmly, keeping his eyes on the magical object. "I'm going to call a... friend, who'll bring me some decent winter gear," the demon said, perhaps a bit reluctantly. Drago got the impression he was talking of the same person, who saved his life after the battle with Sower. The demon didn't seem eager to contact his savior, but did it nonetheless. "Abd-Al-Qadir," Litiel said clearly, looking into the Eye of Night with an unfriendly look, prepared in advance.

"Hello, kid, you need anything?" the person on the other end asked in a patronizing tone. The deep voice sounded friendly and casual.

"Stop calling me that, Al-Qadir," the demon hissed, snarling at the communicator in his hand. "Or I'll gut you and shove your guts down your throat, the next time I see you," Litiel sounded like he had done something like that to a person before, but might not be meaning it this time, at least not to the full extent.

Drago, having dropped into the other armchair, watched the demon and the crystal from the side, where he couldn't see the face that appeared in its smooth surface. Gamerin didn't feel so sure he wanted any visitors here. But he had already made a choice of trusting Litiel either way. It was a limited trust, but so far the demon did nothing to breach it.

The Sheolite wondered who the person on the other side of the Eye could be, and in what way were they related to the demon. The rich voice had an oriental note to it. The name also betrayed the origin. A djinni, most likely, Gamerin decided, crossing his legs.

"Good luck doing that through the crystal, boy," the deep voice answered with open amusement. "So, what can I get for you this time? And where are you, anyway?"

"Earth," Litiel kept glaring into the Eye of the Night murderously. "I need a fur coat, a fur hat, warmest steel-toe boots you can find, generally lots of warm clothes, especially socks... And they have to all be black, or dark red, or brown, just for fuck's sake no bright colors," Litiel listed his demands on one breath. "And bring me my other stuff, all of it," he added. "I'll be staying here for a while."

Gamerin snorted quietly. The demands, the servant. And yet the way the Raven spoke to him suggested that unusually this djinni might be playing some different role as well. You didn't show such amount of personal reluctance to a mere lackey. You didn’t let your lackey call you a boy or a kid, like Al-Quadir just called the demon. Of course, Litiel made it clear that he hated it, but it didn’t sound like it was the first time it happened and like he really had control over it. Drago looked at Litiel with slight curiosity, trying to recreate the demon's story from those few pieces of puzzle that he had already found.

"I'll drop by later today, give me the address," the djinni replied still sounding rather friendly and helpful. Unlike the angry Raven, who looked like the only thing that was stopping him from doing something violent to Al-Qadir was the fact the djinni was way beyond his reach.

Litiel stated their geographical position, the name of the hotel and the number of the room and then turned the communicator off, breaking the djinni's goodbyes mid-sentence. He put the Eye of the Night back into his bag, like he couldn't wait to get rid of it and the guy he just talked with. "You got any plans for the rest of today?" he asked Gamerin quickly to change the topic, before the angel had a chance to ask him anything.

But Drago was not that easy to fob off that subject. "If your djinni is coming today, he should specify an hour. I'll take an initial stroll around the area when he'll be here. I'd rather not be seen here," he said. Djinnis had many connections, and served many masters. And he didn't know a thing about this particular one, except that he probably served down in the Depths.

"Then you can just sit in the bedroom for a minute, or take a shower, when he comes," Litiel shrugged. "I won't let him stay longer, than it'll take him to drop my stuff off," the demon didn't sound like he was keen on spending more than a minute in the djinni's company.

"He's not your own servant, is he?" Drago inquired.

"No, he's one of Asmodeus' men. Long story.”

Gamerin gave a low whistle, and shook his head a bit. "Then I'd rather really go for that walk." From Asmodeus there was just one step to Lucifer. It shouldn't reach so high neither in Hell or Heaven that someone in commando Sheol was working with a demon. Especially since with his one wing, Drago was a rather recognizable member of the angelic elite force. Being seen around with Hazar from time to time was a different thing. Especially since despite working for Raguel, Hazar was very far from being a bloody Harap Serapel. Then again, the Ravens of Death mostly kept their identities well-veiled. And Litiel had absolutely no interest in being recognized either.

"Don't worry, Drago, he's safe. He's the one, who smuggled me out of the Depths. You really don't have to go further than the bedroom, and I don't want to call that trust-worthy overly friendly asshole again," Litiel shook his head, placing his bag beside the armchair and getting comfortable.

Drago regarded the Raven, with interest, and a shadow of a smile, then shook his head, asking. "And how come Asmodeus doesn't mind one of his servants running errands for you? Are you somehow related?”

"To Asmodeus?" Litiel joked. "I don't think so. To Al-Qadir, in his overly imaginative dreams perhaps. He sleeps with my mom, that's all," the demon said casually. That phrase, spoken carelessly and reluctantly, explained the patronizing tone and language the djinni used on him and the friendly attitude. It seemed Al-Qadir did more than just sleep with the Raven's mother, and aspired to form some sort of parental bond with her elite-assassin of a son, to the latter's visible displeasure.

Gamerin, suddenly reminded of the fact that in the Depths, unlike in the Kingdom, there were actual families, with fathers, mothers and children, nodded, deciding it was enough of being nosy for now. From Litiel's tone he had made sure Asmodeus in person was not having his hand or any business in this, and that was relieving. Either way, he had heard the rumors of the Rotten Boy hiding somewhere on Earth too, where he probably had not taken along even half of his servants. Al-Qadir must be one of those that had stayed in the Depths.

On the other hand Asmodeus might be wanting to get his ass back to Hell soon, considering what could happen here, on Lord's planet, if Frey wasn't stopped.

Despite the incoming end of the world, Drago smiled. "Thanks for being honest with me. I know it doesn't come easy to you, Depth-dwellers." The smile turned into a smirk.

Litiel smirked as well, eyeing Gamerin with a friendly, somewhat playful look. "You're welcome, Sheolite. I like you," as he said that, Litiel deliberately let his eyes travel down Drago's face, neck, chest, abdomen... The demon kept smirking, as his words gained a whole new undertone.

And that made even Drago, who was an angel after all, squint a bit suspiciously. But after a moment he shrugged it off, letting the weird impression of something being wrong about the demon's expression slip. "We should stop wasting time and begin the search today,” he stated, “The day's still young."

* * *

Two hours later Daimon came back into the living room of the demiurge’s flat. He was fresh and clad in new clothes, feeling better than he had in days. Yet something he had discovered in those past two hours had left him really confused.

Warm baths always worked miracles. But wasn’t this a bit too much? Frey knew that taking a bath with so many open wounds was a bad idea. Of course, stubborn as he was, he was still going through with it. But he expected the bathwater to be red when he was done. But nothing of the kind happened. When he took off the bloody bandages and washed off the dried blood, he discovered that all of his wounds... had closed. Why?

Did the Lord consider this new strange alliance some kind of progress on Abaddon’s mission? Was this the Light’s way of praising him for finally getting back around to trying to fulfill its orders? If Daimon thought that he had been plagued by doubts before, the amount of various questions haunting him grew exponentially since the last evening, when he had lit Jaldabaot’s cigarette, not knowing who the angel was.

Jaldabaot was sitting on the sofa. His eyes were glued to the large tv set.

“Oh, yeah baby, just like that. Put it there. Right there. Perfect,” the silver angel commented the view of a construction site. A machine had just finished resting a large beam precisely on two pillars. Some workers in bright jackets and safety helmets were walking around the place, consulting blueprints and operating machinery. Jaldabaot seemed to be completely absorbed by the view. “Oh, yes, yes, very nice,” he expressed approval at the sight of another job well done, completely unaware that he was not alone in the room.

Frey actually froze in his tracks. What the fuck? Was this sly silver asshole really lounging on the couch, while watching other people work? Perhaps not that much had changed after all.

"Watching others work, like in the good old times, jerk?" Frey asked mildly.

Jaldabaot turned to him with a snarl. He opened his mouth to protest, but hesitated, unsure what to say. Some loud noise from the tv distracted him and the silver angel turned to it again, losing interest in Daimon. “Hoho,” the demiurge gave the construction site an appreciating look. Then, suddenly remembering about his worst enemy hovering over him, he spared Frey a glance, without fully paying attention, “Did you want something?”

“No,” the Destroyer of Worlds glared and went past him, heading for the kitchen.

He came back soon.

“The fuck? What for do you keep a fridge in there if there’s nothing inside it?” He had already made himself at home in the fallen Archon’s flat. He had gone into the kitchen to grab something, he didn’t even know what, at least a beer if not a sandwich. Instead he found nothing but a neat stack of bandages Jaldabaot previously created laying on the table. And when he opened the fridge he had been welcomed by emptiness, pristine white, clean walls, perfectly transparent glass shelves and bright light turning on to better present the lack of food to him.

Jaldabaot turned to him, eyebrows raised. “Ah, fridge. I only use it for booze and leftovers. And ice-cream.”

“What.”

“Ice-cream. Sweet, frozen dairy product.”

“That was a rhetorical question. The actual question is: where the fuck is the food?” Frey winced. Did he just hear the Eon saying the word ‘booze’?

“Alright, making plans can wait, the Destroyer of Worlds is hungry,” Jaldabaot laughed, getting off the couch. “The food is in the kitchen. You just didn’t know where to look.”

“Really? Well, great, then by all means bloody show me.” Frey followed him. As they walked through the magical corridor, a group of silver tumbleweeds rolled past them."And what the Hell are those?" Daimon inquired wondering why he was even asking those things. But it had been a while since he had somebody else than sparrows and pigeons to open his mouth to, he blamed it on that.

"My cleaning... personnel," Jaldabaot shrugged. "I don't have a name for them," he said, entering the kitchen and taking a number of plates off of a shelf, starting to serve the table.

“Oh, I see, well, they look like shi-- What the fuck are you doing?" Daimon, who had just entered the kitchen, stared at the demiurge in utter shock.

"Serving the table," Jaldabaot said. He was already done with the plates and instead was busy looking for cups and glasses. He didn't even turn around from the cupboard. "Not looking for a poison vial, if that's what you're thinking. You want what, tea, wine, juice, water, whatever?"

Daimon didn't say a word at first, but his surprise was more than apparent. The image of Jaldabaot, the Eon of Eons of all angels, serving his own table, was just absolutely wrong. Even Frey had Plesitea and some other servants do that for him. The demiurge had really sank low if he didn't even have a djinni to do such chores for him. Obviously, his work for the Anticreator didn’t pay off very generously.

Living on Earth must really have been quite a lesson to Jaldabaot if what Frey was looking at now happened everyday. "Mulled beer," Daimon mocked, "What, do you have a whole secret backroom of drinks to choose from?"

Jaldabaot put an empty pitcher and two glass cups on the table and finally sat down. “No. There’s no need for that.” He chuckled and lifted the glass pitcher in his hand, as it suddenly filled with steaming amber liquid.

Daimon's already huge eyes just widened in absolute horror. "Are you kidding me?" He winced horribly, and despite the smell of mulled beer rising into the air, stated harshly, "I’m not gonna drink your piss even from a crystal goblet!"

Jaldabaot stared at Daimon like something just died inside Frey's mouth. "You're just... sick..." the demiurge pronounced slowly, looking traumatized.

Abaddon looked at him repulsed. "I'm sick?" He disbelieved, "No, you are sick, if you were even imagining I would as much as touch any food that you puked out of nowhere with your magic. Where is my damned jacket?"

* * *

"That must be him," Litiel got up from the armchair, where he had dropped a few minutes before, when he and Drago returned from the hall of the hotel.

They had spent quite a while there listening to the overly friendly receptionist, who told them everything about the city, its geography, history, public transport and monuments of cultural importance. It was mostly the free map that interested Litiel, but since they were still waiting for Al-Qadir to come, he did not interrupt the mortal, who seemed to see the two as very valuable clients.

The demon walked towards the door and then glanced back to make sure Drago was safely hidden away from their guest in the bedroom. Then Litiel opened the door, that Al-Qadir knocked on a moment ago in a particular rhythm, and let the tall bulky djinni with a couple of huge bags and a rucksack on his back into the living room.

"Your mother sent presents, kid," Al-Qadir said, smiling.

And Litiel found himself gaping at the amount of luggage the djinni brought, having completely forgotten about his previous promise to gut the man if he called him that again.

* * *

Drago, hidden in bedroom, had been listening to whatever exchange of words occurred between Litiel and the visitor, not because he wanted to eavesdrop, but more because the djinni's deep voice filtered through the door to the bedroom easier than a smell of freshly baked pie probably could. After he was sure that Al-Quadir was gone for good, he headed out into the living room.

Litiel was standing in the middle of the room, holding a dark brown sheepskin coat, at least knee-long. The demon looked elated. This would certainly keep him warm. There was a slightly funny looking fur hat on his head already, a bit tilted to the side and not properly on, like whoever placed it on the demon's head, didn't bother adjusting it. As Drago walked closer, he discovered there really was a delicious smell of warm pastry coming from one of the bags. Litiel turned, grinning to the angel, and then he stepped over the other big bag and went to hang the coat on the peg.

Drago shook his head, trying to imagine Litiel in that coat and deciding it might be even funnier than before, but saved that remark for later. There was something different on his mind right now, that he had discovered when, before the arrival of the djinni, he went into bedroom for the first time. He pointed the door leading to it now. "Why is there just one bed there, demon?"

"I can make one more," Litiel offered casually, hanging the coat and admiring it for a moment. He liked its dark brown-red color of dried blood. He took the hat off and hung it above the coat.

"Do, if that's not asking too much," Drago snorted, and nodded towards the coat, diverted. "So that's your choice of inconspicuous mission attire?"

"Yes," Litiel replied contentedly, running his hand over the sheep skin. Then he turned around and walked back to where Drago and the bags were. "My mother sent us dinner, so I propose we dine before it grows cold," Litiel bowed down and started digging out the still warm packaged meat pie.

"Might as well," Drago agreed, taking in the pleasant scent. "And then, we're out on a hunt for information." Hearsays, rumors of recent events. They needed all the general information they could find in order to give the task a decent focus. “But maybe you and your coat should go alone.”

Litiel glared at him, half-heartedly.

* * *

The gloomy Destroyer of Worlds was sitting on the sofa in the white and silver living room, slowly chewing his way through the third cheeseburger. The lady in the McDonald’s take-away hadn’t been particularly surprised to see a deadly looking, light-haired man in dark glasses and beige jacket ordering strawberry milkshake and food for a family of four, and then paying her with a piece of crumpled newspaper that she thanked for with a bright smile and diligently hid into the cash register only to realize what it was some few hours later.

Daimon couldn't create actual money, like some Dark ones did on a daily basis, being a major cause for inflation in modern society. But he was armed with the power of persuasion only an Angel of Destruction could offer, and well... a small arsenal of tricks he had learnt from Kamael, so it didn't go so bad. He could have asked Jaldabaot to make him some money but that would be just degrading. He might have tentatively agreed for the demiurge to help him. But he only needed help with the big scale problems. And buying a few burgers wasn’t one of those.

The guardian angels hadn’t paid much heed to him, too busy making sure their clients didn't order something fat and toxic enough to kill them on the spot, and none of Michael's boys were in for a morning snack. An angel personally queuing to buy food in McDonalds and revealing his presence to a mortal cashier, was perhaps a bit strange a sight, but surely no capital offence. Plus nobody was told there is a dangerous blonde, white-winged man on the run. So as much as he hated his new hair color and his new jacket, Daimon managed to purchase junk food and return to the demiurge’s flat without a slightest hitch.

Jaldabaot was nowhere to be seen. Finally, when he was done unwrapping the fourth burger from the rustling paper, and bit into his dinner, Frey heard the demiurge’s quiet voice coming from the kitchen, “...Stupid motherfucker… Knight, my ass… Look at me, look at me! I’m Abaddon and I ram people’s heads into walls as a greeting… Who needs self-control? Pf, that shit’s overrated,” the silver bat rambled.

“Do you have some problem with me? Want to tell that to my face?” Frey inquired loudly from the sofa.

There was a while of silence on the other end. Then soundlessly the barefoot Eon walked into the room. “Ah, you’re back,” he acknowledged. “And you bought some McD’s! Let me guess, you didn’t buy me anything, now did you?”

“What for? You can create your own stuff.” Daimon said as he ate up the few remaining fries right in front of the demiurge.
“It’s the gesture that counts,” Jaldabaot snorted, but then cringed and rubbed his head. “You’ve given me a headache. I plan to return the favor, so let’s talk business,” the silver bat chose not to share the couch with Daimon and created a blue bean bag chair opposite to it. He dropped on the chair. A large milkshake with the trademark M appeared in his hand.

Frey winced. He wouldn’t drink that even if the fate of the Kingdom depended on it. But it disturbed him that the drink in the fallen Archon’s hands looked as genuine as the one he had just finished. It would be all too easy to mistake it for the real deal, though it probably tasted horrible. “Great, that’s easy. I just need weapons, disguise and a piece of magic carpet from you. Maybe also a bulletproof vest. Then I’ll handle the rest on my own.” Daimon proceeded straight to the point.

“Handle what exactly? The Hosts? All of Raziel’s spies, Commando Sheol, the Locust and oh, I don’t know, an army of djinnis? How bad is it?” the demiurge quirked a brow at him.

“Pretty bad but it could be worse.” Frey snorted. Although he was instantly reminded about who he had just teamed up with and decided that he was perhaps too quick to say it. It probably couldn’t be worse, after all. “I just need my sword back. I had to leave it behind at my place in Sixth Heaven when Michael sicced his soldiers on my rose bushes.”

"Sixth Heaven," Jaldabaot repeated thoughtfully. He closed his eyes and sunk even deeper into the chair, sipping his drink. "We could use a carpet to get to the Fourth Heaven, then we'd just walk to your house from there... "

“There is no ‘we’,” Frey eyed him with a murderous glare, “I will do it myself. You’re not going anywhere near the Kingdom. You had been exiled for a reason.” Daimon said that as calmly as he could, while he tried to channel his anger elsewhere, mercilessly crumpling the empty packages and then depositing them inside of the take-out bag, which he also proceeded to crumple.

Jaldabaot’s eyes opened abruptly at that remark, only to narrow into slits of snide silver. "Ah, I forgot, who I'm dealing with. You're probably intending to simply slaughter everyone who stands in your way, all those guards in your house, some innocent passerbies and anyone else who doesn’t manage to run away screaming on time,” the demiurge sneered.

“I don't intend to slaughter anyone,” Frey’s features grew sharp as he bared his teeth, trying to hold his calm nonetheless, “And you of all angels, do not get to judge me, traitor. Should I remind you how many innocents you’ve killed by letting the Shadow into the Kingdom? Of how many you sacrificed on a whim back when you were still at power?”

“This is not a competition, Frey,” Jaldabaot said slowly with a grimace. “We’re not comparing headcounts here. You simply have a way about yourself, that whenever you’re on some mission people tend to die and get seriously injured in your vicinity. I, on the other hand, never killed a fellow angel first-hand. They usually die when I’m very far away. That’s why I insist, that we both go,” the demiurge looked at Frey seriously and grimly. His tone was unfriendly, but otherwise without emotion.

“Oh, so suddenly you pretend to be concerned with lives of other angels that you never gave a fuck about. And what do you think you’re going to do when I throw myself at someone who stands in my way to slaughter them? How exactly do you plan on holding me back?” Frey tried his best not to throw himself and slaughter Jaldabaot right there.

“That’s the thing. With me around you won’t need to throw yourself at anyone, Frey. I’ve got my ways. For example, that group of soldiers we met - nice lads by the way - they’re looking for someone completely else now, convinced that Michael ordered them to do that,” the demiurge explained calmly, waving his milkshake around. “Anything Raziel can do, I can do better.”

Frey shook his head.

“Forget it. I won’t be the one to let you back into the Kingdom.” Right now some of his friends were probably thinking him a shadow-possessed criminal - but that was all one great misunderstanding and Daimon was going to prove them wrong. But if they saw him side by side with Mastema, well, that wouldn’t be a misunderstanding anymore, or something that could be explained. That would be capital offence. One he would gladly execute himself for it.

“Fi-i-ine,” Jaldabaot groaned, rolling his eyes. “Whatever,” the Eon shook his head and moved the straw around in his drink. “I will make you everything you need. Guns that will freeze your targets without hurting them, a disguise even the Lord won’t recognize you in, some other gadgets and gizmos. We just need to buy a carpet.”

Frey relaxed visibly against the back of the couch, “What, you can’t make one yourself?” he half-joked. But even if Jaldabaot could, well, he wouldn’t want to risk travelling by it.

* * *

Drago sat in the living room, with a cup of tea, assembling his weapons on the table. He was the first one to come back from their reconnaissance of the area. He and Litiel decided to split, concluding it will both attract far less attention, and give them opportunity to collect twice as much information. Too bad that it also meant twice as much completely useless data to sift through. Leaving the hotel before the trip around the vicinity, the Sheolite hadn’t realized that every garbage can, pavement stall and dive would buzz with such amount of rumors and info on more topics that one could hear in Kingdom and Depths combined

Thanks to some peculiar synergy, down here on Earth two rumors tended to spontaneously become not even three but five rumors and then fly in all directions smoother and quicker that the arrows of a Salamander sharpshooter. One rather dumb looking gnome Drago met had even passed him a rumor about himself asking questions on the previous street, before realizing he was talking to the very same person.

At first the angel was surprised that news could travel quicker than him crossing streets, but after a whole day of listening to all kinds of bullshit Drago completely stopped being worried about the rumors that might spread around town about him and Litiel. He came to understand that here on Earth hearsay was like muffins, in demand only when they were warm and fresh, and completely uninteresting to anybody when they grew stale after a day or two.

Other than that, it seemed that Michael's boys were asking around for Frey so much that it had already become a rather dull and uninteresting topic on the local rumor radar. Just some wanted criminal on the run. Not the first one, not the last one.

The news providing the most excitement in the town right now was not the incoming end of the world, but a building being demolished in the middle of the city. The demolition itself was old news, but fresh was the fact that instead of constructing a shopping mall in its place, as the initial plan assumed, the local authorities decided to build a church there.

The decision of the local authorities was welcomed by a great joy of the city’s population of guardian angels and grim outrage of the Depth-dwellers. Which resulted in a few punch-ups. Those however, mostly took place between the demons themselves, after all the angels they had attempted to get involved into a brawl fled from sight, leaving the drunken Chasmies, that poured into the streets from their favorite pubs and dives to express their opinion on the matter, alone with their unvented anger.

But there were other things happening in the town as well, including ones that actually could have had something to do with the Destroyer of Worlds.

Drago sighed. He was wondering whether Litiel had better luck and discovered something of interest, or better yet, something of significance. And when the Hell he was going to come back and share it with him.

"Oh by Darkness," a loud grumble came from behind the door to the corridor, answering a part of Gamerin’s questions. "Stupid fucking lock, come on," there was a noise of someone trying to shove the key into the lock and missing. Missing hard, judging by how every second try produced the noise of metal scratching wood. "Aha!" finally the key was successfully turned inside the lock and a few seconds after that, Litiel almost fell into the room, very red on the face. He pulled the key out of the keyhole and then closed the door loudly, locking it after a moment of deep concentration.

"Evening, Gamerin," Litiel said, smirking and looking more than a little squiffy. The demon was wearing his hat, fur coat and cape, that must have made him stand out of the crowd quite a bit, but apparently hadn’t caused him any major trouble. At least the Raven looked quite merry as he pulled his hat off and after a few failed attempts manages to hang it on the peg. Then he got busy with his cape.

"Evening," Drago echoed, arching a honey-coloured eyebrow at the demon. He put one of the guns he had instinctively reached for back on the table, taking the cup of tea instead.

Actually, it wasn’t even evening anymore. It was rather late at the night right now and Litiel looked like he had made friends with at least half of the alcohols on the Earthly menu since the time Gamerin had seen him last. Drago guessed that the demon had most likely chosen to engage in that one particular way of gaining information that the Sheolite decided to save for some other day, namely a tour around the local joints and honky-tonks, and making great new friends with the local scums over a drink or three. "Found out something of use before you drunk too much?"

"No," Litiel took a while unbuttoning his coat with one hand and then, when he was done with undressing, the demon put on slippers and walked towards Gamerin. "Wives' tales mostly, some gossip about gunfire in the streets, but I bet you've heard that, too, Son of Gehenna," the Raven dropped into the armchair and gave Drago a long look. "You?"

Drago had indeed heard the mention of a few small shoot-outs from a day or two back, but nobody he asked could answer who the target was, or supply the Sheolite with any credible information on how it ended. He could take a wild guess as to who was the shooting party though. "You also think it's Michael's boys? I never heard they were permitted to open fire here on Earth. We weren't briefed on that."

Technically, commando Sheol was also to some extent under Michael's authority, but in practice, the Sheolites followed orders of Alimon, whose position was high and independent enough, for him to be able to choose. And with the deep insight into the more complex political machinations in the Kingdom that the Woundmaster possessed, right now he had chosen to listen to the Regent instead. And the Regent, at least for the time being, wanted just information from the Sheolites, and not Daimon brought back to Heaven in chains.

* * *
* remains of the chapter in description due to character limit *

Description
Chapter 4

- One Last Hope -

Sticking to the roofs, while trying to come up with a decent plan of action, Daimon managed to somehow avoid the Kingdom's armed forces, that stubbornly patrolled the streets below, searching for him. There was at least three times more of them today. After his previous sightings in this area, Michael and Gabriel had obviously deployed more troops to this location, hoping to score a swift capture. Frey wondered with morbid humour, if the entire Hosts would come down from the Heavens and break camp in this city if he had a whim to stay here for longer.

Either way, it got too risky to stay down on the streets. From time to time a shape of a soldier would fly up several streets away, to take a look at the area below, but on each of those occasions Daimon made sure to get out of their line of sight.

His wounds kept bleeding under the bandages his enemy had been forced to provide and right now Daimon felt like the blood that escaped them was freezing instead of coagulating. He was sitting with his back to a smoking brick chimney, hiding from the gusts of the biting winter wind.

The weather had gone from nippy to downright arctic overnight, making Daimon conclude once more that it was high time to move to some other city on Earth. To another country. Somewhere warmer for a change. But his injured wings wouldn't carry him over such a long distance and going down to search for a trader that would sell him a flying carpet would not be a smart move right now. The streets were too crowded and probably already buzzing with rumours. He considered different options.

Getting on a human plane was pretty much out of the question; with the crowds of guardian angels on every step, getting to the airport would be impossible, not to even mention having to stay on a plane with a hundred guardian angels, Depth-dwellers and Lord know who else who could recognize and report him. Perhaps taking some mortal’s car and getting out of town like that was some kind of idea. But the last time Kamael was showing him how to drive a car, was years ago, so Frey left that to consider later if nothing else worked out.

Sadly, a motorbike was also not an option due to the driver’s visibility. He could hide his face under a helmet, but he couldn’t hide the color and unusual hooked shape of his wings, even when they remained immaterial. Pity, because he knew his way around those human vehicles much better than around cars.

What really made most sense and what he needed the most, was that bloody piece of carpet. Everything would be so easy if only he had one. All his problems solved. Or at least that part of his problems that was related to logistics.

He had to obtain a piece but he couldn’t just go and buy it. He bet that by now all the djinnis and other local vendors selling magical items and trinkets in this area had been instructed not to sell anything to him and to report any sighting of him to the patrolling troops.

Daimon didn’t think the soldiers told anybody who exactly they were looking for. That would mean divulging the Kingdom’s most recent secret and sowing unnecessary panic among the civilians. Most of the common angels, Depth-dwellers and other non-human inhabitants of the Earth have probably heard of Daimon Frey and what he did for a living. But he saw the soldiers stopping random traders and guardian angels, and talking to them briefly, and that most likely meant that the supernatural population of this city already knew that they were supposed to look for a big black-winged angel and report him to the patrols. They might have also been warned that helping this dangerous fugitive would have dire consequences.

That’s how his friends thanked him for being honest with them. Instead of evacuating the planet, like Gabriel had promised they would, they were trying to hush the whole matter and put him down without even spelling out his name to the masses. Pretending that everything was in perfect order. That there was just some really minor wrongdoer on the run but everything was already being taken care of.

Since Daimon couldn’t afford roaming the streets and nicely asking to buy a carpet, he needed to apply a more efficient, less civilised approach. He had to wait for an opportunity to arise. Some djinni trader wrapping their stand with magical items up for the night would be just perfect. But sellers of genuine magic carpets weren’t that easy to come by. Over the course of the day, Daimon carefully moved from roof to roof, searching for such a chance but the presence of the soldiers kept forcing him to abandon some promising places.

Frey sighed. He wished he could move away from this particular roof and chimney already. This location had seemed to be one of those promising ones at first, but then the trader who was selling his goods right under the building Daimon perched on top of, proved to be just a genie trading in cheap, fake magical jewelry and smelly incense. No hope for a genuine piece of carpet there.

Meanwhile, Daimon got stuck here for a while. Without a disguise he was unfortunately quite hard to miss, especially against the snowy background and steel-colored winter sky. That significantly limited his movement during the day.

It wasn’t all that bad, just sitting here on the roof. So far he had been doing fine, surviving the afternoon and evening without getting shot at or captured, but the truth was that his overall mission came to a heavy standstill.

One'd think the chimney would provide him with some extra heat, but the bricks could as well be brick-shaped ice-cubes right now, while the biting frost and snow lying around on the neighboring roofs somehow made Daimon think of the North Pole, even though he had never as of yet ventured to that far-flung corner of the Earth. Coming to hide on the Lord's once favorite planet, Frey hadn’t suspected that instead of the famous global warming they might be having a new Ice Age in the making down here.

The angel wrapped himself with his black feathery wings and sat there, as stubborn as Michael’s squads, ignoring the sting of bullets still stuck in his wings, that came back as soon as he materialized them.

The sun was setting. Half an hour longer and it would be dark. Perhaps then he would finally be able to properly set out to search for an owner of flying carpet and expropriate it. But instead of an opportunity to finally move from place, the nightfall brought yet another group of soldiers, searching for him with flashlights this time. Not to mention, it got even colder.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

And so the night fell and Daimon Frey still sat there like an idiot. Yet, before the temperature around dropped down to the absolute zero, the calm of the night city was broken by the sound of flapping angel wings and someone, who hardly looked like a soldier, landed softly on the edge of the roof a dozen meters away from Daimon, de-materializing his silver wings that glittered faintly in the dim light of the street-lamps coming from the street below.

Oh for fuck’s sake, again.

Jaldabaot approached Daimon, his new light coat unbuttoned. Strands of long straight silver hair swayed in the piercing glacial wind that seemed to have risen with his arrival, adding to the already bitter cold. The ex-Archon wasn't even wearing gloves. “Is this your plan, Frey? To sit on this roof until the winter ends?” asked the frost-hardy fallen Archon, letting out, as he spoke, a cloud of steam. It rose in the air, seeming so thick that it looked like cigarette smoke at first.

Frey folded his own wings back into a half-transparent, immaterial state and glared at the silver visitor. He didn't feel like standing up to him. He had run Jaldabaot through a test of power before, and it was not over 9000. So why bother. "Stop stalking me. Are you suicidal? If you really want to be plucked, shoved down the chimney and smoked until you’re crispy, then please do go on and take another step.”

Jaldabaot crossed his arms on his chest and glared down at Frey. “Stop flattering yourself, I’m not stalking you, and I hadn’t been before. It’s just a really interesting coincidence, that I found you.” His expression cleared somewhat at the same time growing resigned. “Do you really have orders to destroy the Earth?”

So he had figured it out. Congratulations for being unable to keep a secret even from your arch-nemesis, Daimon praised himself. He looked up at Jaldabaot, also beginning to feel resigned. It was so damn cold on this godsforsaken rooftop that he didn’t even see the point of fighting the angel who had ruined his life anymore. And that in itself was all kinds of wrong and unnatural.

“For fuck’s sake. Maybe. What if I do?”

“Then I am ready to put our past hostilities aside for a while and offer my help,” the demiurge arched a brow, offering Frey a hand, extending it towards the Destroyer, just like he had done when asking for a light. Only this time the hand was empty. “Shelter, disguises, weapons, spells - anything you might need to succeed. I’m serious, Frey. I really want this planet gone.”

"I don’t need help. Not from you, asshole. I work alone. Besides, I can’t afford to use spells. There are mages after me too," Abaddon shook his head. As much as he would love a disguise, it was out of question, Raziel would track him down within an hour if not sooner, “Plus, the cherry on top is; I don't trust your motives, demiurge, they're bullshit. If you hate the Earth so much, then why would you be living down here, all this time, why do you surround yourself with man-made things?"

“Because I’m an Angel of Creation, I’m not good at just blasting things into oblivion, that’s what you do. I’ve tried destroying the Earth my own way for a long long time, and it’s still here,” Jalabdaot waved a hand towards the city below them, somewhat frustrated. “As much as I hate to admit that, you’re my last hope, Frey,” the silver angel said reluctantly. “As for my flat it’s not man-made, I made it myself. I can make anything, and it can’t be traced. I am a demiurge for a reason.”

“Can’t be traced? Even the disguises you use?”

“Yes.”

“How?” Daimon arched an eyebrow, suspiciously.

“They aren’t illusions. It’s applied physics. Optics to seem shorter. Pigments for different colors,” the demiurge tried to be patient, “I can do some advanced mirages with just colorful dust and light.”

Hell, if that was true then no wonder the demiurge managed to stay off Raziel’s hook. A magical disguise without magic? Has the Prince of Mages even heard of such a thing? And even if he had, would anybody expect Daimon to gain an access to it?

Frey’s head was full of fuck right now. Nothing that he had ever been through could have prepared him for the situation where he would be actually considering teaming up with Jaldabaot, the Eon of Eons, Prince of Heavenly Princes, the Lord’s ex-Prosthetic, to destroy the Earth on the Lord’s very orders. And he hated himself for the fact that he was actually considering it, even as he felt like spitting at the Eon’s feet at the same time.

He hated having to admit it even to himself that he was really out of options and ideas how to get into Sixth Heaven, pick up the Star of Doom and then return, without being caught or having his head shot off. He was good, but perhaps not this good. He was also wounded and needed a good night’s sleep and a day of rest without having to look over his back all the time. Yet he was still unable to reconcile with the thought that he could say ‘yes’, and probably benefit from it.

So instead of giving an answer, he sighed, rubbing his forehead with his hands.

Jaldabaot apparently saw his hesitation, because spoke softer and seriously, trying to convince him. “Listen, I had to swallow my pride and animosity to come here and offer help. You don’t like me and I don’t like you, Frey. We both like to bear grudges. But the cold facts are, that you defeated the Sower, after I royally fucked up and let him into the Kingdom. You saved the Kingdom. And while you were busy doing it, I managed to free myself and flee. For both of those... I am in your debt,” a note of unprecedented humbleness snuck into Jaldabaot’s words. “So now, please, get over yourself and accept my help,” the demiurge said, calm and a little resigned.

Daimon actually listened.

He was suspicious to start with, and grew even more so when Jaldabaot admitted to owing him, and to being guilty of something, for once. But all that aside,the truth was that he could really use a hand in this enterprise.

Of course, he could go on trying to delude himself that he could pull it off - that he could face the soldiers, the mages and all his friends sent his way all alone and still prevail. He could even jokingly hope that since so many units were dispatched on Earth, busy searching for him here, there was just nobody left to guard Heaven from a batshit crazy Destroyer coming back home.

But the Angelic Hosts under Michael's command were countless. For all Frey knew Michael had probably set up his new barracks in Daimon’s home, digging trenches in his library, all around the Star of Doom, and eagerly awaiting his return. Gabriel and Raziel were against him too. Especially Raziel would be a problem. Frey could use the help of somebody with half-decent magic, especially untraceable one. And Jaldabaot, whatever his twisted motives really were, sounded like he was willing to help him free of charge.

The idea was somewhat tempting for yet another reason. No one, literally no one would ever expect him to work with the demiurge. To start with, if what Jaldabaot had said was true, Sophia and the Archangels, just like Frey until very recently, still thought that they had the demiurge under lock and key and that he was just a drooling madman.

They all turned against him, betrayed him. Wouldn’t this be a great joke to pull?

There was also one last aspect to this. A very important one. Daimon might have called the demiurge ‘Mastema’ and taunted him with his betrayal and alliance with the Anticreator, but in fact, there was not a trace of Shadow left inside the fallen Archon. Frey, out of all people, was able to clearly sense that. He had always been able to sense even the slightest emanations of Darkness.

Of course, Jaldabaot was still a traitor, he was responsible for horrible things. He was still the same hated Eon who had once ruled the Kingdom as a vain, overly proud tyrant. And to Frey, he was still the same Great Archon who tortured him, who had him sentenced and executed, even if now he was mostly acting odd and infuriating.

But he was also free from the Shadow’s mark. If it had been any other way, Daimon would have never agreed. He would have killed the demiurge as soon as he had the chance, instead of sparing him, even though all in all, Jaldabaot was still an angel and killing another angel was a heavy crime and a blasphemy.

A moment passed.

“Alright.” Frey breathed out, heavily, like it physically hurt him to say it. “You win.”

He comforted himself that he could always back out of this later. For now his chances really seemed better with help than without it and even though Jaldabaot had ruined his life more than once, killing the demiurge wouldn’t make it any better.

Daimon got up, waving a threatening finger in front of Jaldabaot’s face, his gloomy features livening in an intimidating, wolfish way, “But I make the rules and you fucking listen to me and do what I say. You try to backstab me, I shove your wings up your ass. Are we clear?”

“Yes, but I have some conditions too,” Jaldabaot tilted his head forward in a business-like manner. “One, you don’t ignore my input just because you hate me. I’ve been at this whole ‘laying low’ business a few millennia longer, I know my thing.”

Frey was still in a state of shock that he had just agreed to this at all. But agreeing to Jaldabaot setting some terms was a whole new layer of surreal. But so far the terms didn’t sound overly unreasonable. “ And that’s all?”

“No,” the Eon shook his head, “I also don’t want you acting without consulting me. If we want to achieve anything - communication is key. Don’t keep me in the dark about things,” Jaldabaot said. He, for one, seemed to be completely alright with the idea of them working together. Then again, he was the one who came offering help.

Daimon hesitated. Co-operating with a former enemy was one thing, sharing information about the Kingdom with him was quite another. But he guessed, the demiurge knew everything anyway. From what he said earlier, it looked like he had even known that the Lord was gone, and still kept it to himself instead of sowing panic in the entire Kingdom and Depths. That was something in his favour, at least.

“Alright. But I also have one more condition.” Frey looked up into the cold, silver eyes seriously, “Even though we will hide from them and fight back against them, the Archangels remain my friends and you are not going to take this opportunity to get back at them. I’ll kill you, if you try.”

“Very well,” the demiurge lifted his open palms placatingly. “I agree to this with one correction, I won’t harm them, but I couldn’t possibly stop myself from embarrassing them should a chance present itself. I hope you don’t really mind that, all things considered?” he smirked and waved a hand towards the direction of yet another patrol, combing the streets in search for Daimon, on the orders from Michael and surely, the Regent.

Frey looked at him with pursed lips. He should mind it. He should be angry right now. He should firmly take his friends’ side against the Lord’s Prosthetic and never think twice. But somehow he felt like they rightfully deserved at least some shit to happen to them as of late for so easily discarding all trust and faith they ever had in him practically overnight.

“Alright but only long as it does not threaten the integrity of the Kingdom, and Gabriel’s position.” He stated, not entirely disagreeing.

“Ok, I can work with that,” Jaldabaot agreed.

Frey looked at him suspiciously. “‘Ok’ is not enough. I’m watching you, asshole. You are not going to try and get restored as the Kingdom’s Regent on the way. Not on my watch.”

“Pff, please, I wouldn’t agree to be the Regent even if Gabriel begged me to take the ring from him on his knees. That is so behind me now,” the silver angel made a discarding gesture with his hand. “Let him have the headache of being a proxy for the Lord. I want none of that. But I’m guessing, you are still 'the Lord's loyal servant’," Jaldabaot arched a brow at Frey, stating rather than asking.

Frey's expression cleared up, as he reciprocated Jaldabaot's look with absolute confidence this time. Whatever happened, wherever he went, the answer to this one question would always remain the same. "Yes. I am." He said calmly. He just hoped the Lord was not going to strike him down with a lightning for agreeing to forge this strange, temporary alliance.

“Fine! Now, let’s make sure we don’t get shot at on the way to my apartment,” Jaldabaot touched a hand to his chin, regarding the destroyer thoughtfully. “Pow,” he said, pointing the index finger of his other hand at Frey. Daimon’s clothes turned to shades of beige. “I’m going to hide the hooks on your wings, it might feel weird, don’t freak out,” the demiurge warned.

Bewildered by the instantaneousness of the changes, Daimon took a moment to gape at his new clothes before he obliged. “Go ahead…”

He felt something soft touch the top of his folded wings and as he turned to look, he discovered rounded feathery arches, with no indication of his trademark hooks ever being there. The cover felt a bit uncomfortable, but did not obstruct his movement and most importantly blended with the rest of his wing seamlessly. “Don’t worry that will come off no problem when the time comes,” the demiurge assured him. Frey’s black wings and the fake feathers started growing lighter, until they were chalky white. Soon after, Daimon’s hair also changed, turning blond. Jaldabaot smirked and nodded in approval. “Good. Now if all is set and clear - what are we still waiting for? Let's go, destroyer," the silver angel unfolded his wings and flew up.

Frey looked up at the Eon of Eons, hesitating. Nothing was clear to him as for the current moment. Nothing except for the fact he really needed a long, hot bath and a few hours of decent sleep.

And so despite his better judgment, in the end he too, lept into the air, following the demiurge into the night.

* * *

"By Darkness, why didn't he escape straight to the North Pole?" Litiel growled through the scarf, that was wrapped around the lower part of his face. His hat was pulled down so low, that only his eyes were visible, narrowed even more than usually because of the amount of bright white snow all around. The demon walked with his hand hidden deep in the pocket of his coat. He was still wearing the cape over it.

Drago, who looked much less like an Eskimo on a tourist trip into civilization, cocked his head, his lips crooked in slight amusement as he glanced the demon's way. Litiel was very obviously used to a warmer climate. "Do you live by the Lake of Flames or what?"

The demon reciprocated the glance, amused. "Only somebody who's never even seen the Lake could ask such a question." Litiel looked funny wrapped in his scarf, frowning constantly because of the cold. He didn't care to answer Gamerin's new questioning look, instead continuing about the temperature. "Anyway, it is much warmer in the Depths, than in Limbo, and this... this is just ridiculous. I hope he'll move to some warmer place soon, 'cause if he doesn't, that would surely mean he's insane and dangerous," the Depth-dweller half-joked. After all, Frey was supposed to be both of those now. It’s why they were on this mission, in the first place.

Gamerin looked around. They had just arrived to this town, travelling with the means of Litiel’s carpet, and for now were mostly in search for a place to stay. According to all sources Frey was somewhere here. There have been multiple sightings of him for the last few days. It seemed the Destroyer of Worlds was really stubborn and didn’t give a shit about his pursuers. But that was no news. It was Daimon Frey they were talking about. The angel who faced the Sower. The angel who died so many times already, that he was entitled not to give a fuck about a few squads of angels with guns chasing him.

Litiel proposed opening up an astral apartment in one of the hotels here and setting up their base of operating there, emphasizing that it should be one of the best hotels available. Drago agreed; as long as it did not endanger the mission, he did not mind high standards.

The angel looked back at the Raven. "If we or the competition don't find him soon, it will get pretty hot in here too." As to how insane and dangerous Frey really was, Drago wasn't so sure himself. When Alimon was passing him the orders, he didn't look or sound entirely convinced and that was rather unusual for the Woundmaster. And that could mean that not even the Regent was certain of the situation. But who could be certain of anything right now?

"I prefer heat over cold," the demon muttered, looking around and then stopping in front of a grand entrance to what looked like an expensive hotel. "That'll do, might be quite crowded, but we're not the ones hiding," Litiel marched towards the doors confidently. "Follow me and just don't bother with the humans," the Depth-dweller told Drago and opened the door with a push of his one hand, holding it a bit for Drago, before walking in. The hall looked very respectable, well-lit, warm, perfectly clean and even a bit glamorous with those few marble-lined columns.

The personnel and other mortals didn't seem to notice them, as the demon and angel walked through the big room towards the elevator. Litiel rested his hand on the shoulder of a porter, who was about to walk into an elevator with a trolley full of luggage and the young man stopped in place, frowning, but not looking at the demon, looking down with a frown instead, like he realized he just forgot something, leaving the whole spacious elevator at Drago and Litiel's disposal. "Come on in, blondie," Litiel pulled his scarf down to leer at Drago as he walked into the elevator and stood by the control panel.

The Sheolite, who had pulled back the hood of his jacket, followed the demon in with a skeptic look and then glanced at himself in the mirror that took up most of the space on one of the elevator's walls, checking if his honey colored hair had paled so much for him to deserve that nickname. He guessed the hue was rather light and could pass for blond, though. Drago refrained from loudly noticing how hilarious Litiel looked compared with the winter hat drawn over his eyes as payback. "Are you drunk, after all, demon?" He asked instead, with a smirk.

They'd both drunk quite a lot in the last several hours, first at the "Burning Bush" and then in the summoner's flat in the first town they arrived in. Of course, both of them claimed to be perfectly sober; and of all people the Ravens of Death and the Sons of Gehenna really did have a high alcohol tolerance. But for his part, Drago had to admit to himself, that he did feel kind of merrier than usual.

"I might be, this whole mission we're on sounds like some sort of alcohol infused delirium," Litiel snorted, pressing a button, after Drago entered. "Let’s try third floor," the demon proposed. "I bet we'll have neighbors on any floor here anyway," he added more quietly, not sounding like he cared much for those. The Depth-dweller pulled his hat off, when he saw Gamerin looking at it with intense unspoken ridicule.

The elevator stopped and they walked out into a fancily decorated corridor. Exiting the elevator, they passed a surprised blond demon, who gave them a long puzzled stare, studying Drago with disbelief, before he walked into the elevator they freed.

Drago mostly ignored the passer-by, instead staring in disbelief at the corridor that lay ahead of them. What he saw, was perhaps one of the most peculiar sights since the time master Alimon was caught dancing on a table after one night the whole commando Sheol got piss drunk with best sorts of alcohol in celebration of a spectacular success with one of their assignments.

"13 A, 13 B, 13 C, 13 Demonic -now this is too good to be true, must be a trap-," Litiel muttered under his nose, amused, as they passed at least half a dozen magically created rooms, that started after they passed the real number twelve.

Gamerin still looked at those surprised. He had heard that living in astral apartments, in hotels was a popular thing among Chasmies, but seeing it for himself, was a different experience altogether. He found it hard to believe that mortals somehow didn't notice the hotel corridor was so much longer than it should be. Gamerin shook his head amazed then, and caught up with Litiel. "You Depth-dwellers are outrageous."

"We are," the demon agreed, smirking. "Alright, enough walking," he stopped after 13.6 and surprisingly there appeared to be a gap between it and the next door. Or may be the gap appeared just then. "Give me a moment," Litiel said browsing through his bag, that was hidden under the cape, then he pulled out a piece of chalk and started drawing a frame of a door.

When the frame was done, Litiel drew some symbols at the corners, an ornate shape instead of a door handle and finally added ‘13.666’ where the number should be. Then he put the chalk away, dusted his hand against the silly hat that he stuck into the pocket of his coat and did a number of sophisticated gestures, muttering words of magic. The door materialized in front of them, looking like it emerged from the wall, with a key sticking out of the keyhole conveniently. Even more conveniently, it was attached to a keychain upon which hung a few more identical keys. Litiel unlocked the door and opened it for Drago. "After you."

Drago was rather impressed by the show he'd just witnessed. The Sheolites possessed theoretical knowledge sufficient to conjure such apartments. And they even had some practice in doing so. But the astrals they learnt to summon were as far as could be from luxurious. They were after all commando. Being the ‘elite forces’ of the Kingdom meant only that they were used to harsher, more spartan conditions than any other soldier.

Once, they had a few members trained in really powerful magic and glyphs but the last of those perished in the trap in Teratel’s forest. Nowadays most of the Sheolites that were left, were just professional fighters with very basic and scrappy magical education. And a simple spell could call forth only a simple flat.

Litiel's spells and glyphs weren't anywhere close to simple.

"You know," Drago said with good humor, as he walked in and looked around the cozy, rather stylish apartment, "I'm starting to think that letting you tag along wasn't such a bad idea."

Litiel snorted, locking the door behind them and taking off the scarf, cape, coat and boots. Then he put on a pair of slippers that came to existence together with the astral flat, and walked through the room to put the keys on the table. They were in a medium-sized living room, not really all that luxurious, but definitely fancier than an average angel's dwelling. The moderate room was devoid of decorations, the furniture looked comfortable and practical. There were two doors in the room except for the one they came from, one leading to the bathroom and the other to the bedroom.

"I don't know how about you, Son of Gehenna, but I'd rather start on this mission with getting some even warmer clothes and boots," the demon sat down into one of the two armchairs by the table, resting his bag in his lap. Litiel was clad in a wine-colored shirt, the mostly empty right sleeve was pinned at the shoulder not to hang loose and get in the way. Over the shirt he was wearing a gun holster, a number of other belts with throwing knives and a couple of daggers attached to them alongwith some other minor equipment on his belt and his bag. The Depth-dweller started browsing through the bag.

"I'm fine. Get whatever you need to begin. After all you’re the one who didn't know you'll be on Earth, even though you sounded like you considered coming down here either way." Drago and other Sheolites had been told about the mission in advance, and had a day or two to prepare. Gamerin's new boots, bought especially for this mission, kept him warm enough so far, and either way, he had always been rather pleased with his cold-endurance.

The one-winged angel eyed the small arsenal attached to Litiel's clothes, glad that so far nothing indicated that the Harap Serapel would have to use it against him. Gamerin himself also had similar assembly of weapons on him, two big guns, one holstered on his thigh, the other in a sling holster on his chest. There was also a third, smaller one, in an ankle holster over one of his boots, while another boot hid a dagger inside it. Further weapons, holster configurations for different occasions and cartridges full of ammo were along with other equipment still packed in the rucksack that he now dropped next to the empty armchair.

Except for the weapons, Drago also clinked with magical amulets, that he got used to wearing around his neck and belt even when not on a mission. Even when he had not been active as a commando at all. There was never enough protection, even if most of the time he could rely only on himself anyway.

Litiel snorted. His expression brightened as he pulled out an Eye of the Night from the bag. It was the hellish equivalent of the crystal communicator known in the Kingdom as Eye of the Day. Gamerin frowned at the Raven suspiciously.

"Hold on a sec, pal. I don't recall our deal including you telling everyone and their dog about the mission.”

"Relax, I'm not going to tell anyone about the mission," Litiel replied calmly, keeping his eyes on the magical object. "I'm going to call a... friend, who'll bring me some decent winter gear," the demon said, perhaps a bit reluctantly. Drago got the impression he was talking of the same person, who saved his life after the battle with Sower. The demon didn't seem eager to contact his savior, but did it nonetheless. "Abd-Al-Qadir," Litiel said clearly, looking into the Eye of Night with an unfriendly look, prepared in advance.

"Hello, kid, you need anything?" the person on the other end asked in a patronizing tone. The deep voice sounded friendly and casual.

"Stop calling me that, Al-Qadir," the demon hissed, snarling at the communicator in his hand. "Or I'll gut you and shove your guts down your throat, the next time I see you," Litiel sounded like he had done something like that to a person before, but might not be meaning it this time, at least not to the full extent.

Drago, having dropped into the other armchair, watched the demon and the crystal from the side, where he couldn't see the face that appeared in its smooth surface. Gamerin didn't feel so sure he wanted any visitors here. But he had already made a choice of trusting Litiel either way. It was a limited trust, but so far the demon did nothing to breach it.

The Sheolite wondered who the person on the other side of the Eye could be, and in what way were they related to the demon. The rich voice had an oriental note to it. The name also betrayed the origin. A djinni, most likely, Gamerin decided, crossing his legs.

"Good luck doing that through the crystal, boy," the deep voice answered with open amusement. "So, what can I get for you this time? And where are you, anyway?"

"Earth," Litiel kept glaring into the Eye of the Night murderously. "I need a fur coat, a fur hat, warmest steel-toe boots you can find, generally lots of warm clothes, especially socks... And they have to all be black, or dark red, or brown, just for fuck's sake no bright colors," Litiel listed his demands on one breath. "And bring me my other stuff, all of it," he added. "I'll be staying here for a while."

Gamerin snorted quietly. The demands, the servant. And yet the way the Raven spoke to him suggested that unusually this djinni might be playing some different role as well. You didn't show such amount of personal reluctance to a mere lackey. You didn’t let your lackey call you a boy or a kid, like Al-Quadir just called the demon. Of course, Litiel made it clear that he hated it, but it didn’t sound like it was the first time it happened and like he really had control over it. Drago looked at Litiel with slight curiosity, trying to recreate the demon's story from those few pieces of puzzle that he had already found.

"I'll drop by later today, give me the address," the djinni replied still sounding rather friendly and helpful. Unlike the angry Raven, who looked like the only thing that was stopping him from doing something violent to Al-Qadir was the fact the djinni was way beyond his reach.

Litiel stated their geographical position, the name of the hotel and the number of the room and then turned the communicator off, breaking the djinni's goodbyes mid-sentence. He put the Eye of the Night back into his bag, like he couldn't wait to get rid of it and the guy he just talked with. "You got any plans for the rest of today?" he asked Gamerin quickly to change the topic, before the angel had a chance to ask him anything.

But Drago was not that easy to fob off that subject. "If your djinni is coming today, he should specify an hour. I'll take an initial stroll around the area when he'll be here. I'd rather not be seen here," he said. Djinnis had many connections, and served many masters. And he didn't know a thing about this particular one, except that he probably served down in the Depths.

"Then you can just sit in the bedroom for a minute, or take a shower, when he comes," Litiel shrugged. "I won't let him stay longer, than it'll take him to drop my stuff off," the demon didn't sound like he was keen on spending more than a minute in the djinni's company.

"He's not your own servant, is he?" Drago inquired.

"No, he's one of Asmodeus' men. Long story.”

Gamerin gave a low whistle, and shook his head a bit. "Then I'd rather really go for that walk." From Asmodeus there was just one step to Lucifer. It shouldn't reach so high neither in Hell or Heaven that someone in commando Sheol was working with a demon. Especially since with his one wing, Drago was a rather recognizable member of the angelic elite force. Being seen around with Hazar from time to time was a different thing. Especially since despite working for Raguel, Hazar was very far from being a bloody Harap Serapel. Then again, the Ravens of Death mostly kept their identities well-veiled. And Litiel had absolutely no interest in being recognized either.

"Don't worry, Drago, he's safe. He's the one, who smuggled me out of the Depths. You really don't have to go further than the bedroom, and I don't want to call that trust-worthy overly friendly asshole again," Litiel shook his head, placing his bag beside the armchair and getting comfortable.

Drago regarded the Raven, with interest, and a shadow of a smile, then shook his head, asking. "And how come Asmodeus doesn't mind one of his servants running errands for you? Are you somehow related?”

"To Asmodeus?" Litiel joked. "I don't think so. To Al-Qadir, in his overly imaginative dreams perhaps. He sleeps with my mom, that's all," the demon said casually. That phrase, spoken carelessly and reluctantly, explained the patronizing tone and language the djinni used on him and the friendly attitude. It seemed Al-Qadir did more than just sleep with the Raven's mother, and aspired to form some sort of parental bond with her elite-assassin of a son, to the latter's visible displeasure.

Gamerin, suddenly reminded of the fact that in the Depths, unlike in the Kingdom, there were actual families, with fathers, mothers and children, nodded, deciding it was enough of being nosy for now. From Litiel's tone he had made sure Asmodeus in person was not having his hand or any business in this, and that was relieving. Either way, he had heard the rumors of the Rotten Boy hiding somewhere on Earth too, where he probably had not taken along even half of his servants. Al-Qadir must be one of those that had stayed in the Depths.

On the other hand Asmodeus might be wanting to get his ass back to Hell soon, considering what could happen here, on Lord's planet, if Frey wasn't stopped.

Despite the incoming end of the world, Drago smiled. "Thanks for being honest with me. I know it doesn't come easy to you, Depth-dwellers." The smile turned into a smirk.

Litiel smirked as well, eyeing Gamerin with a friendly, somewhat playful look. "You're welcome, Sheolite. I like you," as he said that, Litiel deliberately let his eyes travel down Drago's face, neck, chest, abdomen... The demon kept smirking, as his words gained a whole new undertone.

And that made even Drago, who was an angel after all, squint a bit suspiciously. But after a moment he shrugged it off, letting the weird impression of something being wrong about the demon's expression slip. "We should stop wasting time and begin the search today,” he stated, “The day's still young."

* * *

Two hours later Daimon came back into the living room of the demiurge’s flat. He was fresh and clad in new clothes, feeling better than he had in days. Yet something he had discovered in those past two hours had left him really confused.

Warm baths always worked miracles. But wasn’t this a bit too much? Frey knew that taking a bath with so many open wounds was a bad idea. Of course, stubborn as he was, he was still going through with it. But he expected the bathwater to be red when he was done. But nothing of the kind happened. When he took off the bloody bandages and washed off the dried blood, he discovered that all of his wounds... had closed. Why?

Did the Lord consider this new strange alliance some kind of progress on Abaddon’s mission? Was this the Light’s way of praising him for finally getting back around to trying to fulfill its orders? If Daimon thought that he had been plagued by doubts before, the amount of various questions haunting him grew exponentially since the last evening, when he had lit Jaldabaot’s cigarette, not knowing who the angel was.

Jaldabaot was sitting on the sofa. His eyes were glued to the large tv set.

“Oh, yeah baby, just like that. Put it there. Right there. Perfect,” the silver angel commented the view of a construction site. A machine had just finished resting a large beam precisely on two pillars. Some workers in bright jackets and safety helmets were walking around the place, consulting blueprints and operating machinery. Jaldabaot seemed to be completely absorbed by the view. “Oh, yes, yes, very nice,” he expressed approval at the sight of another job well done, completely unaware that he was not alone in the room.

Frey actually froze in his tracks. What the fuck? Was this sly silver asshole really lounging on the couch, while watching other people work? Perhaps not that much had changed after all.

"Watching others work, like in the good old times, jerk?" Frey asked mildly.

Jaldabaot turned to him with a snarl. He opened his mouth to protest, but hesitated, unsure what to say. Some loud noise from the tv distracted him and the silver angel turned to it again, losing interest in Daimon. “Hoho,” the demiurge gave the construction site an appreciating look. Then, suddenly remembering about his worst enemy hovering over him, he spared Frey a glance, without fully paying attention, “Did you want something?”

“No,” the Destroyer of Worlds glared and went past him, heading for the kitchen.

He came back soon.

“The fuck? What for do you keep a fridge in there if there’s nothing inside it?” He had already made himself at home in the fallen Archon’s flat. He had gone into the kitchen to grab something, he didn’t even know what, at least a beer if not a sandwich. Instead he found nothing but a neat stack of bandages Jaldabaot previously created laying on the table. And when he opened the fridge he had been welcomed by emptiness, pristine white, clean walls, perfectly transparent glass shelves and bright light turning on to better present the lack of food to him.

Jaldabaot turned to him, eyebrows raised. “Ah, fridge. I only use it for booze and leftovers. And ice-cream.”

“What.”

“Ice-cream. Sweet, frozen dairy product.”

“That was a rhetorical question. The actual question is: where the fuck is the food?” Frey winced. Did he just hear the Eon saying the word ‘booze’?

“Alright, making plans can wait, the Destroyer of Worlds is hungry,” Jaldabaot laughed, getting off the couch. “The food is in the kitchen. You just didn’t know where to look.”

“Really? Well, great, then by all means bloody show me.” Frey followed him. As they walked through the magical corridor, a group of silver tumbleweeds rolled past them."And what the Hell are those?" Daimon inquired wondering why he was even asking those things. But it had been a while since he had somebody else than sparrows and pigeons to open his mouth to, he blamed it on that.

"My cleaning... personnel," Jaldabaot shrugged. "I don't have a name for them," he said, entering the kitchen and taking a number of plates off of a shelf, starting to serve the table.

“Oh, I see, well, they look like shi-- What the fuck are you doing?" Daimon, who had just entered the kitchen, stared at the demiurge in utter shock.

"Serving the table," Jaldabaot said. He was already done with the plates and instead was busy looking for cups and glasses. He didn't even turn around from the cupboard. "Not looking for a poison vial, if that's what you're thinking. You want what, tea, wine, juice, water, whatever?"

Daimon didn't say a word at first, but his surprise was more than apparent. The image of Jaldabaot, the Eon of Eons of all angels, serving his own table, was just absolutely wrong. Even Frey had Plesitea and some other servants do that for him. The demiurge had really sank low if he didn't even have a djinni to do such chores for him. Obviously, his work for the Anticreator didn’t pay off very generously.

Living on Earth must really have been quite a lesson to Jaldabaot if what Frey was looking at now happened everyday. "Mulled beer," Daimon mocked, "What, do you have a whole secret backroom of drinks to choose from?"

Jaldabaot put an empty pitcher and two glass cups on the table and finally sat down. “No. There’s no need for that.” He chuckled and lifted the glass pitcher in his hand, as it suddenly filled with steaming amber liquid.

Daimon's already huge eyes just widened in absolute horror. "Are you kidding me?" He winced horribly, and despite the smell of mulled beer rising into the air, stated harshly, "I’m not gonna drink your piss even from a crystal goblet!"

Jaldabaot stared at Daimon like something just died inside Frey's mouth. "You're just... sick..." the demiurge pronounced slowly, looking traumatized.

Abaddon looked at him repulsed. "I'm sick?" He disbelieved, "No, you are sick, if you were even imagining I would as much as touch any food that you puked out of nowhere with your magic. Where is my damned jacket?"

* * *

"That must be him," Litiel got up from the armchair, where he had dropped a few minutes before, when he and Drago returned from the hall of the hotel.

They had spent quite a while there listening to the overly friendly receptionist, who told them everything about the city, its geography, history, public transport and monuments of cultural importance. It was mostly the free map that interested Litiel, but since they were still waiting for Al-Qadir to come, he did not interrupt the mortal, who seemed to see the two as very valuable clients.

The demon walked towards the door and then glanced back to make sure Drago was safely hidden away from their guest in the bedroom. Then Litiel opened the door, that Al-Qadir knocked on a moment ago in a particular rhythm, and let the tall bulky djinni with a couple of huge bags and a rucksack on his back into the living room.

"Your mother sent presents, kid," Al-Qadir said, smiling.

And Litiel found himself gaping at the amount of luggage the djinni brought, having completely forgotten about his previous promise to gut the man if he called him that again.

* * *

Drago, hidden in bedroom, had been listening to whatever exchange of words occurred between Litiel and the visitor, not because he wanted to eavesdrop, but more because the djinni's deep voice filtered through the door to the bedroom easier than a smell of freshly baked pie probably could. After he was sure that Al-Quadir was gone for good, he headed out into the living room.

Litiel was standing in the middle of the room, holding a dark brown sheepskin coat, at least knee-long. The demon looked elated. This would certainly keep him warm. There was a slightly funny looking fur hat on his head already, a bit tilted to the side and not properly on, like whoever placed it on the demon's head, didn't bother adjusting it. As Drago walked closer, he discovered there really was a delicious smell of warm pastry coming from one of the bags. Litiel turned, grinning to the angel, and then he stepped over the other big bag and went to hang the coat on the peg.

Drago shook his head, trying to imagine Litiel in that coat and deciding it might be even funnier than before, but saved that remark for later. There was something different on his mind right now, that he had discovered when, before the arrival of the djinni, he went into bedroom for the first time. He pointed the door leading to it now. "Why is there just one bed there, demon?"

"I can make one more," Litiel offered casually, hanging the coat and admiring it for a moment. He liked its dark brown-red color of dried blood. He took the hat off and hung it above the coat.

"Do, if that's not asking too much," Drago snorted, and nodded towards the coat, diverted. "So that's your choice of inconspicuous mission attire?"

"Yes," Litiel replied contentedly, running his hand over the sheep skin. Then he turned around and walked back to where Drago and the bags were. "My mother sent us dinner, so I propose we dine before it grows cold," Litiel bowed down and started digging out the still warm packaged meat pie.

"Might as well," Drago agreed, taking in the pleasant scent. "And then, we're out on a hunt for information." Hearsays, rumors of recent events. They needed all the general information they could find in order to give the task a decent focus. “But maybe you and your coat should go alone.”

Litiel glared at him, half-heartedly.

* * *

The gloomy Destroyer of Worlds was sitting on the sofa in the white and silver living room, slowly chewing his way through the third cheeseburger. The lady in the McDonald’s take-away hadn’t been particularly surprised to see a deadly looking, light-haired man in dark glasses and beige jacket ordering strawberry milkshake and food for a family of four, and then paying her with a piece of crumpled newspaper that she thanked for with a bright smile and diligently hid into the cash register only to realize what it was some few hours later.

Daimon couldn't create actual money, like some Dark ones did on a daily basis, being a major cause for inflation in modern society. But he was armed with the power of persuasion only an Angel of Destruction could offer, and well... a small arsenal of tricks he had learnt from Kamael, so it didn't go so bad. He could have asked Jaldabaot to make him some money but that would be just degrading. He might have tentatively agreed for the demiurge to help him. But he only needed help with the big scale problems. And buying a few burgers wasn’t one of those.

The guardian angels hadn’t paid much heed to him, too busy making sure their clients didn't order something fat and toxic enough to kill them on the spot, and none of Michael's boys were in for a morning snack. An angel personally queuing to buy food in McDonalds and revealing his presence to a mortal cashier, was perhaps a bit strange a sight, but surely no capital offence. Plus nobody was told there is a dangerous blonde, white-winged man on the run. So as much as he hated his new hair color and his new jacket, Daimon managed to purchase junk food and return to the demiurge’s flat without a slightest hitch.

Jaldabaot was nowhere to be seen. Finally, when he was done unwrapping the fourth burger from the rustling paper, and bit into his dinner, Frey heard the demiurge’s quiet voice coming from the kitchen, “...Stupid motherfucker… Knight, my ass… Look at me, look at me! I’m Abaddon and I ram people’s heads into walls as a greeting… Who needs self-control? Pf, that shit’s overrated,” the silver bat rambled.

“Do you have some problem with me? Want to tell that to my face?” Frey inquired loudly from the sofa.

There was a while of silence on the other end. Then soundlessly the barefoot Eon walked into the room. “Ah, you’re back,” he acknowledged. “And you bought some McD’s! Let me guess, you didn’t buy me anything, now did you?”

“What for? You can create your own stuff.” Daimon said as he ate up the few remaining fries right in front of the demiurge.
“It’s the gesture that counts,” Jaldabaot snorted, but then cringed and rubbed his head. “You’ve given me a headache. I plan to return the favor, so let’s talk business,” the silver bat chose not to share the couch with Daimon and created a blue bean bag chair opposite to it. He dropped on the chair. A large milkshake with the trademark M appeared in his hand.

Frey winced. He wouldn’t drink that even if the fate of the Kingdom depended on it. But it disturbed him that the drink in the fallen Archon’s hands looked as genuine as the one he had just finished. It would be all too easy to mistake it for the real deal, though it probably tasted horrible. “Great, that’s easy. I just need weapons, disguise and a piece of magic carpet from you. Maybe also a bulletproof vest. Then I’ll handle the rest on my own.” Daimon proceeded straight to the point.

“Handle what exactly? The Hosts? All of Raziel’s spies, Commando Sheol, the Locust and oh, I don’t know, an army of djinnis? How bad is it?” the demiurge quirked a brow at him.

“Pretty bad but it could be worse.” Frey snorted. Although he was instantly reminded about who he had just teamed up with and decided that he was perhaps too quick to say it. It probably couldn’t be worse, after all. “I just need my sword back. I had to leave it behind at my place in Sixth Heaven when Michael sicced his soldiers on my rose bushes.”

"Sixth Heaven," Jaldabaot repeated thoughtfully. He closed his eyes and sunk even deeper into the chair, sipping his drink. "We could use a carpet to get to the Fourth Heaven, then we'd just walk to your house from there... "

“There is no ‘we’,” Frey eyed him with a murderous glare, “I will do it myself. You’re not going anywhere near the Kingdom. You had been exiled for a reason.” Daimon said that as calmly as he could, while he tried to channel his anger elsewhere, mercilessly crumpling the empty packages and then depositing them inside of the take-out bag, which he also proceeded to crumple.

Jaldabaot’s eyes opened abruptly at that remark, only to narrow into slits of snide silver. "Ah, I forgot, who I'm dealing with. You're probably intending to simply slaughter everyone who stands in your way, all those guards in your house, some innocent passerbies and anyone else who doesn’t manage to run away screaming on time,” the demiurge sneered.

“I don't intend to slaughter anyone,” Frey’s features grew sharp as he bared his teeth, trying to hold his calm nonetheless, “And you of all angels, do not get to judge me, traitor. Should I remind you how many innocents you’ve killed by letting the Shadow into the Kingdom? Of how many you sacrificed on a whim back when you were still at power?”

“This is not a competition, Frey,” Jaldabaot said slowly with a grimace. “We’re not comparing headcounts here. You simply have a way about yourself, that whenever you’re on some mission people tend to die and get seriously injured in your vicinity. I, on the other hand, never killed a fellow angel first-hand. They usually die when I’m very far away. That’s why I insist, that we both go,” the demiurge looked at Frey seriously and grimly. His tone was unfriendly, but otherwise without emotion.

“Oh, so suddenly you pretend to be concerned with lives of other angels that you never gave a fuck about. And what do you think you’re going to do when I throw myself at someone who stands in my way to slaughter them? How exactly do you plan on holding me back?” Frey tried his best not to throw himself and slaughter Jaldabaot right there.

“That’s the thing. With me around you won’t need to throw yourself at anyone, Frey. I’ve got my ways. For example, that group of soldiers we met - nice lads by the way - they’re looking for someone completely else now, convinced that Michael ordered them to do that,” the demiurge explained calmly, waving his milkshake around. “Anything Raziel can do, I can do better.”

Frey shook his head.

“Forget it. I won’t be the one to let you back into the Kingdom.” Right now some of his friends were probably thinking him a shadow-possessed criminal - but that was all one great misunderstanding and Daimon was going to prove them wrong. But if they saw him side by side with Mastema, well, that wouldn’t be a misunderstanding anymore, or something that could be explained. That would be capital offence. One he would gladly execute himself for it.

“Fi-i-ine,” Jaldabaot groaned, rolling his eyes. “Whatever,” the Eon shook his head and moved the straw around in his drink. “I will make you everything you need. Guns that will freeze your targets without hurting them, a disguise even the Lord won’t recognize you in, some other gadgets and gizmos. We just need to buy a carpet.”

Frey relaxed visibly against the back of the couch, “What, you can’t make one yourself?” he half-joked. But even if Jaldabaot could, well, he wouldn’t want to risk travelling by it.

* * *

Drago sat in the living room, with a cup of tea, assembling his weapons on the table. He was the first one to come back from their reconnaissance of the area. He and Litiel decided to split, concluding it will both attract far less attention, and give them opportunity to collect twice as much information. Too bad that it also meant twice as much completely useless data to sift through. Leaving the hotel before the trip around the vicinity, the Sheolite hadn’t realized that every garbage can, pavement stall and dive would buzz with such amount of rumors and info on more topics that one could hear in Kingdom and Depths combined

Thanks to some peculiar synergy, down here on Earth two rumors tended to spontaneously become not even three but five rumors and then fly in all directions smoother and quicker that the arrows of a Salamander sharpshooter. One rather dumb looking gnome Drago met had even passed him a rumor about himself asking questions on the previous street, before realizing he was talking to the very same person.

At first the angel was surprised that news could travel quicker than him crossing streets, but after a whole day of listening to all kinds of bullshit Drago completely stopped being worried about the rumors that might spread around town about him and Litiel. He came to understand that here on Earth hearsay was like muffins, in demand only when they were warm and fresh, and completely uninteresting to anybody when they grew stale after a day or two.

Other than that, it seemed that Michael's boys were asking around for Frey so much that it had already become a rather dull and uninteresting topic on the local rumor radar. Just some wanted criminal on the run. Not the first one, not the last one.

The news providing the most excitement in the town right now was not the incoming end of the world, but a building being demolished in the middle of the city. The demolition itself was old news, but fresh was the fact that instead of constructing a shopping mall in its place, as the initial plan assumed, the local authorities decided to build a church there.

The decision of the local authorities was welcomed by a great joy of the city’s population of guardian angels and grim outrage of the Depth-dwellers. Which resulted in a few punch-ups. Those however, mostly took place between the demons themselves, after all the angels they had attempted to get involved into a brawl fled from sight, leaving the drunken Chasmies, that poured into the streets from their favorite pubs and dives to express their opinion on the matter, alone with their unvented anger.

But there were other things happening in the town as well, including ones that actually could have had something to do with the Destroyer of Worlds.

Drago sighed. He was wondering whether Litiel had better luck and discovered something of interest, or better yet, something of significance. And when the Hell he was going to come back and share it with him.

"Oh by Darkness," a loud grumble came from behind the door to the corridor, answering a part of Gamerin’s questions. "Stupid fucking lock, come on," there was a noise of someone trying to shove the key into the lock and missing. Missing hard, judging by how every second try produced the noise of metal scratching wood. "Aha!" finally the key was successfully turned inside the lock and a few seconds after that, Litiel almost fell into the room, very red on the face. He pulled the key out of the keyhole and then closed the door loudly, locking it after a moment of deep concentration.

"Evening, Gamerin," Litiel said, smirking and looking more than a little squiffy. The demon was wearing his hat, fur coat and cape, that must have made him stand out of the crowd quite a bit, but apparently hadn’t caused him any major trouble. At least the Raven looked quite merry as he pulled his hat off and after a few failed attempts manages to hang it on the peg. Then he got busy with his cape.

"Evening," Drago echoed, arching a honey-coloured eyebrow at the demon. He put one of the guns he had instinctively reached for back on the table, taking the cup of tea instead.

Actually, it wasn’t even evening anymore. It was rather late at the night right now and Litiel looked like he had made friends with at least half of the alcohols on the Earthly menu since the time Gamerin had seen him last. Drago guessed that the demon had most likely chosen to engage in that one particular way of gaining information that the Sheolite decided to save for some other day, namely a tour around the local joints and honky-tonks, and making great new friends with the local scums over a drink or three. "Found out something of use before you drunk too much?"

"No," Litiel took a while unbuttoning his coat with one hand and then, when he was done with undressing, the demon put on slippers and walked towards Gamerin. "Wives' tales mostly, some gossip about gunfire in the streets, but I bet you've heard that, too, Son of Gehenna," the Raven dropped into the armchair and gave Drago a long look. "You?"

Drago had indeed heard the mention of a few small shoot-outs from a day or two back, but nobody he asked could answer who the target was, or supply the Sheolite with any credible information on how it ended. He could take a wild guess as to who was the shooting party though. "You also think it's Michael's boys? I never heard they were permitted to open fire here on Earth. We weren't briefed on that."

Technically, commando Sheol was also to some extent under Michael's authority, but in practice, the Sheolites followed orders of Alimon, whose position was high and independent enough, for him to be able to choose. And with the deep insight into the more complex political machinations in the Kingdom that the Woundmaster possessed, right now he had chosen to listen to the Regent instead. And the Regent, at least for the time being, wanted just information from the Sheolites, and not Daimon brought back to Heaven in chains.

* * *
* remains of the chapter in description due to character limit *