The Demon of Angels (Bk. 2)

TURNING MY BLURRY gaze to the others, and blinking back the tears, I watched my father rip the dagger from his chest with a satisfied grin. Blood sputtered around my feet, coating the wooden floor in crimson.

“Say goodbye, daughter,” my father taunted, eyes gleaming as he watched the heart in my chest sputter and die. The Death Scythe raised his foot, kicking Zeke until his abdomen brushed against my legs. I stood, frozen in place as Zeke’s breathing stalled, his heart slowed and a whimper poured from his lips.

Finally, I met my father’s blood-red demonic eyes, and something within me snapped.

Releasing the reigns of my inner beings, I pulled from the depths of my soul all of the hurt, trauma, rage, and hate for my father has caused throughout my life and used it to fuel me. My nose flared as my power surged forth, and the veins within my arms glowed purple. Then it shifted, the blood churning through my body burned black until my eyes matched.

My father’s arrogant grin faltered, and when I spoke, my voice was no longer just my own. “Say goodbye, father.”

My hands raised once again, and inky black smoke trickled from the tips of my fingers. I was doing the exact thing I swore I’d never do, let alone that I’d never become. My father may be the Death Scythe, but if that were true, then I was the Grim Reaper.

I glanced once more at Zeke’s lifeless body at my feet, a calm settling over me as the full extent of my power swirled around me. My hair whipped in the cold air; lightning crackling outside the cabin; thunder echoing my cry of rage; the glow of black death vibrating around my silhouette.

My father stole my soul, and I wanted his in return.