The low hum of conversation and the clinking of mugs filled the air inside the small, dimly lit café. Astrael sat across from Seraphiel, the warm cup of coffee in front of him almost untouched, now Lukewarm. The aroma of roasted beans swirled around them, mingling with the faint smell of old books and damp earth. Outside, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting a deep purple hue over the town of Ashford. Astrael didn't care for any of it.

  “So,” Seraphiel started, leaning back in her chair and glancing around the café with casual disinterest. “Not exactly your typical assignment, huh?”

  Astrael took a slow sip from his cup, the bitterness of the coffee biting into his tongue. He hated the stuff, but it was a necessary evil. He had to admit, the change of pace was… welcome, in a strange way. Heaven’s bureaucratic grind had left him feeling like he was suffocating.

  He let out a long breath. “Yeah. I didn’t think I’d be getting stuck on patrol duty this early in my career. Not exactly what I signed up for.”

  Seraphiel raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into the faintest of smiles. “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself. C’mon, this isn’t so bad. A little bit of time away from the usual... heavenly drama might do you some good.”

  Astrael frowned slightly. “That’s easy for you to say. You’ve been doing this for—what?—centuries?”

  She smirked and shrugged. “Give or take. Time’s a little… hazy for me.”

  He scoffed, shaking his head. “I don’t think you really understand what it’s like. I worked my ass off for years to get recognized. To be sent out to actually do something meaningful. Not... not this.”

  “Meaningful,” she repeated, her voice soft but teasing. “Is that what you call it? All those tests and trials? The rankings? The competition to be the best?”

  Astrael’s jaw tightened as he set the cup down a little harder than intended. “Yes. That’s exactly what I call it. The Throne’s been praising me for years. But none of that matters now, does it? Now I’m stuck down here with you, I was always told I’d be the one, but it’s like, what's the point in trying anymore”

  Seraphiel’s expression softened, and she leaned forward, her tone shifting to something more genuine. “I get it, Astrael. I really do. But maybe you’re missing the point. This? This might be where you actually make a difference. Up there? You’d just be like the rest, a heartless soldier. Thats what we fought in the war long ago”

  Astrael’s ears perked up with interest “The war? Against the Light Bringer? Lucifer?”

  Seraphiel nodded solemnly “All we fought back then, those heartless angels, his Legion, They followed him unconditionally, they felt nothing, no moral compass, hundreds of them died, hundreds of us died, and while we cried for our fallen feathers, they just kept fighting”

  Astrael’s brow furrowed, and his wings shifted slightly in discomfort. “But they were angels too, weren’t they? How could they... just abandon everything we stand for?”

  Seraphiel’s gaze drifted for a moment, as though trying to find the right words. She sighed softly. “That’s the tragedy of it, Astrael. They believed in the mission. The idea of perfect obedience, of following orders, of not questioning. The Light Bringer promised something... a vision of order, of strength. But they lost themselves in it. They became machines, nothing more. They followed his orders without thought. They didn't mourn their own deaths. They didn’t care about the lives they destroyed. And in the end, they became the very thing they were trying to fight.”

  Astrael stared at her, trying to process the weight of her words. “And you... you were part of the other side. The ones who fought for Heaven?”

  Seraphiel’s gaze grew distant as Astrael’s question hung in the air. For a moment, she didn’t speak, as though choosing her words carefully. Then, her voice came out quietly, the weight of years in each syllable.

  “Yes, I fought in that war. I followed Lucifer... because I believed. I believed in his cause, in the promise of change. It was all so simple then—no moral dilemmas, no questions, just loyalty. I was one of his Legion.”

  Astrael blinked in surprise. “You...?”

  Seraphiel’s smile was bitter, almost self-deprecating. “Yes. I was heartless once. But then I saw the aftermath—the destruction, the fallen angels, both from our side and his. That’s when I started to question... to see the light, in a way. The Light Bringer’s vision was clouded. His wrath consumed him, and I couldn’t follow anymore.”

  She looked down at her hands, as though remembering the weight of the blood they once carried.

  “I repented. And I’ve spent every moment since trying to make up for it. Haven’t you ever wondered why a Seraphim like me, capable of wiping out legions, usually in command of entire regiments, is here, just teaching you?”

  Seraphiel's words lingered in the air, and Astrael's gaze shifted as he tried to make sense of what she was saying. She wasn’t just his mentor—she was something far more complex, a being who had lived through the unimaginable and chosen a path that diverged from her original purpose.

  He frowned slightly, running a hand through his hair as he considered her question. “I... I don’t know. I just thought you were here because you were assigned to me. Because they wanted us to work together.”

  Seraphiel chuckled softly, but there was no humor in it—just the weariness of a long journey. “That’s part of it, yes. But it’s also because I wanted to be here, Astrael. I chose this.” She leaned forward, meeting his gaze directly. “I could’ve taken any position in Heaven. I could have risen to command, to war. But I didn’t. I chose to stay here, to teach you, to teach anyone who might need it. Because if I had stayed in the war, I might’ve become that heartless soldier again. And I refuse to ever go back to that.”

  Astrael was silent for a moment, his mind processing the weight of her words. It was hard to reconcile the powerful, unyielding Seraphiel he saw in front of him with the angel she described—the one who had once followed Lucifer without question.

  But there was something in her eyes now—something human, something that resonated with him. “So, you’re teaching me... to make sure I don’t lose my way, too?”

  Seraphiel nodded. “Exactly. And I’m not just teaching you how to be a good angel. I’m teaching you how to be something more—how to use your power without losing your heart in the process. We can be more than just soldiers, Astrael. We can make a real difference, but only if we don’t let ourselves become numb to the world around us.”

  Astrael didn’t reply right away. His eyes drifted to the street outside the cafe window, watching the mundane chaos of human life. It was so different from what he had known, and yet, maybe... maybe it wasn’t so bad.

  “I think,” he said slowly, “I think I’m starting to understand.”

  Seraphiel smiled, her expression softening. “Good. That’s the first step. We angels, we always act like we’re above mortals, but maybe in the end, thats not a good thing”

  Astrael was about to respond, when a voice came from behind them. “Are you Sera and Astra? From the FBI?”

  Seraphiel got back up from the table, her cheerful grin reappearing “And here suspect number 2 comes”

  The man who approached them had the kind of calm presence that belonged in a classroom—tall, lean, slightly stooped as if used to leaning over desks. His glasses were smudged, shirt sleeves rolled, and a faint ink stain marred one cuff.

  “Mr. Kline?” Seraphiel asked, rising to shake his hand.

  “That’s me. You’re the agents?”

  Astrael nodded, scanning the man with more than his eyes. No immediate signs of anything unholy. No flicker of stolen light. But that didn’t mean much. Not with the kind of monsters that wore skin well.

  “We just have a few questions,” Seraphiel said, casual, friendly. “About one of your students.”

  “Of course,” Kline said, taking the offered seat. “Terrible news, all of it. I heard about the boy from Ashford. And now the girl too. Maria.” His jaw clenched slightly. “She was a good kid.”

  “You knew her well?” Astrael asked, watching closely.

  “Well enough. She was quiet, polite. Got picked on sometimes. Kids like that, you keep an eye out.”

  “And she ever mention any strange behavior? Nightmares, unusual injuries, fear of someone at home?”

  Kline shook his head. “No. Nothing like that. Though…” He paused. “She did start acting a bit distant near the end. Headaches. Fatigue.”

  “Did you recommend she see someone?” Seraphiel asked, folding her arms.

  “I did. School nurse, maybe a therapist. Not sure if she ever followed through.” He glanced down at the table, then back up. “You think it wasn’t an animal, don’t you?”

  “What do you think, Mr. Kline?” Astrael asked pointedly.

  Kline hesitated just long enough for Seraphiel to catch it. “I think,” he said carefully, “whatever it is, you’re not telling the local police everything.”

  “Touché,” Seraphiel said with a smile, deflecting. “Can I ask you something else? Just a curiosity.”

  “Sure.”

  She leaned in, voice low but light. “Do you believe in miracles?”

  Kline blinked at her. “I’m a history teacher.”

  “That’s not a no,” Astrael muttered.

  “No, it’s not,” Kline agreed, lips twitching. “I believe people need to believe. That’s enough for most.”

  Seraphiel’s smile faded just a fraction, and she nodded. “Alright, Mr. Kline. That’ll be all for now.”

  As he left, Astrael whispered, “He didn't flinch at the miracle question.”

  “Nope,” Seraphiel said. “But he also didn’t mention the priest once. Not even to shift blame. Either he’s hiding something—or he knows less than he should. It's not him, not by a long shot, so there's just the priest left.

  “That explains the faith healing and why so many people here pray to our god, but in a wrong way.”

  Seraphiel tilted her head. “Twisted liturgy. Repeated phrases, but the meaning’s gone. Just hollow words masking something else.” Her eyes narrowed, the flicker of old knowledge rising to the surface. “I’ve seen it before. Cults clinging to light they don’t understand.”

  Astrael’s expression darkened. “And if he’s using stolen light, it won’t last forever. Eventually it burns them up. Or it turns them into something else.”

  Seraphiel stood up, slipping her coat back on with a sudden chill to her demeanor. “Then let’s go see what kind of priest thinks he can fool Heaven.”

  This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

  “So we’re doing it”

  “Yep, your favorite part from what i can tell, the smiting part”

  Astrael gave a humorless smile, the kind that never quite reached his eyes. “I’m not smiting anyone unless we’re sure.”

  Seraphiel rolled her eyes, already striding toward the door. “That’s the problem with you righteous types. Always waiting for permission.”

  He followed, wings itching beneath his skin, light coiled and pulsing like a second heartbeat. “And what about you? You planning on going in all fire and fury?”

  She glanced over her shoulder, the glint in her eyes unmistakably seraphic. “No. I’m planning on asking nicely, maybe with a knife in hand. Then we see.”

  It was dark out, yet the church had lights within, candles lit, and people praying.

  It was dark out, yet the church had lights within, candles lit, and people praying. The kind of reverence that felt more desperate than divine. Whispers filled the space like fog, rising and falling in a rhythm too practiced to be holy.

  Astrael hesitated just outside the threshold, sensing something wrong in the light—it wasn’t warm, not really. It shimmered like oil on water, beautiful at a glance but tainted beneath.

  Seraphiel pushed the door open without pause. The scent of incense hit them first, but it couldn’t cover the undercurrent of blood and something older, something sacred and spoiled.

  “Don’t draw your blade,” she murmured. “Not yet. Let’s be civil.”

  “For now,” Astrael said, stepping in beside her, eyes scanning the pews.

  And there, at the altar, stood the priest. Hands raised. A faint glow in his palms. Healing a woman who stabbed with gratitude—through her eyes were bloodshot, her skin too pale, sure her wound healed, but it seemed her soul diminished in weight.

  Seraphiel's voice was honey-sweet as they approached. “Father,” she said. “We’d like a word about your... miracles.”

  The priest didn’t flinch at the interruption, but his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, as though sizing them up. His hands remained raised, the faint, flickering glow from his palms casting an eerie light over the woman’s face as she blinked in awe at the sudden absence of pain. Still, something in her expression didn’t seem quite right—a hollowness that shouldn’t have been there.

  Seraphiel’s gaze never wavered, sharp as a blade as she observed both the priest and his healing. “I’m sure you’ve heard rumors about what’s been happening around here.” She let her words hang in the air, a casual observation, but the intent was clear: We know.

  Astrael stayed a step behind, his eyes scanning the room with calculated precision. There was something unnatural about the way the priest moved, the way the light in his hands almost slithered, instead of shining. His breath caught for a moment as he caught a glint of something—something dark beneath the surface.

  The priest lowered his hands, the woman’s grateful smile quickly fading into confusion as she blinked, staring at the empty space where her wound had once been. She didn’t seem to realize the oddness of the situation, but Astrael did. Her soul feels like it's been drained, he thought.

  The priest turned slowly to face them, his smile disarming yet cold. “Miracles, you say?” His voice was smooth, oozing with the kind of practiced warmth that didn’t reach his eyes. “I do what I can to help those in need. No more, no less.”

  Seraphiel raised an eyebrow. “That so? Funny, because it looks to me like you're handing out more than just physical healing.” She glanced at the woman, whose hands were shaking now, her breath shallow, as though she were caught between two realities. “Tell me, Father, what do you use to heal them? What exactly are you giving them?”

  Astrael took a step forward, eyes narrowing. “And why does it feel like something... isn't right with your miracles?”

  The priest’s expression hardened just for a split second, before he masked it with another calculated smile. “I’m afraid I can’t share the details of my methods. But know this, my dear friends. I help those who come to me with sincerity, and nothing more. Their faith in me is their healing. If it’s fine with you two sirs, could you leave my humble house of prayer”

  Got you

  Seraphiel smiled smugly “you called me sir, you can see angels true forms”

  Seraphiel’s smile faded as the priest’s posture stiffened. His fingers twitched, and the faint glow in his palms flared brighter, but now Astrael could see it—there was something darker behind the light. His aura flickered, not like a divine being but like something else entirely. A vampire, hiding behind the guise of a healer, using light as his weapon.

  Before Astrael could react, the priest raised his hands, palms outstretched toward them. “I warned you,” he hissed, his voice smooth but with an edge of inhuman hunger.

  A flash of light erupted from his palms, a blinding beam that slammed into the floor between them, sending cracks through the stone like a ripple in water. Astrael instinctively raised his arm to shield his eyes from the searing light.

  “Move!” Seraphiel barked, pulling him to the side as the beam continued to pulse with violent energy, carving deeper into the church’s ancient foundation. But Astrael’s eyes flicked to the priest again—there was something more to the glow, something that wasn’t just divine.

  The priest’s features twisted as he lifted his head slightly, his teeth sharp and gleaming under the dim light of the candles. His eyes, once warm, were now cold and predatory. "You angels, always so righteous, always assuming you can smite your way to justice." His voice had changed, darkened, but there was an undeniable strength there, an unnerving calm that sent a chill down Astrael's spine.

  Seraphiel’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not just using light. You’re feeding on it.”

  The priest's lips curled into a sickly smile. "Light is power, but it’s fleeting. Like any source of energy, it must be replenished. What better way than to siphon it directly from the divine?" He flicked his hand, sending another burst of light cascading toward them. “The mortals’ souls is nothing compared to what I can draw from you.”

  Astrael’s wings twitched beneath his coat, light pulsing in his veins like a second heartbeat. He unsheathed his blade, heart racing as the priest’s presence seemed to warp the air around them. The beam slammed into the floor again, but this time, Seraphiel was quicker, her own blade clashing with his in a flash of divine brilliance.

  “I don’t think so,” Seraphiel growled, her eyes flashing with that same cold, dangerous resolve. She swiped her blade through the air, deflecting the light from the priest with ease. “You’re not the first to think they can play with stolen light. But I’ve dealt with worse.” Seraphiel unfurled her wings, 6 of them each filling up the church with light bright enough to blind.

  “Fool” The priest splashed something onto the ground, dashing around Seraphiel, spreading the dark liquid into a sort of circle around her. “Don’t bother trying, that's the blood of a lamb”

  Seraphiel froze, her wings flickering for a moment as the blood circle completed. The scent of blood filled the air, a faint metallic tang that made her power waver slightly. She glanced down at the circle. The ritual was familiar. It wasn’t a binding spell—it was a restriction. A containment of sorts, like the protection at the Passover feast: keeping certain things in and others out.

  “This won't hold me,” Seraphiel said, her voice low and dangerous. “But it’s cute, thinking it will.”

  The priest’s grin deepened, and his eyes narrowed with cold satisfaction. “It’s not meant to stop you—it’s meant to keep you here. You won’t be able to strike outside the circle. Your power’s been... contained. Now you’re mine, just like they all were before.”

  Outside the circle, Astrael lunged—blade gripped tight, light pulsing beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. The priest moved like smoke, faster than mortal eyes could track, and this time, Astrael wasn’t fast enough.

  A flash of stolen light struck him square in the chest. Not enough to kill, but enough to crack something. He hit the stone floor with a grunt, breath knocked clean from his lungs.

  “Astrael!” Seraphiel’s voice rang out, sharp and furious. She stepped forward, but the blood circle flared, a divine rejection—her power coiled and trapped within the sacred bounds.

  The priest was on Astrael before he could rise, a boot pressing down on his chest. “Still glowing,” the vampire murmured. “You must be freshly sent. Righteous, loyal, untouched by corruption. Heaven still thinks you matter.”

  Astrael grabbed the priest’s ankle and pushed—but it was like trying to lift a mountain. The priest slammed him back down again, hard enough to leave cracks in the floor.

  “You burn so pretty,” he said. “I wonder how long that light will last when I tear it out.”

  Astrael’s heart hammered in his chest as he scrambled to his feet, wings flaring instinctively. The priest was already moving, faster than any angel should move—his form flickering like a shadow as he closed the distance. Astrael barely had time to react before the priest’s hand shot out, grabbing his wrist in a vice-like grip.

  With a sickening twist, the priest slammed Astrael into the stone wall. The impact rattled his bones, and he gasped, the air knocked from his lungs. His wings twitched, aching from the force.

  “You think your light is enough to stop me?” The priest’s voice was a mockery of calm, as if this was all just a game. “You’re nothing but a child playing with fire.”

  Astrael gritted his teeth, trying to push the priest away, but his strength felt like it was fading with each passing second. His light flickered, dimmed by the overwhelming force of the priest’s magic. He swung his blade—clumsy, uncoordinated—but the priest simply caught it with one hand, twisting it free from Astrael’s grasp with effortless ease.

  “Pathetic,” the priest spat, backhanding him across the face. Astrael staggered, blood dripping from the cut across his cheek, but before he could recover, the priest grabbed his wings, yanking him off the ground.

  Astrael cried out, the pain in his wings unbearable as they were twisted and pulled. The priest lifted him up by them, forcing his feet off the floor.

  “You’ve barely even begun to see the extent of my power,” the priest sneered, his free hand glowing with a sickly, stolen light. He thrust it forward, sending a bolt of energy into Astrael’s chest.

  The blast knocked Astrael back, slamming him into the altar’s stone steps. His vision blurred, and he gasped, tasting blood in his mouth. His wings were twitching uncontrollably, unable to shield him from the brutal onslaught.

  Seraphiel’s voice cut through the haze. “Astrael! Get up!”

  But it felt like too much. Every time he tried to move, the weight of the priest’s attacks pressed him down further. He could barely hear her, could barely see through the spots in his vision. The world spun around him, and every muscle screamed in protest.

  The priest was standing over him now, smiling down at him like a predator toying with prey. “You should have stayed in your place, angel. Heaven’s toys don’t belong down here. But I’ll make sure you learn.”

  With a swift motion, the priest kicked Astrael in the side, sending him sliding across the cold stone. His body felt like it was on fire, his light flickering weaker by the second. He was so tired. He couldn’t even remember when he’d last felt this weak, this... helpless.

  The priest walked slowly toward him, eyes glinting with malicious delight. “You thought you could stop me? You thought you could save this city?” He bent down, his face inches from Astrael’s, his hand lifting Astrael’s chin with brutal force. “You’ll learn your place soon enough.”

  Astrael’s breath came in shallow gasps, his light barely a flicker now. He couldn’t even raise his hand to defend himself.

  Seraphiel’s voice cracked with urgency, the blood circle around her glowing faintly. “Astrael… I can’t—”

  “Shut her up,” the priest hissed. He snapped his fingers, and a wave of energy surged through the room, cutting off Seraphiel’s words. Her attempts to break free from the circle intensified, but it was no use all the while Astrael got thrown up into the air like an infant.

  Astrael hit the floor hard, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. Blood smeared down his chin, dripping freely from his nose, a deep cut over his eyebrow pulsing red with every heartbeat. He didn’t fight back—not well. The priest was faster, older, stronger, and high on stolen light.

  But Astrael crawled.

  His hand dragged across the ground, leaving a trail behind him, slick and crimson. He reached the edge of the circle—just a few inches of dried lamb’s blood painted carefully onto the old stone floor. His palm hit it first. Then his forearm, his cheek, his leaking mouth.

  His blood bled into the circle.

  With a snap of her fingers, the priest’s legs contorted into mushes of flesh, as if they had been struck by napalm and turned into putty.

  Seraphiel grinned “you sure consumed a lot of light, Father”

  “How could you… ah…. A seraphim… I never stood a chance”

  “Nope, not at all”

  With another snap of her fingers, Astrael’s vessel fully repaired in an instant, maybe even reinforced, with an outer layer of callused skin over his chest, acting like a makeshift gambeson, and thicker bones to allow him mobility even with horrid injury.

  “So Father, I’m sure you know what happens when you cheat angels” Seraphiel held out her hand, placing it flat and firm over the priest’s face.

  “Off to hell you go” a brilliant light shone through him as she exploded a tiny bit of her energy inside him, smiting him as the light shone through his eyes, a chain reaction started as his own stolen light combusted, his body tore apart as the church was brightened like a surgical theatre, and when the light all faded, only ashes remained of the priest.

  “Close one huh, seraphiel?” Astrael sipped an espresso from a paper cup, the gentle smell of the roast helping him to calm down after the fight from moments before.

  “I told you, call me Sera” Seraphiel sipped her own cup, a frappucino with a whole shot of vanilla extract. “You could’ve won if the celestial forge finished the repairs on our blades, it usually takes an hour, wonder why they’re taking so long this time”

  “The lord works in mysterious ways, Sister, perhaps he has personally intervened”

  “The old man? Doubt it, hes more like a dotting old grandfather than anything, he wouldn’t dare send us down without our blades, hell, he didn’t even want angels to do any fighting at all originally” Seraphiel gazed off into the distance, pondering something Astrael didn’t know, gazing up to the stars.

  should I do a few more case files?