Chapter Text
The Pontiac’s door slammed shut as Will stepped out into the parking lot. The air dripped with wet humidity, but the fleeting burst of wind smelled like summer’s last dying breath. He pulled his hoodie on over his shoulders. The diner would be chillier.
His watch read 2:12 as he stumbled sleepily into the all-night diner, smelling of old food and grease. He worked the night shift, but he thanked God he didn’t work
Only off work for fifteen minutes and he already had to be awake in five hours. He nodded amiably to the waitress and sat down at the bar, spreading out a number of textbooks and trying to decide which was most important.
“Coffee, Will?” Emily asked him. He smiled. She was his favourite.
“Yes, please.” Em set a mug down in front of him, filled it, and left the pot on the counter.
He thought maybe he’d start on his paper for Human Biology. Though Business Math 101 was what he really needed to study right now, science was one of his strong suits. He tried to think about muscle groups. It was a jumble in his mind. He was just too damn tired. But this was due tomorrow. He’d have to push something out, even if it was out of his ass.
“Hey. Space cadet. Hey.”
He flinched as if a fist had flown toward his face.
“Wh-what?” He whipped his head around to face the bodiless voice.
“I asked what’s got you so torn up.” Apparently in the moments he’d spent attempting to sort out his homework, a stranger had appeared next to him, as loudly as a mouse sneaking past a cat.
“Biology,” he groaned. The stranger laughed. The diner lights caught his eyes in a way that made them seem distant, cold, even though they shone bright gold, too gold to be real. Will glanced furtively at the stranger’s face, giving him a once-over. He was maybe thirty or thirty-five, but that hollow reflection of half-faded memory made his eyes look fifty or more. The sunset gold in his eyes was mirrored in his hair, which, despite the tell-tale lines time was cutting into his face, did not have even one vein of silver to taint it. Aside from the age lines, the smoothness of his skin almost made Will uncomfortable. He was too perfect. Not like plastic, but like an airbrushed model in a magazine.
“I’m not super good at biology, but I can do my best.” The stranger interrupted his thought process by dragging his barstool toward Will’s, three of its legs screeching against the diner’s floor, the fourth wobbling aimlessly above them.
Will thought absently.
Emily clattered in their direction on black heels from behind the kitchen’s wall. She asked the stranger what he’d like to drink.
“Coffee, please, ma’am,” he responded, grinning a sly, lopsided grin. His lips became a window for a set of charmingly crooked teeth. Emily smiled right back.
“Well, you seem to be getting cozy with Mister Will here,” she pointed out, “d’ya mind drinking out of the same pot?”
“Certainly not,” the stranger nodded, and as Emily set a mug down in front of him, Will began to have the queer— although not unpleasant— sensation that they were connected in some way.
The stranger reached into an inside pocket of his worn leather jacket and produced a pack of Marlboro Golds, waving Emily over to provide him an ashtray. There was a mellow silence while he flicked an old Zippo and took a few deep drags. He tore a singular sugar packet open and dumped it into his coffee, stirring it idly with a finger.
After staring into his coffee like a mirror within which one is examining a particularly painful zit— nervously, intensely, and for a long time, that is— Will finally chose to break the silence.
“What’s your name?”
The stranger scoffed, smiled. “You can call me Victor.”
There was a pause. Then, looking as if he’d been awoken from a nap, Will burst out, “I’m Will.”
“I know,” Victor said. “The waitress said your name.”
Will let out a defeated little “oh” and took to examining his coffee again.
There were a few minutes in which Will returned to puzzling over his biology essay. He opened the gargantuan, outdated book, squinting through his glasses— the prescription was old— at the text. The words swam on the paper. He took a swig of his coffee.
Victor looked over at him, eyes glistening with pity. “What do you say you take your mind off it for a while? Just talk to me.”
Will looked at him as if the proposal were preposterous; how could he
have time to
to this stranger, he had work to do— but as his eyes met Victor’s peculiar gold ones, a wave of calm washed over him, like the feeling of taking a Xanax blended with a peculiar sort of clarity matched only by winter sunlight. Will gave him a little nod. Victor smiled, not the flirtatious grin he’d given Emily but a warm smile.
“What do you want to talk about?” Will asked, studying his fingers. Eye contact was not his strong suit, especially with a man whose whole persona put off an aura of very old strength.
“Whatever you want,” Victor shrugged. “Ball is in your court.”
And Will was overtaken with an urge, no, a
, to find out who this stranger was. Not simply his name, but who he
He simply
to know, something deep within himself and something pulling him from outside needed him to find out where Victor came from and why he was sitting in this diner with Will at 2:30 AM on a Wednesday night. The same force that had pushed Victor there now pulled Will’s mouth open and, in spite of himself, the man who couldn’t tell you the last names of some of his alleged best friends stammered out the question. “Where are you from?”
It was not a question to be answered with simply the name of a town or alma mater, rather, it was more of a
come
Because something deep in Will’s heart knew the answer was not Ohio, or New York, or England, or anywhere he could feasibly go, not within this life anyway.
“You want the honest answer?” Something rung in Veratiel’s eyes that was vaguely akin to surprise. He hadn’t expected that, Will sensed, and he had a feeling Victor knew he wasn’t simply looking for the name of a hometown. Will nodded.
“Not around here, that’s for sure,” Victor laughed nervously, and he ran his hand through his hair in the way of a man who is particularly embarrassed but afraid to admit it will run his hand through his hair. “You wouldn’t believe me. Few ever have.”
“Try me,” Will said, a rising anxiety making his heart pound. He wasn’t sure why.
“The oldest place there is,” Victor said, after a pause. His eyes glazed over and Will knew he was glimpsing images of home like an old film-reel. “Before Rome, before Egypt, before Mesopotamians. Not before humanity itself, necessarily, at least myself. That place, though, is older.” He paused, and then said a word that didn’t make sense to Will’s ears. He couldn’t translate it to any reasonable arrangement of letters, nor, he found, could he reproduce it.
“Where?”
The glaze left Victor’s eyes. “You’d call it Heaven.”
Will’s eyes narrowed, at first, with doubt, then widened in sheer awe.
“Are you—”
“My name is really Veratiel.” The name made Will’s mind light up with a bright light, like blinding sunlight.
Having begun, he seemed unable to stop. Words fell from his mouth like they had been piled on an aching old shelf which was finally giving way. “It was a very political time, if you can imagine it, the politics of Heaven. Humans were such a recent introduction in the universe. And we hated them— mind you, I’ve learned since then. With their design came the invention of Free Will. And, despite His attempts to limit it to just you, just mortal creatures, we wanted a taste. And when we found it, there was talk of war.”
“War?” That misty quality had returned to Victor— Veratiel’s eyes and seeped into his voice. Will felt as if he couldn’t catch his breath.
“War. People were taking sides, but it all seemed so trivial at first. Not exactly joking, but wishful thinking. That is, until Lucifer started his speeches.
“I suppose nowadays you’d call it a political party, but back then we were simply his followers.” He ashed his cigarette in the tray by his coffee mug and lit a second. “In the town squares and meeting halls, he gave speeches. He was laughed down at first. But soon there were groups of us, mobs, that went to listen to him. What he said actually made sense. And so we were planning a war against God.”
“Against— holy shit.” A sickness made its way into Will’s stomach. He was never big on Christianity, but seeing as there was an angel sitting in front of him (assuming he wasn’t bullshitting) there must be a God, and if that God was the Creator of everything, they were suicidal to take him on. But, he supposed, angels must have some power as well. “How did you do that? Did you actually… did you actually start a war?”
“Yes,” Veratiel said, simply and decisively.
“How did you deal with that kind of… fear?”
“Fear?” Veratiel laughed. He took a drag off of his cigarette, a gulp of his coffee. “We didn’t hardly know the meaning of it. Sure as hell didn’t understand it. All we knew was that Lucifer was right, and we would stop at nothing to bring justice to Heaven.”
There was an uneasy silence, which Will broke. “How do you start a war against God?” He took a cigarette from Veratiel’s pack, a boldness overwhelming him. Will had never smoked in his life, but if he figured if he ever needed it, it would be now.
“Well,” Veratiel said. “It all began in the
library is not an appropriate place for horseplay,” the lady at the counter hissed, ruffling her silver-brown feathers in annoyance. Araquiel just laughed, though he muffled his voice, and ruffled Veratiel’s hair. Veratiel rolled his eyes.
“Listen, man, I understand you outsize me by a foot—”
“And I hope you understand that means I’m gonna treat ya like a kid for eternity.”
Veratiel huffed, but slid off of the table where he’d been sitting. He knew the librarian wouldn’t kick them out, but he didn’t want to risk it. He took a seat next to Falkaeus. Pouting, Araquiel slid down into a chair as well.
The four of them— Ezekian, Araquiel, Falkaeus and Veratiel— were here every day. The librarians knew them by name, and while none would admit it, they harbored a certain affection for the noisy bunch. Today it was Mariel working. Veratiel liked her. She had nice handwriting and a particular way of writing in due-dates. She always knew exactly when one would finish a book, and scribbled in the due-date for that day, be it three days or two weeks from now. She knew it always took Veratiel forever. He had a tendency to drift off in the middle of the book, daydreaming.
Daydreaming like now. He hadn’t been able to go through town without stumbling into a crowd surrounding one of the rebels. They’d been giving speeches. Ever since their leader, Lucifer, stole the Free Will, there’d been talk of war. Veratiel thought it frivolous. Start a war against God? Sure, some hundreds of lower angels would back Lucifer up, he knew that. But God had most of the Archangels on his side. Powers. Principalities.
He shuddered. The thought of taking a blow from a Seraph was terrifying. But still.. from what he’d heard, the rebels had a point. Why
God give Free Will to imperfect little beings that died after fifty years? Veratiel was suspicious that it had something to do with the fact that angels were designed to worship Him. Be His little playthings, really. He didn’t want immortals getting opinions. Veratiel’s face screwed up sourly.
Ezekian poked him in the shoulder. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” Veratiel said, jolting from his thoughts. “I’m fine. Just thinking.”
“That’s new,” Araquiel laughed, punching him in the shoulder. Veratiel winced— the Power was much stronger than he was and often underestimated just how hard he hit people.
Araquiel turned away, making some joke to Ezekian and Falkaeus, and Veratiel almost drifted off again, but Empyr had moved from her seat across the table to sit beside him, absolutely silent. He jumped again.
“What’s up, Vera?” Empyr asked, her voice soft. She tilted her head as she looked at him, her warm brown eyes filled with thought. Veratiel had always thought she was beautiful. Her magic was wind-based, and she sometimes spun whirlwinds around her, billowing her dusk-brown curls and soft grey feathers in the gusts.
“I’ve just been thinking about that stuff with Lucifer and Free Will,” Veratiel said, lowering his voice to a near-murmur. “At first I thought it was crazy. When they stole the Stone, it was like… like getting dropped in a hot spring when you have frostbite. It was a shock. It was so damn strange.” His mind floated back through the last six months. So much had changed.
In the time since Lucifer stole the Stone, the entire cityscape of Heaven had changed. Where the city streets used to be uniform blocks, new buildings had popped up, variations in houses. Angels had begun to make clothing that didn’t match the standard white robes they were all fitted with. Ezekian, in particular, enjoyed the concept of “fashion;” today they dressed in an asymmetrical blue skirt that cascaded from their right thigh to their left calf, a sleeveless, pale blue top tucked into it, with a long, robin’s egg blue belt wrapped around their waist.
Angels began choosing different jobs. They were cooks and designers, architects and blacksmiths, gardeners and philosophers. At the top of it all was Lucifer. An energy manipulator, his power was rare. He was using it to pull Free Will from the stone and transfer it to the population of Heaven until he could figure out how to make it permanent. The problem was, he was on the run.
“I know what you mean,” Empyr said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I hated it at first. But this… I love this.” None of the five had known each other six months ago, aside from passing glances. Sometimes Empyr came into the library and they talked for a few moments, but nothing substantial. Nobody had really
before Lucifer stole the stone. Some of the older angels and many younger ones despised the concept. These were fighting to track down Lucifer and take back the stone. Lucifer, however, was strangely elusive for an angel who regularly made crowd-bringing speeches.
A thought wormed its way into Veratiel’s head and his stomach burned with anxiety. He grabbed Empyr’s hand, not really thinking, and squeezed it, hard. “What if they take it back?”
“What?”
“What if the… well, the guys on God’s side win? What if they take it back?”
“They’re trying,” Empyr said, casting her eyes down. “That’s why Lucifer’s trying to start a war. He wants the ones who
Free Will to take control. With him at the head, I suppose.” She chuckled. “I’d say I oppose another singular ruler, but he’s… that man is incredible.”
“He is,” Veratiel agreed. At least based on what he’d heard. He’d never met Lucifer in person.
The two were interrupted by the massive crash of the next table over toppling to the floor and the obnoxious laughter of Araquiel and Falkaeus. Veratiel sucked in a breath through his teeth, burying his face in his hands as Mariel rushed to the scene. It looked as if they’d begun arm wrestling on the table, and, both being Powers, destroyed it. Ezekian was cackling with laughter, standing on the sideline of the disaster.
“What in the name of all that is good and holy— Veratiel,
” Mariel groaned, exasperated, “if you’re going to bring your friends here outside of your work hours, control them. Please clean this disaster up.”
“Yes ma’am,” Veratiel sighed.
Araquiel and Falkaeus arranged themselves at either end of the table and hoisted it back up. They rearranged the six chairs that had been surrounding it.
“We should probably go,” Empyr suggested. Araquiel nodded, running his hand through his curly hair sheepishly.
“Let’s get something to eat!” Ezekian chirped.