Page 4 of Metatron

“Because this planet is in grave danger.”

A grand declaration. I crossed my arms. “Oh. From what, pray tell?”

“Hell.”

Maybe it was because I remained drunk, but I laughed. “Of course it has to be Hell. Nice.” I clapped. “You are good. I mean the wings, the earnest expressions. Who put you up to this? Was it Edward? Or Leopold? Is there a camera taping this?” I glanced around, looking for a hidden lens or person holding up a phone.

“Woman, you are testing my patience. I do not have time for your mockery. Where is the Templar leader? I need to speak with him at once.”

No surprise he’d assume a male was in charge. It soured my mirth. “Listen, pal. Fun’s over. You and your fake-ass wings need to go before I call the cops.” Or shot him. The more the alcoholic buzz wore off, the more my trigger finger itched. If this guy wasn’t cosplaying, then I faced a next-level demon.

He drew himself straighter, which made his already impressive height daunting. His eyes began to glow but not as much as the halo that suddenly circled his head, and when he spoke again, his voice reverberated. “Enough of your blathering, woman. Take me to the Templar leader at once!” His wings extended, and I still couldn’t help myself.

“You can take your demands and shove them, demon.”

He uttered a sound as he reached for me, but I darted away, or meant to. My drunken butt lacked coordination, meaning he managed to grab hold of my arm and swing me back to face him.

He uttered a growly noise I didn’t understand. His halo brightened, and through the still-open door, a light beamed and bathed us in its brilliance.

I blinked, and when I could see again, we weren’t in that church basement anymore. A disjointed sensation hit me hard. My stomach heaved. And by heaved, I mean it decided to evacuate through my mouth.

And that was how I barfed all over my first angel.

Chapter 2

Metatron held on to his annoyance lest he smite the human who’d fouled all over him. Frustrating creature that she was, he should have probably left her when she proved so contrary. However, seeing the Templar symbol when flying overhead, the sigil used to identify those doing work for the shepherds guiding the flock, excited him. Perhaps this planet hadn’t forgotten everything if the Templars still existed. They could be of great aid in navigating this strange planet.

Having visited many flocks in his life, he’d never met one that had evolved in such a fashion. Blame the fact they’d lost their shepherds—AKA the ark and angels sent to guide them.

He whirled from the woman who stared around wide-eyed and non-apologetic about the mess she’d made. He stalked a few paces before spreading his arms and commanding the cantorii to cleanse him. It removed the vile fluids and chunks from him but could do nothing for his mood. That remained dark.

To think he’d been banished to this.

“I don’t feel so good,” she slurred.

He whirled to see the human had collapsed on his narrow bed. He didn’t use it often, preferring to perch when he slept. While only slightly wider than his frame, it should have been big enough for the slight female if she’d used it properly, but she lay sprawled at an angle that dangled her head over one edge and legs over another while she snored something terrible.

He pursed his lips. She wasn’t ill, but drunk, which God condemned along with the use of drugs and other debaucheries.

Not that Elyon abstained. Metatron might not have partaken, but he was aware of Elyon’s vices, usually hidden from all but those closest to him. Do as I say, not as I do, what Elyon had once declared when Metatron had dared to question God about his choices.

Metatron poked at the female. “Wake up.”

Snort. Snuffle. The woman didn’t rouse.

He sighed; he didn’t have time for this. He contacted Jesus, God’s scion—and spy. Each cantorii and ark travelled with one, an extension of Elyon himself, a Jesus who had some of God’s powers, enough to keep a mission healthy and impress the flocks on the colonized planets. Most were annoying and pompous with an inflated sense of worth despite being the lowest ranked when on a mission. This Jesus in particular irritated Metatron to the point he’d thought about having him expelled into space.

“What?” Jesus replied via the HALO.

Metatron fought the urge to snap. The constant disrespect grated. Not to mention this particular Jesus Christ’s reputation proceeded him. Angels had a tendency of dying on missions with this one. It led to Metatron taking a few precautions to ensure he didn’t also become a casualty.

“I have a human in need of healing,” Metatron explained.

“Why not just kill it and grab another? There’s billions of them on this filthy planet.” The biggest colony Metatron had ever encountered and the one person he needed sleeping off their overindulgence.

“Now.” His final growled word on the matter.

Jesus chose to not further argue and appeared at the door to his room a short moment after. The male entered, his hair long and unruly, his frame gaunt, unlike the last Jesus Metatron worked with. This one had already adopted the clothing from the surface and could have fit right in with his sulky expression.

---