Runaway Devil

I squeezed my eyes shut, cringing against his weight on my hair. I bared my teeth, a cornered animal's last-ditch effort.

"I am not your enemy," he said.

"Bullshit."

"If you calm down, we can talk." He sounded like a parent talking their child off the ledge.

"We've already talked, I don't want to hear anything else you have to say."

"You'd be surprised, demon."

"Would I? Really?" My tone made him huff and roll his eyes. He unwrapped his fist from my hair and stood. I looked at his outstretched hand and took it, throwing my pride to the wind. I straightened my clothes and found him looking at me like he was done with my shit, like I was the one in the wrong. "You're the one who made it physical, big man."

He sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. "Fine, you get on my nerves."

"That's nice." My voice dripped with acidic sarcasm. "Alright, how are you not my enemy? Enlighten me." I crossed my own chest, transferring my weight to one of my hips, awaiting whatever bullshit he brought to the table.

"Why did you leave Hell?"

"What does that–?"

"Just answer the question." His voice had lost any softness it may have had.

"Because the demons in power wanted me dead."

"Well, sure. But there was more to it. Why did you really leave? Why did they want you dead?" He sounded like he knew the answer, he just wanted me to be the one to say it.

I was silent for a moment. My lips felt like they were too heavy to open. I knew why I risked the lives of my battalion. With great effort, I built up enough courage to push the words out. "I was done fighting a war that wasn't mine."

The quiet night air felt heavy between us. "You didn't want to fight a war that started with the hatred of two families," He paused, letting it sink in. "And that is perpetuated through pettiness." I nodded slowly, guarded. "Why do you think I'm not a soldier?"

"I don't give a fuck why you aren't a soldier. You're here to take me to the angels, to serve them–" I threw my hands above my head. "–You are my enemy by definition. So, don't act like I'm the crazy one for resisting, jackass."

"You need to stop with the name-calling." I opened my mouth to spit another at him when I felt a gust of air. It was accompanied by the scent of an angel, and a man at the mouth of the alley.

An hour and a half later...

The weight of the angel, which pressed on my scalp not two hours ago, almost pulled me down the stairs. I adjusted my hand on his side, pressing into a wound that was slick with blood. His pained grunt echoed in my empty hallway.

"Just a few more feet." My own breathless voice sounded strange to my ears like I was underwater. My vision blurred and my stomach roiled, threatening to empty its meager contents. I could feel the sheen of cold sweat over my body as I spotted my front door. I swore as I grappled with my keys.

I blinked hard, my mind losing its grip, my knees shook with the effort it took to just keep us standing. The angel weakly pawed at my keys, grabbing them and sliding them into the door. I looked at him with disbelieving confusion. He looked at me through hooded eyes, smiling vaguely at my mental state. "We look drunk." He grimaced as sweat broke out on his forehead.

"Maybe if it wasn't for the trail of blood." I pushed the door open, only to be greeted by an on-edge Balan. He could have smelled my blood from miles away, let alone spattered down the hallway. "Check the perimeter," I grunted at him, half dragging the angel to the couch. "You're going to ruin the furniture." I was met with deafening silence. I set him down, grabbing his ankle and putting it over the armrest, and leaving the other leg to fall where it may. The blood soaking his clothes made it hard to see the source.

I stumbled to the side table by the front door, reaching under it and feeling for my knife. Once my fingertips brushed over the familiar shape, I grabbed it.

I could feel sweat dripping down my face. I wiped it away with the back of the hand with the knife in it. I knelt by the still angel, in my wounded haze, I knew I needed to act fast. Hooking the tip of the knife into his collar, I tore it all the way down the center. His chest was covered in blood and a wound on his side looked angry. I took a deep breath, feeling lightheaded.

I used the tattered scraps of his shirt to apply pressure to his side, just below his ribs. "Your organs are in there, bud. Not good." The tremours kicked in all over my body. My lower back tightened, attempting to keep me upright. I grabbed the angels face, looking for a sign of life, and finding none. I cursed and made a split-second decision.

With the same hand that just roughly grabbed his face, I cradled his head. Touching my forehead to his, I mentally reached for a connection, reaching for him. His internal light was still burning, but it had been smothered. I had a moment of clarity, my adrenaline coursing through my body allowed me to focus pointedly. I pulled from my center, willing my remaining energy to the surface.

"No–" His voice was weak and dry, scratching at my ears. The frailty of it shook me deeply, I had never expected to hear that tone from his mouth. I ignored his protest, wrapping my healing energy around him. The second I felt the connection solidify, I pushed it forward, sending the warmth through my palms and fingertips.

I could feel his wounds slowly stop bleeding, the cells using the extra energy to regenerate, to duplicate. His wounds were closing. But the more I healed the angel, the colder I felt. The ice crept over my lower stomach and the chill climbed my spine. The deep, dark cold sunk its claws into me, making my eyes roll behind closed lids. The last thing I felt was my forehead sliding off of the angel's.

Then frigid nothingness.