Page 3 of Metatron

Over the thumping of my heart, I heard a strange rustling and almost a scraping as if something shoved its way through the doorframe. Something big. Like a demon!

Shit. I went to push myself up, only to get the spins and a lurch in my tummy that didn’t bode well. I paused and took a deep breath.

Thump, thump, thump. Steps approached. From a tiny part in my hair, I noted the boots that stopped not far from my face. I hotly blew on a hank of hair—Pfffft—that did nothing to improve my line of sight.

“Are you injured?” asked a deep male voice with a gravelly undertone.

“Nope, just a little bit tipsy,” I slurred as I shoved to my hands and knees, head still hanging. Ugh, why did gravity have to be such a jerk? I managed to get upright but only because a firm grip steadied me enough that I could lift my face and gape for a few reasons.

One, what a pretty man. You know that term “cheekbones sharp enough to cut”? I stared at them framed by the kind of layered hair men usually paid a fortune to achieve. A stern gaze met mine, which matched the thinly pressed lips. But what caused me to blink? The jutting wings at the intruder’s back. Had to be a costume. A good one, too, given I’d have sworn I saw the feathers on them ruffle.

“Who are you?” I managed to ask despite my thick tongue.

“Metatron.”

“Sounds like a good name for a Transformer. Only, usually, they don’t have wings.” My reply drew his brows together.

“I don’t know what this transformer is that you speak of. I am an archangel here on a mission from God.”

I’m afraid I laughed. “Sure you are, buddy.” Because the thing was, yes, as a Templar Knight, I fought the forces of evil, AKA nuisance demons that popped up every so often, but while my order might be based on religion and, supposedly, we followed the word of God, I actually didn’t really believe in it. I mean, if angels were real, why hadn’t I ever seen any? I’d encountered enough demons to satisfy me they existed, but no burning bushes, no celestial beings, no voices out of nowhere, until now. And given my level of drunkenness, there existed a strong possibility the man cosplaying wasn’t real. Never mind the fact I’d never hallucinated before. There was always a first time.

“You are alone?” he asked, glancing around.

The question managed a cold slap to my drunken fuzz. I stepped away from the guy called Metatron, and my back hit the table, preventing me from moving farther and still too far from my gun. With my tipsy state, what were the chances I could throw myself over the table, grab it from my bag and aim it—without falling over or puking?

Probably not good odds, so I remained still and cautious. Curious too. As some of my senses returned, I noted, despite his claim, the wings at his back weren’t white but a strange teal. So, not an angel. At the same time, he wasn’t like any demon I’d ever seen. He didn’t have horns or any of the disfiguration I’d become used to. Twisted limbs, leathery appearance, and slavering grunts tended to be the norm.

“Listen, I don’t know who you are, or how you got a key, but I know for a fact you shouldn’t be here and need to leave.” Had I been sober, I wouldn’t have been so worried. I’d faced down monsters, gone and cleared out nests when they cropped up, and put myself numerous times in danger with the scars to prove it. But I knew my instincts were off. Hand-to-hand against a guy his size would be tricky if I couldn’t count on my usual speed.

I inched sideways, keeping my eyes on him as I made my way to my bag.

“I came because your door bore the symbol.” To my surprise, he sketched the Templar sign in the air, a cross that then lit up bright red before fading from sight.

Okay, that was kind of cool and more proof I probably dreamed this. “What do you want with the Templars?”

“You know of them?” he countered.

No point in lying given the symbol lightly etched on the top left corner of the door. “Yeah, I know of them.”

“Where can I find their leader?”

“Depends on why you want them.” I cocked my head. “How did you even find this location?” It wasn’t as if we advertised our presence.

“The sign—”

“On the door is tiny and barely noticeable. In other words, unless you know where to find it, it’s not something you just come across,” I countered. “So let’s try again. Why did you come to this church in particular?” It was one of dozens in the city, but the only Templar one in the state.

“It wasn’t the symbol on your door that alerted me to your presence but the design on the roof.”

My turn to purse my lips. “What design?”

Once more he did a sketch in the air, the cross somehow having ornate flairs to the ends, the red of it more muted, a burgundy to match the clay tile used on the roof. The symbol faded. “I happened to be flying overhead when I saw it. I’d begun to think the previous choir failed to establish the Templars or that they’d disappeared along with the shepherds.”

“The Templars are still around, but the only shepherds in this world usually tend to sheep.”

“How many knights serve?” he asked.

“Why does it matter?”

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